Sonny only shrugged.
The puzzled expression faded. ‘But there’s a story, Sonny. A story about a mouse who took a thorn out of a lion’s paw. He did it to repay the lion for not eating him a few years before. You know that story?’
‘I might have heard it when I was a kid,’
Greg nodded. ‘Well, it’s a few years before’ . . whatever it is, Sonny.’ He shoved the plastic Baggies across the desk. ‘I’m not going to eat you. I could if I wanted to, you know. A kiddie lawyer couldn’t get you off. In this town, with the riots going on in Hampton less than twenty miles away, Clarence Fucking Darrow couldn’t get you off in Ridgeway. These good people would love to see you go up.
Elliman didn’t reply, but he suspected Greg was right. There was nothing heavy in his dope stash – two Brown Bombers was the heaviest – but the collective parents of good old Susie and Jim would be glad to see him breaking rocks in Portsmouth, with his hair cut off his head.
‘I’m not going to eat you,’ Greg repeated. ‘I hope you’ll remember that in a few years if I get a thorn in my paw … or maybe if I have a job opportunity for you. Keep it in mind?’
Gratitude was not in Sonny Elliman’s limited catalogue of human feelings, but interest and curiosity were. He felt both ways about this man Stillson. That craziness in his eyes hinted at many things, but boredom was not one of them.
‘Who knows where we’ll all be in a few years?’ he murmured. ‘We could all be dead, man.’
‘Just keep me in mind. That’s all I’m asking.’
Sonny looked at the broken shards of vase. ‘I’ll keep you in mind,’ he said.
4.
1971 passed. The New Hampshire beach riots blew over, and the grumblings of the beachfront entrepreneurs were muted by the increased balances in their bankbooks. An obscure fellow named George McGovern declared for the presidency comically early.
Anyone who followed politics knew that the nominee from the Democratic party in 1972
was going to be Edmund Muskie, and there were those who felt he might just wrestle the Troll of San Clemente off his feet and pin him to the mat.
In early June, just before school let out for the summer, Sarah met the young law student again. She was in Day’s appliance store, shopping for a toaster, and he had been looking for a gift for his parents’ wedding anniversary. He asked her if she’d like to go to the movies with him -the new Clint Eastwood, Dirty Harry, was in town. Sarah went. And the two of them had a good time. Walter Hazlett had grown a beard, and he no longer reminded her so much of Johnny. In fact, it had become increasingly difficult for her to remember just what Johnny did look like. His face only came dear in her dreams, dreams where he stood in front of the Wheel of Fortune, watching it spin, his face cold and his blue eyes darkened to that perplexing, and a little fearsome, dark violet shade, watching the Wheel as if it were his own private game preserve.
She and Walt began to see a lot of each other. He was easy to get along with. He made no demands – or, if he did, they were of such a gradually increasing nature as to be unnoticeable. In October he asked her if he could buy her a small diamond. Sarah asked him if she could have the weekend to think it over. That Saturday night she had gone to the Eastern Maine Medical Center, had gotten a special red-bordered pass at the desk, and had gone up to intensive care. She sat beside Johnny’s bed for an hour. Outside, the fall wind howled in the dark, promising cold, promising snow, promising a season of death. It lacked sixteen days of a year since the fair, the Wheel, and the head-on collision near the Bog.
She sat and listened to the wind and looked at Johnny. The bandages were gone. The scar began on his forehead an inch above his right eyebrow and twisted up under the hairline.