Stephen King: Night Journey

I thought about it. “ I could , I suppose, but…”

“You shouldn’t.”

“No. I shouldn’t.”

Now, I thought, she’ll ask me where I go, what I have to do down in those woods that’s so damned important.

But she didn’t. Instead she gave me that imp’s smile again. It looked strange and absolutely wonderful on her too-gaunt, pain-haunted face. “Do you know Mr. Howland?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said, although I didn’t see him much; he was in the west wing, which at Georgia Pines was almost like a neighboring country. “Why?”

“Do you know what’s special about him?”

I shook my head.

“Mr. Howland,” Elaine said, smiling more widely than ever, “is one of only five residents left at Georgia Pines who have permission to smoke. That’s because he was a resident before the rules changed.”

A grandfather clause, I thought. And what place was more fitted for one than an old-age home?

She reached into the pocket of her blue-and-white-striped dress and pulled two items partway out: a cigarette and a book of matches. “Thief of green, thief of red,” she sang in a lilting, funny voice. “Little Ellie’s going to wet the bed.”

“Elaine, what—”

“Walk an old girl downstairs,” she said, putting the cigarette and matches back into her pocket and taking my arm in one of her gnarled hands. We began to walk back down the hall. As we did, I decided to give up and put myself in her hands. She was old and brittle, but not stupid.

As we went down, walking with the glassy care of the relics we have now become, Elaine said: “Wait at the foot. I’m going over to the west wing, to the hall toilet there. You know the one I mean, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “The one just outside the spa. But why?”

“I haven’t had a cigarette in over fifteen years,” she said, “but I feel like one this morning. I don’t know how many puffs it’ll take to set off the smoke detector in there, but I intend to find out.”

I looked at her with dawning admiration, thinking how much she reminded me of my wife—Jan might have done exactly the same thing. Elaine looked back at me, smiling her saucy imp’s smile. I cupped my hand around the back of her lovely long neck, drew her face to mine, and kissed her mouth lightly. “I love you, Ellie,” I said.

“Oooh, such big talk,” she said, but I could tell she was pleased.

“What about Chuck Howland?” I asked. “Is he going to get in trouble?”

“No, because he’s in the TV room, watching Good Morning America with about two dozen other folks. And I’m going to make myself scarce as soon as the smoke detector turns on the west-wing fire alarm.”

“Don’t you fall down and hurt yourself, woman. I’d never forgive myself if—”

“Oh, stop your fussing,” she said, and this time she kissed me . Love among the ruins. It probably sounds funny to some of you and grotesque to the rest of you, but I’ll tell you something, my friend: weird love’s better than no love at all.

I watched her walk away, moving slowly and stiffly (but she will only use a cane on wet days, and only then if the pain is terrible; it’s one of her vanities), and waited. Five minutes went by, then ten, and just as I was deciding she had either lost her courage or discovered that the battery of the smoke detector in the toilet was dead, the fire alarm went off in the west wing with a loud, buzzing burr.

I started toward the kitchen at once, but slowly—there was no reason to hurry until I was sure Dolan was out of my way. A gaggle of old folks, most still in their robes, came out of the TV room (here it’s called the Resource Center; now that’s grotesque) to see what was going on. Chuck Howland was among them, I was happy to see.

“Edgecombe!” Kent Avery rasped, hanging onto his walker with one hand and yanking obsessively at the crotch of his pajama pants with the other. “Real alarm or just another falsie? What do you think?”

“No way of knowing, I guess,” I said.

Just about then three orderlies went trotting past, all headed for the west wing, yelling at the folks clustered around the TV-room door to go outside and wait for the all-clear. The third in line was Brad Dolan. He didn’t even look at me as he went past, a fact that pleased me to no end. As I went on down toward the kitchen, it occurred to me that the team of Elaine Connelly and Paul Edgecombe would probably be a match for a dozen Brad Dolans, with half a dozen Percy Wetmores thrown in for good measure.

The cooks in the kitchen were continuing to clear up breakfast, paying no attention to the howling fire alarm at all.

“Say, Mr. Edgecombe,” George said. “I believe Brad Dolan been lookin for you. In fact, you just missed him.”

Lucky me, I thought. What I said out loud was that I’d probably see Mr. Dolan later. Then I asked if there was any leftover toast lying around from breakfast.

“Sure,” Norton said, “but it’s stone-cold dead in the market. You runnin late this morning?”

“I am,” I agreed, “but I’m hungry.”

“Only take a minute to make some fresh and hot,” George said, reaching for the bread.

“Nope, cold will be fine,” I said, and when he handed me a couple of slices (looking mystified—actually both of them looked mystified), I hurried out the door, feeling like the boy I once was, skipping school to go fishing with a jelly fold-over wrapped in waxed paper slipped into the front of my shirt.

Outside the kitchen door I took a quick, reflexive look around for Dolan, saw nothing to alarm me, and hurried across the croquet course and putting green, gnawing on one of my pieces of toast as I went. I slowed a little as I entered the shelter of the woods, and as I walked down the path, I found my mind turning to the day after Eduard Delacroix’s terrible execution.

I had spoken to Hal Moores that morning, and he had told me that Melinda’s brain tumor had caused her to lapse into bouts of cursing and foul language… what my wife had later labelled (rather tentatively; she wasn’t sure it was really the same thing) as Tourette’s Syndrome. The quavering in his voice, coupled with the memory of how John Coffey had healed both my urinary infection and the broken back of Delacroix’s pet mouse, had finally pushed me over the line that runs between just thinking about a thing and actually doing a thing.

And there was something else. Something that had to do with John Coffey’s hands, and my shoe.

So I had called the men I worked with, the men I had trusted my life to over the years—Dean Stanton, Harry Terwilliger, Brutus Howell. They came to lunch at my house on the day after Delacroix’s execution, and they at least listened to me when I outlined my plan. Of course, they all knew that Coffey had healed the mouse; Brutal had actually seen it. So when I suggested that another miracle might result if we took John Coffey to Melinda Moores, they didn’t outright laugh. It was Dean Stanton who raised the most troubling question: What if John Coffey escaped while we had him out on his field-trip?

“Suppose he killed someone else?” Dean asked. “I’d hate losing my job, and I’d hate going to jail—I got a wife and kids depending on me to put bread in their mouths—but I don’t think I’d hate either of those things near as much as having another little dead girl on my conscience.”

There was silence, then, all of them looking at me, waiting to see how I’d respond. I knew everything would change if I said what was on the tip of my tongue; we had reached a point beyond which retreat would likely become impossible.

Except retreat, for me, at least, was already impossible. I opened my mouth and said