In late September. Johnny had gone up to Pownal for the weekend and after an entire Friday night of watching his father fidget and laugh uproariously at jokes on TV that weren't particularly funny, he had asked Herb what the trouble was.
“No trouble,” Herb said, smiling nervously and rubbing his hands together like an accountant who has discovered that the company he just invested his life savings with is bankrupt. “No trouble at all, what makes you think that, son?”
“Well, what's on your mind, then?”
Herb stopped smiling, but he kept rubbing his hands together. “I don't really know how to tell you, Johnny. I mean…
“Is it Charlene?”
“Well, yes. It is.”
“You popped the question.”
Herb looked at Johnny humbly. “How do you feel about coming into a stepmother at the age of twenty-nine, John?”
Johnny grinned. “I feel fine about it. Congratulations, Dad.”
Herb” smiled, relieved. “Well, thanks. I was a little scared to tell you, I don't mind admitting it. I know what you said when we talked about it before, but people sometimes feel one way when something's maybe and another way when it's gonna be. I loved your mom, Johnny. And I guess I always will.”
“I know that, dad.”
“But I'm alone and Charlene's alone and… well, I guess we can put each other to good use.”
Johnny went over to his father and kissed him. “All the best. I know you'll have it.”
“You're a good son, Johnny. “Herb took his handkerchief out of his back pocket and swiped at his eyes with it. “We thought we'd lost you. I did, anyway. Vera never lost hope. She always believed. Johnny, I…”
“Don't, Daddy. It's over.
“I have to,” he said. “It's been in my gut like a stone for a year and a half now. I prayed for you to die, Johnny. My own son, and I prayed for God to take you. “He wiped his tears again and put his handkerchief away. “Turned out God knew a smidge more than I did. Johnny… would you stand up with me? At my wedding?”
Johnny felt something inside that was almost but not quite like sorrow. “That would be my pleasure,” he said.
“Thanks. I'm glad I've… that I've said everything that's on my mind. I feel better than I have in a long, long time.”
“Have you set a date?”
“As a matter of fact, we have. How does January 2 sound to you?”
“Sounds good,” Johnny said. “You can count on me.”
“We're going to put both places on the market, I guess,” Herb” said. “We've got our eye on a farm in Biddeford. Nice place. Twenty acres. Half of it woodlot. A new start.”
“Yes. A new start, that's good.”
“You wouldn't have any objections to us selling the home place?” Herb asked anxiously.
“A little tug,” Johnny said. “That's all.”
“Yeah, that's what I feel. A little tug. “He smiled. “Somewhere around the heart, that's where mine is. What about you?”
“About the same,” Johnny said.
“How's it going down there for you?”
“Good.”
“Your boy's getting along?”
“Amazin well,” Johnny said, using one of his father's pet expressions and grinning.
“How long do you think you'll be there?”
“Working with Chuck? I guess I'll stick with it through the school year, if they want me. Working one-on one has been a new kind of experience. I like it. And this has been a really good job. Atypically good, I'd say.”
“What are you going to do after?”
Johnny shook his head. “I don't know yet. But I know one thing.”
“What's that?”
“I'm going out for a bottle of champagne. We're going to get bombed.”
His father had stood up on that September evening and clapped him on the back. “Make it two,” he said.
He still got the occasional letter from Sarah Hazlett. She and Walt were expecting their second child in April. Johnny wrote back his congratulations and his good wishes for Walt's canvass. And he thought sometimes about his afternoon with Sarah, the long, slow afternoon.
It wasn't a memory he allowed himself to take out too often; he was afraid that constant exposure to the sunlight of recollection might cause it to wash out and fade, like the reddish-tinted proofs they used to give you of your graduation portraits.
He had gone out a few times this fall, once with the older and newly divorced sister of the girl Chuck was seeing, but nothing had developed from any of those dates.
Most of his spare time that fall he had spent in the company of Gregory Ammas Stillson.
He had become a Stillsonphile. He kept three looseleaf notebooks in his bureau under his socks and underwear and T-shirts. They were filled with notes, speculations, and Xerox copies of news items.
Doing this had made him uneasy. At night, as he wrote around the pasted-up clippings with a fine-line Pilot pen, he sometimes felt like Arthur Bremmer or the Moore woman who had tried to shoot Jerry Ford. He knew that if Edgar Lancte, Fearless Minion of the Effa Bee Eye, could see him doing this, his phone, living room, and bathroom would be tapped in a jiffy. There would be an Acme Furniture van parked across the street, only instead of being full of furniture it would be loaded with cameras and mikes and God knew what else.
He kept telling himself that he wasn't Bremmer, that Stilison wasn't an obsession, but that got harder to believe after the long afternoons at the UNH library, searching through old newspapers and magazines and feeding dimes into the photocopier. It got harder to believe on the nights he burned the midnight oil, writing out his thoughts and trying to make valid connections. It grew well-nigh impossible to believe on those graveyard-ditch three A. M. “s when he woke up sweating from the recurring nightmare.
The nightmare was nearly always the same, a naked replay of his handshake with Stillson at the Trimbull rally. The sudden blackness. The feeling of being in a tunnel filled with the glare of the onrushing headlight, a head-light bolted to some black engine of doom. The old man with the humble, frightened eyes administering an unthinkable oath of office. The nuances of feeling, coming and going like tight puffs of smoke. And a series of brief images, strung together in a flapping row like the plastic pennants over a used-car dealer's lot. His mind whispered to him that these images were all related, that they told a picture-story of a titanic approaching doom, perhaps even the Armageddon of which Vera Smith had been so endlessly confident.
But what were the images? What were they exactly? They were hazy, impossible to see except in vague outline, because there was always that puzzling blue filter between, the blue filter that was sometimes cut by those yellow markings like tiger stripes.
The only clear image in these dream-replays came near the end: the screams of the dying, the smell of the dead. And a single tiger padding through miles of twisted metal, fused glass, and scorched earth. This tiger was always laughing, and it seemed to be carrying something in its mouth-something blue and yellow and dripping blood.
There had been times in the fall when he thought that dream would send him mad. Ridiculous dream; the possibility it seemed to point to was impossible, after all. Best to drive it totally out of his mind.
But because he couldn't, he researched Gregory Still-son and tried to tell himself it was only a harmless hobby and not a dangerous obsession.
Stillson had been born in Tulsa. His father had been an oil-field roughneck who drifted from job to job, working more often than some of his colleagues because of his tremendous size. His mother might once have been pretty, although there was only a hint of that in the two pictures that Johnny had been able to unearth. If she had been, the times and the man she had been married to had dimmed her prettiness quickly. The pictures showed little more than another dustbowl face, a southeast United States depression woman who was wearing a faded print dress and holding a baby-Greg-in her scrawny arms, and squinting into the sun.