The Stand, Page 47

  Was that true? If it was, then God help them. Just lately Stu had been thinking a great deal about old friends and acquaintances. In his memory there was a great tendency to downplay or completely forget their unlovable characteristics--the way Bill Hapscomb used to pick his nose and wipe the snot on the sole of his shoe, Norm Bruett's heavy hand with his kids, Billy Verecker's unpleasant method of controlling the cat population around his house by crushing the thin skulls of the new kittens under the heels of his Range Rider boots.

  The thoughts that came wanted to be wholly good. Going hunting at dawn, bundled up in quilted jackets and Day-Glo orange vests. Poker games at Ralph Hodges's house and Willy Craddock always complaining about how he was four dollars in the game, even if he was twenty ahead. Six or seven of them pushing Tony Leominster's Scout back onto the road that time he went down into the ditch drunk out of his mind, Tony staggering around and swearing to God and all the saints that he had swerved to avoid a U-Haul full of Mexican wetbacks. Jesus, how they had laughed. Chris Ortega's endless stream of ethnic jokes. Going down to Huntsville for whores, and that time Joe Bob Brentwood caught the crabs and tried to tell everybody they came from the sofa in the parlor and not from the girl upstairs. They had been goddam good times. Not what your sophisticates with their nightclubs and their fancy restaurants and their museums would think of as good times, maybe, but good times just the same. He thought about those things, went over them and over them, the way an old recluse will lay out hand after hand of solitaire from a greasy pack of cards. Mostly he wanted to hear other human voices, get to know someone, be able to turn to someone and say, Did you see that? when something happened like the meteor shower he had watched the other night. He was not a talkative man, but he did not care much for being alone, and never had.

  So he sat up a little straighter when the motorcycles finally swept around the bend, and he saw they were a couple of Honda 250s, ridden by a boy of about eighteen and a girl who was maybe older than the boy. The girl was wearing a bright yellow blouse and light blue Levi's.

  They saw him sitting on the rock, and both Hondas swerved a little as their drivers' surprise caused control to waver briefly. The boy's mouth dropped open. For a moment it was unclear whether they would stop or just speed by heading west.

  Stu raised an empty hand and said "Hi!" in an amiable voice. His heart was beating heavily in his chest. He wanted them to stop. They did.

  For a moment he was puzzled by the tenseness in their postures. Particularly the boy; he looked as if a gallon of adrenaline had just been dumped into his blood. Of course Stu had a rifle, but he wasn't holding it on them and they were armed themselves; he was wearing a pistol and she had a small deer-rifle slung across her back on a strap, like an actress playing Patty Hearst with no great conviction.

  "I think he's all right, Harold," the girl said, but the boy she called Harold continued to stand astride his bike, looking at Stu with an expression of surprise and considering antagonism.

  "I said I think--" she began again.

  "How are we supposed to know that?" Harold snapped without taking his eyes off Stu.

  "Well, I'm glad to see you, if that makes any difference," Stu said.

  "What if I don't believe you?" Harold challenged, and Stu saw that he was scared green. Scared by him and by his responsibility to the girl.

  "Well, then, I don't know." Stu climbed off the rock. Harold's hand jittered toward his holstered pistol.

  "Harold, you leave that alone," the girl said. Then she fell silent and for a moment they all seemed helpless to proceed further--a group of three dots which, when connected, would form a triangle whose exact shape could not yet be foreseen.

  "Ouuuu," Frannie said, easing herself down on a mossy patch at the base of an elm beside the road. "I'm never going to get the calluses off my fanny, Harold."

  Harold uttered a surly grunt.

  She turned to Stu. "Have you ever ridden a hundred and seventy miles on a Honda, Mr. Redman? Not recommended."

  Stu smiled. "Where are you headed?"

  "What business is it of yours?" Harold asked rudely.

  "And what kind of attitude is that?" Fran asked him. "Mr. Redman is the first person we've seen since Gus Dinsmore died! I mean, if we didn't come looking for other people, what did we come for?"

  "He's watching out for you, is all," Stu said quietly. He picked a piece of grass and put it between his lips.

  "That's right, I am," Harold said, unmollified.

  "I thought we were watching out for each other," she said, and Harold flushed darkly.

  Stu thought: Give me three people and they'll form a society. But were these the right two for his one? He liked the girl, but the boy impressed him as a frightened blowhard. And a frightened blowhard could be a very dangerous man, under the right circumstances ... or the wrong ones.

  "Whatever you say," Harold muttered. He shot Stu a lowering look and took a box of Marlboros from his jacket pocket. He lit one. He smoked on it like a fellow who had only recently taken up the habit. Like maybe the day before yesterday.

  "We're going to Stovington, Vermont," Frannie said. "To the plague center there. We--what's wrong? Mr. Redman?" He had gone pale all of a sudden. The stem of grass he had been chewing fell onto his lap.

  "Why there?" Stu asked.

  "Because there happens to be an installation there for the studying of communicable diseases," Harold said loftily. "It was my thought that, if there is any order left in this country, or any persons in authority who escaped the late scourge, they would likely be at Stovington or Atlanta, where there is another such center."

  "That's right," Frannie said.

  Stu said: "You're wasting your time."

  Frannie looked stunned. Harold looked indignant; the red began to creep out of his collar again. "I hardly think you're the best judge of that, my man.

  "I guess I am. I came from there."

  Now they both looked stunned. Stunned and astonished.

  "You knew about it?" Frannie asked, shaken. "You checked it out?"

  "No, it wasn't like that. It--"

  "You're a liar!" Harold's voice had gone high and squeaky.

  Fran saw an alarming cold flash of anger in Redman's eyes, then they were brown and mild again. "No. I ain't."

  "I say you are! I say you're nothing but a--"

  "Harold, you shut up!"

  Harold looked at her, wounded. "But Frannie, how can you believe--"

  "How can you be so rude and antagonistic?" she asked hotly. "Will you at least listen to what he has to say, Harold?"

  "I don't trust him."

  Fair enough, Stu thought, that makes us even.

  "How can you not trust a man you just met? Really, Harold, you're being disgusting!"

  "Let me tell you how I know," Stu said quietly. He told an abridged version of the story that began when Campion had crashed into Hap's pumps. He sketched his escape from Stovington a week ago. Harold glared dully down at his hands, which were plucking up bits of moss and shredding them. But the girl's face was like an unfolding map of tragic country, and Stu felt bad for her. She had set off with this boy (who, to give him credit, had had a pretty good idea), hoping against hope that there was something of the old taken-for-granted ways left. Well, she had been disappointed. Bitterly so, from her look.

  "Atlanta too? The plague got both of them?" she asked.

  "Yes," he said, and she burst into tears.

  He wanted to comfort her, but the boy would not take to that. Harold glanced uncomfortably at Fran, then down at the litter of moss on his cuffs. Stu gave her his handkerchief. She thanked him distractedly, without looking up. Harold glared sullenly at him again, the eyes those of a piggy little boy who wants the whole cookie jar to himself. Ain't he going to be surprised, Stu thought, when he finds out a girl isn't a jar of cookies.

  When her tears had tapered down to sniffles, she said, "I guess Harold and I owe you our thanks. At least you saved us a long trip with disappointment at
the end."

  "You mean you believe him? Just like that? He tells you a big story and you just ... you buy it?"

  "Harold, why would he lie? For what gain?"

  "Well, how do I know what he's got on his mind?" Harold asked truculently. "Murder, could be. Or rape."

  "I don't believe in rape myself," Stu said mildly. "Maybe you know something about it I don't."

  "Stop it, " Fran said. "Harold, won't you try not to be so awful?"

  "Awful?" Harold shouted. "I'm trying to watch out for you--us-- and that's so bloodydamn awful?"

  "Look," Stu said, and brushed his sleeve up. On the inside of his elbow were several healing needle marks and the last remains of a discolored bruise. "They injected me with all kinds of stuff."

  "Maybe you're a junkie," Harold said.

  Stu rolled his sleeve back down without replying. It was the girl, of course. He had gotten used to the idea of owning her. Well, some girls could be owned and some could not. This one looked like the latter type. She was tall and pretty and very fresh-looking. Her dark eyes and hair accentuated a look that could be taken for dewy helplessness. It would be easy to miss that faint line (the I-want line, Stu's mother had called it) between her eyebrows that became so pronounced when she was put out, the swift capability of her hands, even the forthright way she tossed her hair from her forehead.

  "So now what do we do?" she asked, ignoring Harold's last contribution to the discussion entirely.

  "Go on anyway," Harold said, and when she looked over at him with that line furrowing her brow, he added hastily: "Well, we have to go somewhere. Sure, he's probably telling the truth, but we could double-check. Then decide what's next."

  Fran glanced at Stu with an I-don't-want-to-hurt-your-feelings-but kind of expression. Stu shrugged.

  "Okay?" Harold pressed.

  "I suppose it doesn't matter," Frannie said. She picked up a gone-to-seed dandelion and blew away the fluff.

  "You didn't see anyone at all back the way you came?" Stu asked.

  "There was a dog that seemed to be all right. No people."

  "I saw a dog, too." He told them about Bateman and Kojak. When he had finished he said, "I was going toward the coast, but you saying there aren't any people back that way kind of takes the wind out of my sails."

  "Sorry," Harold said, sounding anything but. He stood up. "Ready, Fran?"

  She looked at Stu, hesitated, then stood up. "Back to the wonderful diet machine. Thank you for telling us what you know, Mr. Redman, even if the news wasn't so hot."

  "Just a second," Stu said, also standing up. He hesitated, wondering again if they were right. The girl was, but the boy surely was seventeen and afflicted with a bad case of the 1-hate-most-everybodies. But were there enough people left to pick and choose? Stu thought not.

  "I guess we're both looking for people," he said. "I'd like to tag along with you, if you'd have me."

  "No," Harold said instantly.

  Fran looked from Harold to Stu, troubled. "Maybe we--"

  "You never mind. I say no."

  "Don't I get a vote?"

  "What's the matter with you? Can't you see he only wants one thing? Christ, Fran!"

  "Three's better than two if there's trouble," Stu said, "and I know it's better than one."

  "No," Harold repeated. His hand dropped to the butt of his gun.

  "Yes," Fran said. "We'd be glad to have you, Mr. Redman."

  Harold rounded on her, his face angry and hurt. Stu tightened for just a moment, thinking that perhaps he was going to strike her, and then relaxed again. "That's the way you feel, is it? You were just waiting for some excuse to get rid of me, I get it." He was so angry that tears had sprung to his eyes, and that made him angrier still. "If that's the way you want it, okay. You go on with him. I'm done with you." He stamped off toward where the Hondas were parked.

  Frannie looked at Stu with stricken eyes, then turned toward Harold.

  "Just a minute," Stu said. "Stay here, please."

  "Don't hurt him," Fran said. "Please."

  Stu trotted toward Harold, who was astride his Honda and trying to start it up. In his anger he had twisted the throttle all the way over and it was a good thing for him it was flooded, Stu thought; if it actually started up with that much throttle, it would rear back on its rear wheel like a unicycle and pile old Harold into the first tree and land on top of him.

  "You stay away!" Harold screamed angrily at him, and his hand fell onto the butt of the gun again. Stu put his hand on top of Harold's, as if they were playing slapjack. He put his other hand on Harold's arm. Harold's eyes were very wide, and Stu believed he was only an inch or so from becoming dangerous. He wasn't just jealous of the girl, that had been a bad oversimplification on his part. His personal dignity was wrapped up in it, and his new image of himself as the girl's protector. God knew what kind of a fuckup he had been before all of this, with his wad of belly and his pointy-toed boots and his stuck-up way of talking. But underneath the new image was the belief that he was still a fuckup and always would be. Underneath was the certainty that there was no such thing as a fresh start. He would have reacted the same way to Bateman, or to a twelve-year-old kid. In any triangle situation he was going to see himself as the lowest point.

  "Harold," he said, almost into Harold's ear.

  "Let me go." His heavy body seemed light in its tension; he was thrumming like a live wire.

  "Harold, are you sleeping with her?"

  Harold's body gave a shivering jerk and Stu knew he was not.

  "None of your business!"

  "No. Except to get things out where we can see them. She's not mine, Harold. She's her own. I'm not going to try to take her away from you. I'm sorry to have to speak so blunt, but it's best for us to know where we stand. We're two and one now and if you go off, we're two and one again. No gain."

  Harold said nothing, but his trembling hand subsided.

  "I'll be just as plain as I have to," Stu went on, still speaking very nearly into Harold's ear (which was clotted with brown wax), and taking the trouble to speak very, very calmly. "You know and I know that there's no need for a man to be rapin women. Not if he knows what to do with his hand."

  "That's--" Harold licked his lips and then looked over at the side of the road where Fran was still standing, hands cupping elbows, arms crossed just below her breasts, watching them anxiously. "That's pretty disgusting."

  "Well maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but when a man's around a woman who doesn't want him in bed, that man's got his choice. I pick the hand every time. I guess you do too since she's still with you of her own free will. I just want to speak plain, between you and me. I'm not here to squeeze you out like some bully at a country fair dance."

  Harold's hand relaxed on the gun and he looked at Stu. "You mean that? I ... you promise you won't tell?"

  Stu nodded.

  "I love her," Harold said hoarsely. "She doesn't love me, I know that, but I'm speaking plainly, like you said."

  "That's best. I don't want to cut in. I just want to come along."

  Compulsively, Harold repeated: "You promise?"

  "Yeah, I do."

  "All right."

  He got slowly off the Honda. He and Stu walked back to Fran.

  "He can come," Harold said. "And I ..." He looked at Stu and said with difficult dignity, "I apologize for being such an asshole."

  "Hooray!" Fran said, and clapped her hands. "Now that that's settled, where are we going?"

  In the end they went in the direction Fran and Harold had been headed in, west. Stu said he thought Glen Bateman would be glad to have them overnight, if they could reach Woodsville by dark--and he might agree to tag along with them in the morning (at this Harold began to glower again). Stu drove Fran's Honda, and she rode pillion behind Harold. They stopped in Twin Mountain for lunch and began the slow, cautious business of getting to know each other. Their accents sounded funny to Stu, the way they broadened their a's and dropped or modified their r'
s. He supposed he sounded just as funny to them, maybe funnier.

  They ate in an abandoned lunchroom and Stu found his gaze was drawn again and again to Fran's race--her lively eyes, the small but determined set of her chin, the way that line formed between her eyes, indexing her emotions. He liked the way she looked and talked; he even liked the way her dark hair was drawn back from her temples. And that was the beginning of his knowing that he did want her, after all.

  ON THE BORDER

  JULY 5-SEPTEMBER 6, 1990

  We come on the ship they call the Mayflower

  We come on the ship that sailed the moon

  We come in the age's most uncertain hour

  and sing an American tune

  But it's all right, it's all right

  You can't be forever blessed ...

  -- Paul Simon

  Lookin hard for a drive-in

  Searching for a parking space

  Where hamburgers sizzle on an open grille night and day

  Yes! Juke-box is jumpin with records back in the U.S.A.

  Well I'm so glad I'm living in the U.S.A.

  Anything you want we got it right here in the U.S.A.

  -- Chuck Berry

  CHAPTER 43

  There was a dead man lying in the middle of Main Street in May, Oklahoma.

  Nick wasn't surprised. He had seen a lot of corpses since leaving Shoyo, and he suspected he hadn't seen a thousandth of all the dead people he must have passed. In places, the rich smell of death on the air was enough to make you feel like swooning. One more dead man, more or less, wasn't going to make any difference.

  But when the dead man sat up, such an explosion of terror rose in him that he again lost control of his bike. It wavered, then wobbled, then crashed, spilling Nick violently onto the pavement of Oklahoma Route 3. He cut his hands and scraped his forehead.

  "Holy gee, mister, but you took a tumble," the corpse said, coming toward Nick at a pace best described as an amiable stagger. "Didn't you just? My laws!"

  Nick got none of this. He was looking at a spot on the pavement between his hands where drops of blood from his cut forehead were falling, and wondering how badly he had been cut. When the hand touched him on the shoulder he remembered the corpse and scrambled away on the palms of his hands and the soles of his shoes, the eye not covered with the patch bright with terror.