Read Online Bag of Bones by Stephen King - Free Book Online Page B

dust. Give me that, Jo had hissed in my dream—it was the first time I’d thought of that one in years. Give me that, it’s my dust-catcher.
    â€œMr. Quinlan, I’m finished,” I called. My voice sounded rough and unsteady to my own ears, but Quinlan seemed to sense nothing wrong . . . or perhaps he was just being discreet. I can’t have been the only customer, after all, who found his or her visits to this financial version of Forest Lawn emotionally distressful.
    â€œI’m really going to read one of your books,” he said, dropping an involuntary little glance at the box I was holding (I suppose I could have brought a briefcase to put it in, but on those expeditions I never did). “In fact, I think I’ll put it on my list of New Year’s resolutions.”
    â€œYou do that,” I said. “You just do that, Mr. Quinlan.”
    â€œMark,” he said. “Please.” He’d said this before, too.
    I had composed two letters, which I slipped into the manuscript box before setting out for Federal Express. Both had been written on my computer, which my body would let me use as long as I chose the Note Pad function. It was only opening Word Six that caused the storms to start. I never tried to compose a novel using the Note Pad function, understanding that if I did, I’d likely lose that option, too . . . not to mention my ability to play Scrabble and do crosswords on the machine. I had tried a couple of times to compose longhand, with spectacular lack of success. The problem wasn’t what I had once hearddescribed as “screen shyness”; I had proved that to myself.
    One of the notes was to Harold, the other to Debra Weinstock, and both said pretty much the same thing: here’s the new book, Helen’s Promise, hope you like it as much as I do, if it seems a little rough it’s because I had to work a lot of extra hours to finish it this soon, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Erin Go Bragh, trick or treat, hope someone gives you a fucking pony.
    I stood for almost an hour in a line of shuffling, bitter-eyed late mailers (Christmas is such a carefree, low-pressure time—that’s one of the things I love about it), with Helen’s Promise under my left arm and a paperback copy of Nelson DeMille’s The Charm School in my right hand. I read almost fifty pages before entrusting my final unpublished novel to a harried-looking clerk. When I wished her a Merry Christmas she shuddered and said nothing.

CHAPTER
4
    T he phone was ringing when I walked in my front door. It was Frank Arlen, asking me if I’d like to join him for Christmas. Join them, as a matter of fact; all of his brothers and their families were coming.
    I opened my mouth to say no—the last thing on earth I needed was a crazed Irish Christmas with everybody drinking whiskey and waxing sentimental about Jo while perhaps two dozen snotcaked rugrats crawled around the floor—and heard myself saying I’d come.
    Frank sounded as surprised as I felt, but honestly delighted. “Fantastic!” he cried. “When can you get here?”
    I was in the hall, my galoshes dripping on the tile, and from where I was standing I could look through the arch and into the living room. There was no Christmas tree; I hadn’t bothered with one since Jo died. The room looked both ghastly and much too big to me . . . a roller rink furnished in Early American.
    â€œI’ve been out running errands,” I said. “How about I throw some underwear in a bag, get back into the car, and come south while the heater’s still blowing warm air?”
    â€œTremendous,” Frank said without a moment’s hesitation. “We can have us a sane bachelor evening before the Sons and Daughters of East Malden start arriving. I’m pouring you a drink as soon as I get off the telephone.”
    â€œThen I guess I better get rolling,” I