complicated, but by now I’ve
got them figured out. They get off on, one, the idea of our being soldiers and fighting
men but more spiritual somehow than other vets—two, they’ve got a little slug of social
worker in them and they want to demonstrate that our country loves us after all—and
three, they don’t know what we did over there and it turns them on.” Beevers glittered
at him. “This has got to be the place. They’d come thousands of miles in their sleep
just to hang out at the bar.”
Poole had the uneasy feeling that, without knowing it, Harry Beevers was describing
Pat Caldwell, his ex-wife.
After Michael had rolled Conor onto the side of the bed the maid had not turned down,
he pulled off his friend’s black running shoes and undid his belt. Conor moaned; his
pale, veined eyelids fluttered. With his cropped red hair and pale skin, Conor Linklater
seemed to be about nineteen years old: without his scraggly beard and moustache, he
looked very like his Vietnam self. Poole covered Linklater with a spare blanket from
the closet; then he switched on the lamp on the other side of the bed and turned off
the overhead light. If Conor was to have slept on a couch in Pumo’s room, Pumo must
have taken a suite—Poole’s own roomdid not offer a couch for the comfort of sodden visitors. Undoubtedly Beevers had
also taken a suite. (Harry had never considered turning over his own couch to Conor.)
It was a few minutes to twelve. Poole turned on the television and turned down the
volume, then sat in the closest chair and removed his own shoes. He draped his jacket
over the back of the other chair. Charles Bronson was standing on the grassy verge
of a road in a dainty, empty landscape that looked like western Ireland, looking through
binoculars at a grey Mercedes-Benz pulled up in the gravel forecourt of a Georgian
mansion. For a moment anticipatory silence surrounded the Mercedes, and then a bulging
wall of flame obliterated the car.
Michael picked up the telephone and set it on the table beside him. The maid had lined
up the bottles, stacked clear plastic glasses, removed the empties, and wrapped the
plate of cheese in cellophane. In the bucket, one bottle of beer stood neck-deep in
water, surrounded by floating slivers of ice. Michael dipped the topmost glass into
the bucket and scooped up ice and water. He took a sip.
Conor muttered “googol” and rolled his face into his pillow.
On impulse Michael picked up the phone and dialed his wife’s private line at home.
It was possible that Judy was lying awake in bed, reading something like
The One-Minute Manager
while successfully ignoring the television program she had turned on to keep her
company.
Judy’s telephone rang once, then clicked as if someone had picked it up. Poole heard
the mechanical hiss of tape, and knew that his wife had turned on her answering machine
with its third-person message:
“Judy is unable to answer the telephone at this time, but if you leave your name,
number, and message after the beep, she will get back to you as soon as possible.”
He waited for the beep.
“Judy, this is Michael. Are you home?” Judy’s machine was attached to the telephone
in her study, adjacent to the bedroom. If she were awake in her bed, she would hear
his voice. Judy did not respond; the tape whirred. Into the waiting machine he uttered
a few mechanical sentences, ending by saying, “I’ll be home late Sunday night. Bye-bye.”
In bed, Michael read a few pages of the Stephen King novel he had packed. Conor Linklater
complained and snuffled on the other side of the bed. Nothing in the novel seemed
more than slightly odder or more threatening than events in ordinary life.Improbability and violence overflowed from ordinary life, and Stephen King seemed
to know that.
Before Michael could turn off his light, he was dripping with sweat, carrying his
copy of
The Dead Zone
through
got them figured out. They get off on, one, the idea of our being soldiers and fighting
men but more spiritual somehow than other vets—two, they’ve got a little slug of social
worker in them and they want to demonstrate that our country loves us after all—and
three, they don’t know what we did over there and it turns them on.” Beevers glittered
at him. “This has got to be the place. They’d come thousands of miles in their sleep
just to hang out at the bar.”
Poole had the uneasy feeling that, without knowing it, Harry Beevers was describing
Pat Caldwell, his ex-wife.
After Michael had rolled Conor onto the side of the bed the maid had not turned down,
he pulled off his friend’s black running shoes and undid his belt. Conor moaned; his
pale, veined eyelids fluttered. With his cropped red hair and pale skin, Conor Linklater
seemed to be about nineteen years old: without his scraggly beard and moustache, he
looked very like his Vietnam self. Poole covered Linklater with a spare blanket from
the closet; then he switched on the lamp on the other side of the bed and turned off
the overhead light. If Conor was to have slept on a couch in Pumo’s room, Pumo must
have taken a suite—Poole’s own roomdid not offer a couch for the comfort of sodden visitors. Undoubtedly Beevers had
also taken a suite. (Harry had never considered turning over his own couch to Conor.)
It was a few minutes to twelve. Poole turned on the television and turned down the
volume, then sat in the closest chair and removed his own shoes. He draped his jacket
over the back of the other chair. Charles Bronson was standing on the grassy verge
of a road in a dainty, empty landscape that looked like western Ireland, looking through
binoculars at a grey Mercedes-Benz pulled up in the gravel forecourt of a Georgian
mansion. For a moment anticipatory silence surrounded the Mercedes, and then a bulging
wall of flame obliterated the car.
Michael picked up the telephone and set it on the table beside him. The maid had lined
up the bottles, stacked clear plastic glasses, removed the empties, and wrapped the
plate of cheese in cellophane. In the bucket, one bottle of beer stood neck-deep in
water, surrounded by floating slivers of ice. Michael dipped the topmost glass into
the bucket and scooped up ice and water. He took a sip.
Conor muttered “googol” and rolled his face into his pillow.
On impulse Michael picked up the phone and dialed his wife’s private line at home.
It was possible that Judy was lying awake in bed, reading something like
The One-Minute Manager
while successfully ignoring the television program she had turned on to keep her
company.
Judy’s telephone rang once, then clicked as if someone had picked it up. Poole heard
the mechanical hiss of tape, and knew that his wife had turned on her answering machine
with its third-person message:
“Judy is unable to answer the telephone at this time, but if you leave your name,
number, and message after the beep, she will get back to you as soon as possible.”
He waited for the beep.
“Judy, this is Michael. Are you home?” Judy’s machine was attached to the telephone
in her study, adjacent to the bedroom. If she were awake in her bed, she would hear
his voice. Judy did not respond; the tape whirred. Into the waiting machine he uttered
a few mechanical sentences, ending by saying, “I’ll be home late Sunday night. Bye-bye.”
In bed, Michael read a few pages of the Stephen King novel he had packed. Conor Linklater
complained and snuffled on the other side of the bed. Nothing in the novel seemed
more than slightly odder or more threatening than events in ordinary life.Improbability and violence overflowed from ordinary life, and Stephen King seemed
to know that.
Before Michael could turn off his light, he was dripping with sweat, carrying his
copy of
The Dead Zone
through
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