The Stand, Page 98

  But she wouldn't.

  "I think you'll also wonder what it would have been like on his side of the world," she said. "That more than anything and everything else, maybe."

  "I-- "

  "Decide, Harold. Do I put my shirt back on or take everything else off?"

  How long did he think? He didn't know. Later, he wasn't even sure he had struggled with the question. But when he spoke, the words tasted like death in his mouth: "In the bedroom. Let's go in the bedroom."

  She smiled at him, such a smile of triumph and sensual promise that he shuddered from it, and his own eager response to it.

  She took his hand.

  And Harold Lauder succumbed to his destiny.

  CHAPTER 55

  The Judge's house overlooked a cemetery.

  He and Larry sat on the back porch after dinner, smoking Roi-Tan cigars and watching sunset fade to pale orange around the mountains.

  "When I was a boy," the Judge said, "we lived within walking distance of the finest cemetery in Illinois. Its name was Mount Hope. Every night after supper, my father, who was then in his early sixties, would take a walk. Sometimes I would walk with him. And if the walk took us past this perfectly maintained necropolis, he would say, 'What do you think, Teddy? Is there any hope?' And I would answer, 'There's Mount Hope,' and each time he'd roar with laughter as if it had been the first time. I sometimes think we walked past that boneyard just so he could share that joke with me. He was a wealthy man, but it was the funniest joke he seemed to know."

  The Judge smoked, his chin low, his shoulders hunched high.

  "He died in 1937, when I was still in my teens," he said. "I have missed him ever since. A boy does not need a father unless he is a good father, but a good father is indispensable. No hope but Mount Hope. How he enjoyed that! He was seventy-eight years old when he passed on. He died like a king, Larry. He was seated upon the throne in our home's smallest room, with the newspaper in his lap."

  Larry, not sure how to respond to this rather bizarre bit of nostalgia, said nothing.

  The Judge sighed. "This is going to be quite a little operation here before long," he said. "If you can get the power on again, that is. If you can't, people are going to get nervous and start heading south before the bad weather can come and hem them in."

  "Ralph and Brad say it's going to happen. I trust them."

  "Then we'll hope that your trust is well founded, won't we? Maybe it is a good thing that the old woman is gone. Perhaps she knew it would be better that way. Maybe people should be free to judge for themselves what the lights in the sky are, and if one tree has a face or if the face was only a trick of the light and shadow. Do you understand me, Larry?"

  "No, sir," Larry said truthfully. "I'm not sure I do."

  "I wonder if we need to reinvent that whole tiresome business of gods and saviors and ever-afters before we reinvent the flushing toilet. That's what I'm saying. I wonder if this is the right time for gods."

  "Do you think she's dead?"

  "She's been gone six days now. The Search Committee hasn't found a trace of her. Yes, I think she's dead, but even now I am not completely sure. She was an amazing woman, completely outside any rational frame of reference. Perhaps one of the reasons I'm almost glad to have her gone is because I'm such a rational old curmudgeon. I like to creep through my daily round, to water my garden--did you see the way I've brought the begonias back? I'm quite proud of that--to read my books, to write my notes for my own book about the plague. I like to do all those things and then have a glass of wine at bedtime and fall asleep with an untroubled mind. Yes. None of us want to see portents and omens, no matter how much we like our ghost stories and the spooky films. None of us want to really see a Star in the East or a pillar of fire by night. We want peace and rationality and routine. If we have to see God in the black face of an old woman, it's bound to remind us that there's a devil for every god--and our devil may be closer than we like to think."

  "That's why I'm here," Larry said awkwardly. He wished mightily that the Judge hadn't just mentioned his garden, his books, his notes, and his glass of wine before bedtime. He had had a two-bit bright idea at a meeting of friends and had made a blithe suggestion. Now he wondered if there was any possible way of going on without sounding like a cruel and opportunistic halfwit.

  "I know why you're here. I accept."

  Larry jerked, making the wicker of his chair strain and whisper. "Who told you? This is supposed to be very quiet, Judge. If someone on the committee has been leaking, we're in a hell of a jam."

  The Judge raised one liverspotted hand, cutting him off. His eyes twinkled in his time-beaten face. "Softly, my boy--softly. No one on your committee has been leaking, not that I know of, and I keep my ear close to the ground. No, I whispered the secret to myself. Why did you come here tonight? Your face is an education in itself, Larry. I hope you don't play poker. When I was talking about my few simple pleasures, I could see your face sag and droop ... a rather comic stricken expression appeared on it -- "

  "Is that so funny? What should I do, look happy about ... about ..."

  "Sending me west," the Judge said quietly. "To spy out the land. Isn't that about it?"

  "That's exactly it."

  "I wondered how long it would be before the idea would surface. It is tremendously important, of course, tremendously necessary if the Free Zone is to be assured its full chance to survive. We have no real idea what he's up to over there. He might as well be on the dark side of the moon."

  "If he's really there."

  "Oh, he's there. In one form or another, he is there. Never doubt it." He took a nail-clipper from his pants pocket and went to work on his fingernails, the little snipping sound punctuating his speech. "Tell me, has the committee discussed what might happen if we decided we liked it better over there? If we decided to stay?"

  Larry was flabbergasted by the idea. He told the Judge that, to the best of his knowledge, it hadn't occurred to anybody.

  "I imagine he's got the lights on," the Judge said with deceptive idleness. "There's an attraction in that, you know. Obviously this man Impening felt it."

  "Good riddance to bad rubbish," Larry said grimly, and the Judge laughed long and heartily.

  When he sobered he said, "I'll go tomorrow. In a Land-Rover, I think. North to Wyoming, and then west. Thank God I can still drive well enough! I'll travel straight across Idaho and toward Northern California. It may take two weeks going, longer coming back. Coming back, there may be snow."

  "Yes. We've discussed that possibility."

  "And I'm old. The old are prone to attacks of heart trouble and stupidity. I presume you are sending backups?"

  "Well ..."

  "No, you're not supposed to talk about that. I withdraw the question. "

  "Look, you can refuse this," Larry blurted. "No one is holding a gun to your hea--"

  "Are you trying to absolve yourself of your responsibility to me?" the Judge asked sharply.

  "Maybe. Maybe I am. Maybe I think your chances of getting back are one in ten and your chances of getting back with information we can actually base decisions on are one in twenty. Maybe I'm just trying to say in a nice way that I could have made a mistake. You could be too old."

  "I am too old for adventure," the Judge said, putting his clippers away, "but I hope I am not too old to do what I feel is right. There is an old woman out there someplace who has probably gone to a miserable death because she felt it was right. Prompted by religious mania, I have no doubt. But people who try hard to do the right thing always seem mad. I'll go. I'll be cold. My bowels will not work properly. I'll be lonely. I'll miss my begonias. But ..." He looked up at Larry, and his eyes gleamed in the dark. "I'll also be clever."

  "I suppose you will," Larry said, and felt the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes.

  "How is Lucy?" the Judge asked, apparently closing the subject of his departure.

  "Fine," Larry said. "We're both fine."

 
"No problems?"

  "No," he said, and thought about Nadine. Something about her desperation the last time he had seen her still troubled him deeply. You're my last chance, she had said. Strange talk, almost suicidal. And what help was there for her? Psychiatry? That was a laugh, when the best they could do for a GP was a horse doctor. Even Dial-A-Prayer was gone now.

  "It's good that you are with Lucy," the Judge said, "but you're worried about the other woman, I suspect."

  "Yes, I am." What followed was extremely difficult to say, but having it out and confessed to another person made him feel much better. "I think she might be considering, well, suicide." He rushed on: "It's not just me, don't get the idea I think any girl would kill herself just because she can't have sexy old Larry Underwood. But the boy she was taking care of has come out of his shell, and I think she feels alone, with no one to depend on her."

  "If her depression deepens into a chronic, cyclic thing, she may indeed kill herself," the Judge said with chilling indifference.

  Larry looked at him, shocked.

  "But you can only be one man," the Judge said. "Isn't that true?"

  "Yes."

  "And your choice is made?"

  "Yes."

  "For good?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "Then live with it," the Judge said with great relish. "For God's sake, Larry, grow up. Develop a little self-righteousness. A lot of that is an ugly thing, God knows, but a little applied over all your scruples is an absolute necessity! It is to the soul what a good sun-block is to the skin during the heat of the summer. You can only captain your own soul, and from time to time some smart-ass psychologist will question your ability to even do that. Grow up! Your Lucy is a fine woman. To take responsibility for more than her and your own soul is to ask for too much, and asking for too much is one of humanity's more popular ways of courting disaster."

  "I like talking to you," Larry said, and was both startled and amused by the open ingenuousness of the comment.

  "Probably because I am telling you exactly what you want to hear," the Judge said serenely. And then he added: "There are a great many ways to commit suicide, you know."

  And before too much time had passed, Larry had occasion to recall that remark in bitter circumstances.

  At quarter past eight the next morning, Harold's truck was leaving the Greyhound depot to go back to the Table Mesa area. Harold, Weizak, and two others were sitting in the back of the truck. Norman Kellogg and another man were in the cab. They were at the intersection of Arapahoe and Broadway when a brand-new Land-Rover drove slowly toward them.

  Weizak waved and shouted, "Where ya headed, Judge?"

  The Judge, looking rather comic in a woolen shirt and a vest, pulled over. "I believe I might go to Denver for the day," he said blandly.

  "Will that thing get you there?" Weizak asked.

  "Oh, I believe so, if I steer clear of the main-traveled roads."

  "Well, if you go by one of those X-rated bookstores, why don't you bring back a trunkful?"

  This sally was greeted with a burst of laughter from everyone--the Judge included--but Harold. He looked sallow and haggard this morning, as if he had rested ill. In fact, he had hardly slept at all. Nadine had been as good as her word; he had fulfilled quite a few dreams the night before. Dreams of the damp variety, let us say. He was already looking forward to tonight, and Weizak's sally about pornography was only good for a ghost of a smile now that he had had a little first-hand experience. Nadine had been sleeping when he left. Before they dropped off around two, she had told him she wanted to read his ledger. He had told her to go ahead if she wanted to. Perhaps he was putting himself at her mercy, but he was too confused to know for sure. But it was the best writing he had ever done in his life and the deciding factor was his want--no, his need. His need to have someone else read, experience, his good work.

  Now Kellogg was leaning out of the dump truck's cab toward the Judge. "You be careful, Pop. Okay? There's funny folks on the roads these days."

  "Indeed there are," the Judge said with a strange smile. "And indeed I will. A good day to you, gentlemen. And you too, Mr. Weizak."

  That brought another burst of laughter, and they parted.

  The Judge did not head toward Denver. When he reached Route 36, he proceeded directly across it and out along Route 7. The morning sun was bright and mellow, and on this secondary route, there was not enough stalled traffic to block the road. The town of Brighton was worse; at one point he had to leave the highway and drive across the local high school football field to avoid a colossal traffic jam. He continued east until he reached I-25. A right turn here would have taken him into Denver. Instead he turned left--north--and nosed onto the feeder ramp. Halfway down he put the transmission in neutral and looked left again, west, to where the Rockies rose serenely into the blue sky with Boulder lying at their base.

  He had told Larry he was too old for adventure, and God save him, but that had been a lie. His heart hadn't beat with this quick rhythm for twenty years, the air had not tasted this sweet, colors had not seemed this bright. He would follow I-25 to Cheyenne and then move west toward whatever waited for him beyond the mountains. His skin, dry with age, nonetheless crawled and goosebumped a little at the thought. I-80 west, into Salt Lake City, then across Nevada to Reno. Then he would head north again, but that hardly mattered. Because somewhere between Salt Lake and Reno, maybe even sooner, he would be stopped, questioned, and probably sent somewhere else to be questioned again. And at some place or other, an invitation might be issued.

  It was not even impossible to think that he might meet the dark man himself.

  "Get moving, old man," he said softly.

  He put the Rover in gear and crept down to the turnpike. There were three lanes northbound, all of them relatively clear. As he had guessed, traffic jams and multiple accidents back in Denver had effectively dammed the flow of traffic. The traffic was heavy on the other side of the median strip--the poor fools who had been headed south, blindly hoping that south would be better--but here the going was good. For a while at least.

  Judge Farris drove on, glad to be making his start. He had slept poorly last night. He would sleep better tonight, under the stars, his old body wrapped firmly in two sleeping bags. He wondered if he would ever see Boulder again and thought the chances were probably against it. And yet his excitement was very great.

  It was one of the finest days of his life.

  Early that afternoon, Nick, Ralph, and Stu biked out to North Boulder to a small stucco house where Tom Cullen lived by himself. Tom's house had already become a landmark to Boulder's "old" residents. Stan Nogotny said it was as if the Catholics, Baptists, and Seventh-Day Adventists had gotten together with the Democrats and the Moonies to create a religious-political Disneyland.

  The front lawn of the house was a weird tableau of statues. There were a dozen Virgin Marys, some of them apparently in the act of feeding flocks of pink plastic lawn flamingos. The largest of the flamingos was taller than Tom himself and anchored to the ground on a single leg that ended in a four-foot spike. There was a giant wishing well with a large plastic glow-in-the-dark Jesus standing in the ornamental bucket with His hands outstretched ... apparently to bless the pink flamingos. Beside the wishing well was a large plaster cow who was apparently drinking from a birdbath.

  The front door screen slammed open and Tom came out to meet them, stripped to the waist. Seen from a distance, Nick thought, you would have supposed he was some fantastically virile writer or painter, with his bright blue eyes and that big reddish-blond beard. As he got closer you might have given up that idea in favor of one not quite so intellectual ... maybe some sort of craftsman from the counterculture who had substituted kitsch for originality. And when he got very close, smiling and talking away a mile a minute, you realized for sure that a goodly chunk of Tom Cullen's attic insulation was missing.

  Nick knew that one of the reasons he felt a strong sense of empathy for Tom was because he
himself had been assumed to be mentally retarded, at first because his handicap had held him back from learning to read and write, later because people just assumed that someone who was both deaf and mute must be mentally retarded. He had heard all the slang terms at one time or another. A few bricks short the load. Soft upstairs. Running on three wheels. The guy's got a hole in his head and his brains done leaked out. This guy ain't traveling with a full seabag. He remembered the night he had stopped for a couple of beers in Zack's, the ginmill on the outskirts of Shoyo--the night Ray Booth and his buddies had jumped him. The bartender had stood at the far end of the bar, leaning confidentially over it to speak to a customer. His hand had been half shielding his mouth, so Nick could only make out fragments of what he had been saying. He didn't need to make out any more than that, however. Deaf-mute ... probably retarded... almost all those guys're retarded ...

  But among all the ugly terms for mental retardation, there was one term that did fit Tom Cullen. It was one Nick had applied to him often, and with great compassion, in the silence of his own mind. The phrase was: The guy's not playing with a full deck. That was what was wrong with Tom. That was what it came down to. And the pity in Tom's case was that so few cards were missing, and low cards at that--a deuce of diamonds, a trey of clubs, something like that. But without those cards, you just couldn't have a good game of anything. You couldn't even win at solitaire with those cards missing from the deck.

  "Nicky!" Tom yelled. "Am I glad to see you! Laws, yes! Tom Cullen is so glad!" He threw his arms around Nick's neck and gave him a hug. Nick felt his bad eye sting with tears behind the black eyepatch he still wore on bright days like this one. "And Ralph too! And that one. You're ... let's see ..."

  "I'm--" Stu began, but Nick silenced him with a brusque chopping gesture of his left hand. He had been practicing mnemonics with Tom, and it seemed to work. If you could associate something you knew with a name you wanted to remember, it often clicked home and stuck. Rudy had turned him on to that, too, all those long years ago.

  Now he took his pad from his pocket and jotted on it. Then he handed it to Ralph to read aloud.

  Frowning a little, Ralph did so: "What do you like to eat that comes in a bowl with meat and vegetables and gravy?"