Everything's Eventual (4 page)

She comes over, looks briefly down at me, then squeezes Pete's shoulder. Okay, she says. On-na wid-da show!

Now I'm trying to stick my tongue out. Just that simple kid's gesture of impudence, but it would be enough and it seems to me I can feel a faint prickling sensation deep within my lips, the feeling you get when you're finally starting to come out of a heavy dose of Novocain. And I can feel a twitch? No, wishful thinking, just

Yes! Yes! But a twitch is all, and the second time I try, nothing happens.

As Pete picks up the scissors, the Rolling Stones move on to Hang Fire.

Hold a mirror in front of my nose! I scream at them. Watch it fog up! Can't you at least do that?

Snick, snick, snickety-snick.

Pete turns the scissors at an angle so the light runs down the blade, and for the first time I'm certain, really certain, that this mad charade is going to go all the way through to the end. The director isn't going to freeze the frame. The ref isn't going to stop the fight in the tenth round. We're not going to pause for a word from our sponsors. Petie-Boy's going to slide those scissors into my gut while I lie here helpless, and then he's going to open me up like a mail-order package from the Horchow Collection.

He looks hesitantly at Dr. Arlen.

No! I howl, my voice reverberating off the dark walls of my skull but emerging from my mouth not at all. No, please no!

She nods. Go ahead. You'll be fine.

Uh you want to turn off the music?

Yes! Yes, turn it off!

Is it bothering you?

Yes! It's bothering him! It's fucked him up so completely he thinks his patient is dead!

Well

Sure, she says, and disappears from my field of vision. A moment later Mick and Keith are finally gone. I try to make the humming noise and discover a horrible thing: now I can't even do that. I'm too scared. Fright has locked down my vocal cords. I can only stare up as she rejoins him, the two of them gazing down at me like pallbearers looking into an open grave.

Thanks, he says. Then he takes a deep breath and lifts the scissors. Commencing pericardial cut.

He slowly brings them down. I see them see them then they're gone from my field of vision. A long moment later, I feel cold steel nestle against my naked upper belly.

He looks doubtfully at the doctor.

Are you sure you don't

Do you want to make this your field or not, Peter? she asks him with some asperity.

You know I do, but

Then cut.

He nods, lips firming. I would close my eyes if I could, but of course I cannot even do that; I can only steel myself against the pain that's only a second or two away now steel myself for the steel.

Cutting, he says, bending forward.

Wait a sec! she cries.

The dimple of pressure just below my solar plexus eases a little. He looks around at her, surprised, upset, maybe relieved that the crucial moment has been put off

I feel her rubber-gloved hand slide around my penis as if she meant to give me some bizarre handjob, Safe Sex with the Dead, and then she says, You missed this one, Pete.

He leans over, looking at what she's found the scar in my groin, at the very top of my right thigh, a glassy, no-pore bowl in the flesh.

Her hand is still holding my cock, holding it out of the way, that's all she's doing; as far as she's concerned she might as well be holding up a sofa cushion so someone else can see the treasure she's found beneath it coins, a lost wallet, maybe the catnip mouse you haven't been able to find but something is happening.

Dear wheelchair Jesus on a chariot-driven crutch, something is happening.

And look, she says. Her finger strokes a light, tickly line down the side of my right testicle. Look at these hairline scars. His testes must have swollen up to damned near the size of grapefruits.

Lucky he didn't lose one or both.

You bet your you bet your you-knows, she says, and laughs that mildly suggestive laugh again. Her gloved hand loosens, moves, then pushes down firmly, trying to clear the viewing area. She is doing by accident what you might pay twenty-five or thirty bucks to have done on purpose under other circumstances, of course. This is a war-wound, I think. Hand me that magnifier, Pete.

But shouldn't I

In a few seconds, she says. He'snot going anywhere. She's totally absorbed by what she's found. Her hand is still on me, still pressing down, and what was happening feels like it'sstill happening, but maybe I'm wrong. Imust be wrong, or he would see it, she wouldfeel it

She bends down and now I can see only her green-clad back, with the ties from her cap trailing down it like odd pigtails. Now, oh my, I can feel herbreath on me down there.

Notice the outward radiation, she says. It was a blast-wound of some sort, probably ten years ago at least, we could check his military rec

The door bursts open. Pete cries out in surprise. Dr. Arlen doesn't, but her hand tightens involuntarily, she's gripping me again and it's all at once like a hellish variation of the old Naughty Nurse fantasy.

Don't cut im up! someone screams, and his voice is so high and wavery with fright that I barely recognize Rusty. Don't cut im up, there was a snake in his golf-bag and it bit Mike!

They turn to him, eyes wide, jaws dropped; her hand is still gripping me, but she's no more aware of that, at least for the time being, than Petie-Boy is aware that he's got one hand clutching the left breast of his scrub-gown. He looks likehe's the one with the clapped-out fuel pump.

What what are you Pete begins.

Knocked him flat! Rusty was saying babbling. He's gonna be okay, I guess, but he can hardly talk! Little brown snake, I never saw one like it in my life, it went under the loadin bay, it's under there right now, but that's not the important part! I think it already bit that guy we brought in. I think holy shit, doc, whatja tryin to do? Stroke im back to life?

She looks around, dazed, at first not sure of what he's talking about until she realizes that she's now holding a mostly erect penis. And as she screams screams and snatches the shears out of Pete's limp gloved hand I find myself thinking again of that old Alfred Hitchcock TV show.

Poor old Joseph Cotten, I think.

He only got tocry.

It's been a year since my experience in Autopsy Room Four, and I have made a complete recovery, although the paralysis was both stubborn and scary; it was a full month before I began to get back the finer motions of my fingers and toes. I still can't play the piano, but then, of course, I never could. That is a joke, and I make no apologies for it. I think that in the first three months after my misadventure, my ability to joke provided a slim but vital margin between sanity and some sort of nervous breakdown. Unless you've actually felt the tip of a pair of postmortem shears poking into your stomach, you don't know what I mean.

Two weeks or so after my close call, a woman on Dupont Street called the Derry Police to complain of a foul stink coming from the house next door. That house belonged to a bachelor bank clerk named Walter Kerr. Police found the house empty of human life, that is. In the basement they found over sixty snakes of different varieties. About half of them were dead starvation and dehydration but many were extremely lively and extremely dangerous. Several were very rare, and one was of a species believed to have been extinct since midcentury, according to consulting herpetologists.

Kerr failed to show up for work at Derry Community Bank on August 22nd, two days after I was bitten, one day after the story (PARALYZED MAN ESCAPES DEADLY AUTOPSY, the headline read; at one point I was quoted as saying I had been scared stiff) broke in the press.

There was a snake for every cage in Kerr's basement menagerie, except for one. The empty cage was unmarked, and the snake that popped out of my golf-bag (the ambulance orderlies had packed it in with my corpse and had been practicing chip-shots out in the ambulance parking area) was never found. The toxin in my bloodstream the same toxin found to a far lesser degree in orderly Mike Hopper's bloodstream was documented but never identified. I have looked at a great many pictures of snakes in the last year, and have found at least one which has reportedly caused cases of full-body paralysis in humans. This is the Peruvian boomslang, a nasty viper which has supposedly been extinct since the 1920s. Dupont Street is less than half a mile from the Derry Municipal Golf Course. Most of the intervening land consists of scrub woods and vacant lots.

One final note. Katie Arlen and I dated for four months, November 1994 through February of 1995. We broke it off by mutual consent, due to sexual incompatibility.

I was impotent unless she was wearing rubber gloves.

a

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At some point I think every writer of scary stories has to tackle the subject of premature burial, if only because it seems to be such a pervasive fear. When I was a kid of seven or so, the scariest TV program going wasAlfred Hitchcock Presents, and the scariest AHP my friends and I were in total agreement on this was the one starring Joseph Cotten as a man who has been injured in a car accident. Injured so badly, in fact, that the doctors think he's dead. They can't even find a heartbeat. They are on the verge of doing a postmortem on him cutting him up while he's still alive and screaming inside, in other words when he produces one single tear to let them know he's still alive. That was touching, but touching isn't in my usual repertoire. When my own thoughts turned to this subject, a more shall we saymodern? method of communicating liveliness occurred to me, and this story was the result. One final note, regarding the snake: I doubt like hell if there's any such reptile as a Peruvian boomslang, but in one of her Miss Marple capers, Dame Agatha Christiedoesmention an Africanboomslang. I just liked the word so much ( boomslang, not African)I had to put it in this story.

*

The Man in the Black Suit

I am now a very old man and this is something which happened to me when I was very young only nine years old. It was 1914, the summer after my brother Dan died in the west field and three years before America got into World War I. I've never told anyone about what happened at the fork in the stream that day, and I never will at least not with my mouth. I've decided to write it down, though, in this book which I will leave on the table beside my bed. I can't write long, because my hands shake so these days and I have next to no strength, but I don't think it will take long.

Later, someone may find what I have written. That seems likely to me, as it is pretty much human nature to look in a book markedDIARY after its owner has passed along. So yes my words will probably be read. A better question is whether or not anyone will believe them. Almost certainly not, but that doesn't matter. It's not belief I'm interested in but freedom. Writing can give that, I've found. For twenty years I wrote a column called Long Ago and Far Away for the Castle RockCall, and I know that sometimes it works that way what you write down sometimes leaves you forever, like old photographs left in the bright sun, fading to nothing but white.

I pray for that sort of release.

A man in his nineties should be well past the terrors of childhood, but as my infirmities slowly creep up on me, like waves licking closer and closer to some indifferently built castle of sand, that terrible face grows clearer and clearer in my mind's eye. It glows like a dark star in the constellations of my childhood. What I might have done yesterday, who I might have seen here in my room at the nursing home, what I might have said to them or they to me those things are gone, but the face of the man in the black suit grows ever clearer, ever closer, and I remember every word he said. I don't want to think of him but I can't help it, and sometimes at night my old heart beats so hard and so fast I think it will tear itself right clear of my chest. So I uncap my fountain pen and force my trembling old hand to write this pointless anecdote in the diary one of my great-grandchildren I can't remember her name for sure, at least not right now, but I know it starts with an S gave to me last Christmas, and which I have never written in until now. Now I will write in it. I will write the story of how I met the man in the black suit on the bank of Castle Stream one afternoon in the summer of 1914.

a

The town of Motton was a different world in those days more different than I could ever tell you. That was a world without airplanes droning overhead, a world almost without cars and trucks, a world where the skies were not cut into lanes and slices by overhead power lines.

There was not a single paved road in the whole town, and the business district consisted of nothing but Corson's General Store, Thut's Livery & Hardware, the Methodist Church at Christ's Corner, the school, the town hall, and Harry's Restaurant half a mile down from there, which my mother called, with unfailing disdain, the liquor house.

Mostly, though, the difference was in how people lived howapart they were. I'm not sure people born after the middle of the twentieth century could quite credit that, although they might say they could, to be polite to old folks like me. There were no phones in western Maine back then, for one thing. The first one wouldn't be installed for another five years, and by the time there was one in our house, I was nineteen and going to college at the University of Maine in Orono.