Lisey’s Story (52 page)

If there's a graveyard
here,
why did he bury Paul back
there?
Was it because he died with the bad-gunky?

She doesn't know or care. What she cares about is Scott. He's sitting on one of those benches like a spectator at a badly attended sporting event, and if she intends to do something, she'd better get busy. “Keep your string a-drawing,” Good Ma would have said—that was one she caught from the pool.

Lisey leaves the graveyard and its rude crosses behind. She walks along the beach toward the stone benches where her husband sits. The sand is firm and somehow tingly. Feeling it against her soles and heels makes her realize that her feet are bare. She's still wearing her nightgown and layers of underthings, but her slippers didn't travel. The feel of the sand is dismaying and pleasant at the same time. It's also strangely
familiar
, and as she reaches the first of the stone benches, Lisey makes the connection. As a kid she had a recurring dream in which she'd go zooming around the house on a magic carpet, invisible to everyone else. She'd awaken from those dreams exhilarated, terrified, and sweat-soaked to the roots of her hair. This sand has the same magic-carpet feel . . . as if she were to bend her knees and then shoot upward, she might fly instead of jump.

I'd swoop over that pool like a dragonfly, maybe dragging my toes in the water . . . swoop around to the place where it outflows in a brook . . . along to where the brook fattens into a river . . . swooping low . . . smelling the damp rising up from the water, breaking through the little rising mists like scarves until I finally reached the sea . . . and then on . . . yes, on and on and on . . .

Tearing herself away from this powerful vision is one of the hardest things Lisey has ever done. It's like trying to rise after days of hard work and only a few hours of heavy and beautifully restful sleep. She discovers she's no longer on the sand but sitting on a bench in the third tier up from the little beach, looking out at the water with her chin propped on her palm. And she sees that the moonlight is losing its orange glow. It has become buttery, and will soon turn to silver.

How long have I been here?
she asks herself, dismayed. She has an idea it's not really been that long, somewhere between fifteen minutes and half an hour, but even that is far too long . . . although she certainly understands how this place works now, doesn't she?

Lisey feels her eyes being drawn back to the pool—the peace of the pool, where now only two or three people (one is a woman with either a large bundle or a small child in her arms) are wading in the deepening evening—and forces herself to look away, up at the rock horizons that encircle this place and at the stars peeping through the darkening blue above the granite and the few trees that fringe it up there. When she begins to feel a little more like herself, Lisey stands up, turns her back on the water, and locates Scott again. It's easy. That yellow knitted african all but screams, even in the gathering dark.

She goes to him, stepping up from one level to the next, as she would at a football stadium. She detours away from one of the shrouded creatures . . . but she's close enough to see the very human shape beneath its gauzy wrappings; hollow eyesockets and one hand that peeps out.

It is a woman's hand, with chipped red polish on the nails.

When she reaches Scott, her heart is pumping hard and she feels a little out of breath, even though the climb hasn't been difficult. In the distance the laughers have begun cackling up and down the scale, sharing their endless joke. Back the way she came, faint but still audible, she
hears the fitful tinkle of Chuckie G.'s bell, and she thinks,
Order's up, Lisey! Come on, let's hustle!

“Scott?” she murmurs, but Scott doesn't look at her. Scott is looking raptly at the pool, where the faintest hazy mist—a mere exhalation—has begun to rise in the light of the rising moon. Lisey allows herself only one quick glance that way before returning her regard firmly to her husband. She's learned her lesson about looking too long at the pool. Or so she hopes. “Scott, it's time to come home.”

Nothing. No response whatsoever. She remembers protesting that he wasn't crazy, writing stories didn't make him
crazy
, and Scott telling her
I hope you stay lucky, little Lisey
. But she hadn't, had she? Now she knows a lot more. Paul Landon went bad-gunky and wound up raving his life away chained to a post in the cellar of an isolated farmhouse. His younger brother has married and had an undeniably brilliant career, but now the bill has come due.

Your garden-variety catatonic
, she thinks, and shivers.

“Scott?” she murmurs again, almost directly into his ear. She has taken both of his hands in hers. They are cool and smooth, waxy and lax. “Scott, if you're in there and you want to come home, squeeze my hands.”

For the longest time there's nothing but the sound of the laughing things deep in the woods, and somewhere closer by the shocking, almost womanish cry of a bird. Then Lisey feels something that is either wishful thinking or the barest twitch of his fingers against hers.

She tries to think what she should do next, but the only thing she's sure of is what she
shouldn't
do: let the night swim up around them, dazzling her with silvery moonlight from above even as it drowns her in shadows rising from below. This place is a trap. She's sure that
anyone
who stays at the pool for very long will find it impossible to leave. She understands that if you look at it for a little while, you'll be able to see anything you want to. Lost loves, dead children, missed chances—anything.

The most amazing thing about this place? That there aren't more people hanging out on the stone benches. That they aren't packed in shoulder-to-shoulder like spectators at a smucking World Cup soccer match.

She catches movement in the corner of her eye and looks up the path leading from the beach to the stairs. She sees a stout gentleman wearing white pants and a billowing white shirt open all the way down the front. A great red gash runs down the left side of his face. His iron-gray hair is standing up at the back of his oddly flattened-looking head. He looks around briefly, then steps from the path to the sand.

Beside her, speaking with great effort, Scott says: “Car crash.”

Lisey's heart takes a wild spring in her chest, but she's careful not to look around or to squeeze down too tightly on his hands, although she cannot forbear a slight twitch. Striving to keep her voice even, she says: “How do you know?”

No answer from Scott. The stout gentleman in the billowing shirt spares one more dismissive glance for the silent folk sitting on the stone benches, then turns his back on them and wades into the pool. Silver tendrils of moonsmoke rise around him, and Lisey once more has to drag her eyes away.

“Scott, how do you know?”

He shrugs. His shoulders also seem to weigh a thousand pounds—that, at least, is how it looks to her—but he manages. “Telepathy, I suppose.”

“Will he get better now?”

There's a long pause. Just when she thinks he won't answer, he does. “He might,” he says. “He's . . . it's deep . . . in here.” Scott touches his own head—indicating, Lisey thinks, some sort of brain injury. “Sometimes things just . . . go too far.”

“Then do they come and sit here? Wrap themselves in sheets?”

Nothing from Scott. What she's afraid of now is losing what little of him she's found. She doesn't need anyone to tell her how easily it could happen; she can feel it. Every nerve in her body knows this news.

“Scott, I think you want to come back. I think it's why you hung on so hard all last December. And I think it's why you brought the african. It's hard to miss, even in the gloom.”

He looks down, as if seeing it for the first time, then actually smiles a little. “You're always . . . saving me, Lisey,” he says.

“I don't know what you're—”

“Nashville. I was going down.” With every word he seems to gain animation. For the first time she allows herself to really hope. “I was lost in the dark and you found me. I was hot—so hot—and you gave me ice. Do you remember?”

She remembers that other Lisa

(
I spilled half the fucking Coke getting back here
)

and how Scott's shivering suddenly stopped when she popped a sliver of ice onto his bloody tongue. She remembers Coke-colored water dripping out of his eyebrows. She remembers it all. “Of course I do. Now let's get out of here.”

He shakes his head, slowly but firmly. “It's too hard. You go on, Lisey.”

“I'm supposed to go without you?” She blinks her eyes fiercely, only realizing when she feels the sting that she has begun to cry.

“It won't be hard—do it like that time in New Hampshire.” He speaks patiently, but still very slowly, as if every word were a great weight, and he is purposely misunderstanding her. She's almost sure of it. “Just close your eyes . . . concentrate on the place you came from . . .
see
it . . . and that's the place you'll go back to.”

“Without
you?
” she repeats fiercely, and below them, slowly, like a man moving underwater, a guy in a red flannel shirt turns to look at them.

Scott says, “Shhhh, Lisey—here you must be still.”

“What if I don't
want
to be? This isn't the smucking
library
, Scott!”

Deep in the Fairy Forest the laughers howl as if this is the funniest thing they've ever heard, a knee-slapper worthy of the Auburn Novelty Shop. From the pool there's a single sharp splash. Lisey glances that way and sees the stout gentleman has gone to . . . well, to somewhere else. She decides she doesn't give a good goddam if it's underwater or Dimension X; her business now is with her husband. He's right, she's always saving him, just call her the U.S. Cavalry. And it's okay, she knew that practical shit was never exactly going to be Scott's main deal when she married him, but she has a right to expect a little help, doesn't she?

His gaze has drifted back to the water. She has an idea that when night comes and the moon begins to burn there like a drowned lamp,
she'll lose him for good. This frightens and infuriates her. She stands up and snatches Good Ma's african. It came from
her
side of the family, after all, and if this is to be their divorce, she will have it back—
all
of it—even if it hurts him.
Especially
if it hurts him.

Scott looks at her with an expression of sleepy surprise that makes her angrier still.

“Okay,” she says, speaking with brittle lightness. It's a tone foreign to her and seemingly to this place, as well. Several people look around, clearly disturbed and—perhaps—irritated. Well, smuck them and the various horses (or hearses, or ambulances) they rode in on. “You want to stay here and eat lotuses, or whatever the saying is? Fine. I'll just go on back down the path—”

And for the first time she sees a strong emotion on Scott's face. It's fear. “Lisey, no!” he says. “Just boom back from here! You can't use the path! It's too late, almost
night!
”

“Shhhh!”
someone says.

Fine. She'll
shhhh
. Bundling the yellow african higher in her arms, Lisey starts back down the risers. Two benches down from the bottom she chances a glance back. Part of her is sure that he'll follow her; this is
Scott
, after all. No matter how strange this place may be, he's still her husband, still her lover. The idea of divorce has crossed her mind, but surely it is absurd, a thing for other people but not for Scott and Lisey. He will not allow her to leave alone. But when she looks over her shoulder he's just sitting there in his white tee-shirt and green long underwear bottoms, with his knees together and his hands clasped tightly as if he is cold even here, where the air is so tropical. He's not coming, and for the first time Lisey lets herself acknowledge that it may be because he
can't
. If that is so, her choices are down to a pair: stay here with him or go home without him.

No, there's a third. I can gamble. I can shoot the works, as the saying is. Bet the farm. So come on, Scott. If the path is really dangerous, get off your dead ass and keep me from taking it
.

She wants to look back as she crosses the beach, but doing that would show weakness. The laughers are closer now, which means that whatever else might be lurking near the path back to Sweetheart Hill will be
closer, too. It will be full dark by now under the trees, and she guesses she'll have that sense of something stalking her before she gets far; that sense of something closing in.
It's very close, honey
, Scott told her that day in Nashville as he lay on the broiling pavement, bleeding from the lung and near death. And when she tried to tell him she didn't know what he was talking about, he had told her not to insult his intelligence.

Or her own.

Never mind. I'll deal with whatever's in the woods when—if—I have to. All I know right now is that Dandy Debusher's girl Lisey has finally got it strapped all the way on. That mysterious “it” Scott said you could never define because it changed from one jackpot to the next. This is the total deal, SOWISA, babyluv, and do you know what? It feels pretty good
.

She begins making her way up the slanting path that leads to the steps and behind her

“He called me,” Lisey murmured.

One of the women who had been standing at the edge of the pool now stood up to her knees in that still water, looking dreamily off to the horizon. Her companion turned to Lisey, her brows drawn together in a disapproving frown. At first Lisey didn't understand, then she did. People didn't like you to talk here, that hadn't changed. She had an idea that in Boo'ya Moon, few things did.