Tell him! she shrieked. Make him pull over and stop, make him do anything that will break you free—change one thing, change everything! You can do it—if you could put your feet up in those stirrups, you can do anything!
But she could do nothing, and it all began to tick by faster. The two overfed crows lifted off from their splatter of lunch. Her husband asked why she was sitting that way, was it a cramp, her saying, Yes, yes, a cramp in her back but it was easing. Her mouth quacked on about déjà vu just as if she weren’t drowning in it, and the Crown Vic moved forward like one of those sadistic Dodgem cars at Revere Beach. Here came Palmdale Motors on the right. And on the left?
Some kind of sign for the local community theater, a production of Naughty Marietta.
No, it’s Mary, not Marietta. Mary, mother of Jesus, Mary, mother of God, she’s got her hands out . . .
Carol bent all her will toward telling her husband what was happening, because the right Bill was behind the wheel, the right Bill could still hear her. Being heard was what married love was all about.
Nothing came out. In her mind Gram said, “All the hard days are 360
EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL
coming.” In her mind a voice asked Floyd what was over there, then said, “Oh shit,” then screamed “Oh shit!”
She looked at the speedometer and saw it was calibrated not in miles an hour but thousands of feet: they were at twenty-eight thousand and descending. Bill was telling her that she shouldn’t have slept on the plane and she was agreeing.
There was a pink house coming up, little more than a bungalow, fringed with palm trees that looked like the ones you saw in the Second World War movies, fronds framing incoming Learjets with their machine guns blazing—
Blazing. Burning hot. All at once the magazine he’s holding turns into a torch. Holy Mary, mother of God, hey there, Mary, what’s the story—
They passed the house. The old man sat on the porch and watched them go by. The lenses of his rimless glasses glinted in the sun.
Bill’s hand established a beachhead on her hip. He said something about how they might pause to refresh themselves between the doff-ing of her dress and the donning of her shorts and she agreed, although they were never going to get to Palm House. They were going to go down this road and down this road, they were for the white Crown Vic and the white Crown Vic was for them, forever and ever amen.
The next billboard would say PALM HOUSE 2 MI. Beyond it was the one saying that Mother of Mercy Charities helped the Florida sick.
Would they help her?
Now that it was too late she was beginning to understand. Beginning to see the light the way she could see the subtropical sun sparkling off the water on their left. Wondering how many wrongs she had done in her life, how many sins if you liked that word, God knew her parents and her Gram certainly had, sin this and sin that and wear the medallion between those growing things the boys look at. And years later she had lain in bed with her new husband on hot summer nights, knowing a decision had to be made, knowing the clock was ticking, the cigarette butt was smoldering, and she remembered making the decision, not telling him out loud because about some things you could be silent.
361
STEPHEN KING
Her head itched. She scratched it. Black flecks came swirling down past her face. On the Crown Vic’s instrument panel the speedometer froze at sixteen thousand feet and then blew out, but Bill appeared not to notice.
Here came a mailbox with a Grateful Dead sticker pasted on the front; here came a little black dog with its head down, trotting busily, and God how her head itched, black flakes drifting in the air like fallout and Mother Teresa’s face looking out of one of them.
MOTHER OF MERCY CHARITIES HELP THE FLORIDA HUNGRY—WON’T
YOU HELP US?
Floyd. What’s that over there? Oh shit.
She has time to see something big. And to read the word DELTA.
“Bill? Bill? ”
His reply, clear enough but nevertheless coming from around the rim of the universe: “Christ, honey, what’s in your hair? ”
She plucked the charred remnant of Mother Teresa’s face from her lap and held it out to him, the older version of the man she had married, the secretary-fucking man she had married, the man who had nonetheless rescued her from people who thought that you could live forever in paradise if you only lit enough candles and wore the blue blazer and stuck to the approved skipping rhymes. Lying there with this man one hot summer night while the drug deals went on upstairs and Iron Butterfly sang “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” for the nine billionth time, she had asked what he thought you got, you know, after. When your part in the show was over. He had taken her in his arms and held her, down the beach she had heard the jangle-jingle of the midway and the bang of the Dodgem cars and Bill—
Bill’s glasses were melted to his face. One eye bulged out of its socket. His mouth was a bloodhole. In the trees a bird was crying, a bird was screaming, and Carol began to scream with it, holding out the charred fragment of paper with Mother Teresa’s picture on it, screaming, watching as his cheeks turned black and his forehead swarmed and his neck split open like a poisoned goiter, screaming, she was screaming, somewhere Iron Butterfly was singing “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” and she was screaming.
362
EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL
*
*
*
“Carol?”
It was Bill’s voice, from a thousand miles away. His hand was on her, but it was concern in his touch rather than lust.
She opened her eyes and looked around the sun-brilliant cabin of the Lear 35, and for a moment she understood everything—in the way one understands the tremendous import of a dream upon the first moment of waking. She remembered asking him what he believed you got, you know, after, and he had said you probably got what you’d always thought you would get, that if Jerry Lee Lewis thought he was going to Hell for playing boogie-woogie, that’s exactly where he’d go.
Heaven, Hell, or Grand Rapids, it was your choice—or the choice of those who had taught you what to believe. It was the human mind’s final great parlor-trick: the perception of eternity in the place where you’d always expected to spend it.
“Carol? You okay, babe?” In one hand was the magazine he’d been reading, a Newsweek with Mother Teresa on the cover. SAINTHOOD
NOW? it said in white.
Looking around wildly at the cabin, she was thinking, It happens at sixteen thousand feet. I have to tell them, I have to warn them.
But it was fading, all of it, the way those feelings always did. They went like dreams, or cotton candy turning into a sweet mist just above your tongue.
“Landing? Already?” She felt wide-awake, but her voice sounded thick and muzzy.
“It’s fast, huh?” he said, sounding pleased, as if he’d flown it himself instead of paying for it. “Floyd says we’ll be on the ground in—”
“Who?” she asked. The cabin of the little plane was warm but her fingers were cold. “Who?”
“Floyd. You know, the pilot. ” He pointed his thumb toward the cockpit’s lefthand seat. They were descending into a scrim of clouds.
The plane began to shake. “He says we’ll be on the ground in Fort Myers in twenty minutes. You took a hell of a jump, girl. And before that you were moaning.”
363
STEPHEN KING
Carol opened her mouth to say it was that feeling, the one you could only say what it was in French, something vu or vous, but it was fading and all she said was “I had a nightmare.”
There was a beep as Floyd the pilot switched the seat-belt light on.
Carol turned her head. Somewhere below, waiting for them now and forever, was a white car from Hertz, a gangster car, the kind the characters in a Martin Scorsese movie would probably call a Crown Vic.
She looked at the cover of the news magazine, at the face of Mother Teresa, and all at once she remembered skipping rope behind Our Lady of Angels, skipping to one of the forbidden rhymes, skipping to the one that went Hey there, Mary, what’s the story, save my ass from Purgatory.
All the hard days are coming, her Gram had said. She had pressed the medal into Carol’s palm, wrapped the chain around her fingers. The hard days are coming.
I think this story is about Hell. A version of it where you are con-demned to do the same thing over and over again. Existentialism, baby, what a concept; paging Albert Camus. There’s an idea that Hell is other people. My idea is that it might be repetition.