Stephen King - The Plant

“This is crap,” Bill said. “I mean, I love you, Roger, but this really is crap. You've been under pressure—you too, John, especially since you got the gate from your girlfriend—and you guys've just... I don't know... let your imaginations run away with you.”

Roger nodded as if he had expected no less. He turned to Herb. “What do you think?” he asked him.

Herb stood up and hitched his belt in that take-charge way of his. “I think we ought to go take a look at the famous ivy plant.”

“Me too,” Sandra said.

“You guys don't actually believe this, do you?” Bill Gelb asked. He sounded both amused and alarmed. “I mean, let's not dial 1–800-MASSHYSTERIA just yet, okay?”

“I don't believe or disbelieve anything,” Sandra said. “Not for sure. All I know for sure is that I got my idea about the joke-book after I was down there. After I smelled baking cookies. And why would the janitor's room smell like my grandma's kitchen, anyway?”

“Maybe for the same reason the reception area smells like garlic,” Bill said. “Because these guys have been playing jokes.” I opened my mouth to say that Sandra had smelled cookies and Herb toast and jam in Riddley's cubicle the day before Roger and I made our trip to Central Falls, but before I could, Bill said: “What about the plant, Sandy? Did you see an ivy growing all over the place in there?”

“No, but I didn't turn on the light,” she said. “I just peeped my head in, and then... I don't know... I got a little scared. Like it was spooky, or something.”

“It was spooky in spite of the smell of gramma's baking cookies, or because of it?” Bill asked. Like a TV-show prosecutor hammering some hapless defense witness.

Sandra looked at him defiantly and said nothing. Herb tried to take her hand, but she shook it off.

I stood up. “Enough talk. Why describe a guest when you can see that guest?”

Bill looked at me as if I'd flipped my lid. “Say what?”

“I believe that in his own inimitable way, John is trying to express the idea that seeing is believing,” Roger said. “Let's go have a look. And may I suggest you all keep your hands to yourselves? I don't think it bites—not us, anyway—but I do think we'd be wise to be careful.”

It sounded like damned good advice to me. As Roger lead us down the hall past our offices in a little troop, I found myself remembering the last words of the rabbit general in Richard Adams's Watership Down: “Come back, you fools! Come back! Dogs aren't dangerous!”

When we got to the place where the hall jogs to the left, Bill said: “Hey, hold it, just a goddam minute.” Sounding extremely suspicious. And a little bit spooked, maybe, as well.

“What is it, William?” Herb asked, all innocence. “Smelling something nice?”

“Popcorn,” he said. His hands were clenched.

“Good smell, is it?” Roger asked gently.

Bill sighed. His hands opened... and all at once his eyes filled with tears. “It smells like The Nordica,” he said. “The Nordica Theater, in Freeport, Maine. It's where we used to go to the show when I was a kid growing up in Gates Falls. It was only open on weekends, and it was always a double feature. There were great big wooden fans in the ceiling and they'd go around during the show... whoosh, whoosh, whoosh... and the popcorn was always fresh. Fresh popcorn with real butter on it in a plain brown bag. To me that's always been the smell of dreams. I just... Is this a joke? Because if it is, tell me right now.”

“No joke,” I said. “I smell coffee. Five O'Clock brand, and stronger than ever. Sandra, do you still smell cookies?”

She looked at me with dreamy eyes, and right then I sort of understood why Herb is so totally gone on her (yes, we all know it; I think even Riddley and LaShonda know it; the only one who doesn't know it is Sandra herself). Because she was beautiful.

“No,” she said, “I smell Shalimar. That was the first perfume I ever had. My Aunt Coretta gave it to me for my birthday, when I was twelve.” Then she looked at Bill, and smiled warmly. “That was what dreams smelled like to me. Shalimar perfume.”

“Herb?” I asked.

For a minute I didn't think he was going to say anything; he was cheesed at the way she was looking at Bill. But then he must have decided this was a little bit bigger than his crush on Sandra.

“Not toast and jam today,” he said. “New car today. To me that's the best smell on earth. It was when I was seventeen and couldn't afford one, and I guess it still is now.”

Sandra said, “You still can't afford one.”

Herb sighed, shrugged. “Yeah, but... fresh wax... new leather...”

I turned to Roger. “What about—” Then I stopped. Bill was only brimming, but Roger Wade was outright weeping. Tears ran down his face in two silent streams.

“My mother's garden, when I was very small,” he said in a thick, choked voice. “How I loved that smell. And how I loved her.”

Sandra put an arm around him and gave him a little hug. Roger wiped his eyes with his sleeve and tried a smile. Did pretty well, too, for someone remembering his beloved dead mother.

Now Bill pushed ahead. I let him, too. We followed him around the corner to the door just left of the drinking fountain, the one marked JANITOR. He threw it open, started to say something smartass—it might have been Come out, come out, wherever you are—and then stopped. His hands went up in an involuntary warding-off gesture, then dropped again.

“Holy Jesus get-up-in-the-morning,” he whispered, and the rest of us crowded around him.

Writing in this journal yesterday, I said that Riddley's closet had become a jungle, but yesterday I didn't understand what a jungle was. I know that must sound strange after my tour of Tina Barfield's greenhouse in Central Falls, but it's true. Riddley won't be shooting dice with Bill Gelb in there anymore, I can tell you that. The room is now a densely packed mass of shiny green leaves and tangled vines, rising from the floor to the ceiling. Within it you can still see a few gleams of metal and wood—the mop-bucket, the broom-handle—but that's it. The shelves are buried. The fluorescent lights overhead are barely visible. The smells that came out at us, although good, were almost overpowering.

And then there was a sigh. We all heard it. A kind of whispered, exhaled greeting.

An avalanche of leaves and stems fell out at our feet and sprawled across the floor. Several tendrils went snaking over the linoleum. The speed with which this happened was scary. If you'da blinked, you'da missed it, as my father might have said. Sandra screamed, and when Herb put his arms around her shoulders, she didn't seem to mind a bit.

Bill stepped forward and drew his leg back, apparently meaning to kick the rapidly snaking ivy-branches back into the janitor's closet. Or to try. Roger grabbed his shoulder. “Don't do that! Leave it be! It doesn't mean to hurt us! Can't you feel that? Don't you know from the smell?”

Bill stopped, so I guess he did. We watched as several tendrils of ivy climbed up the wall of the corridor. A few of these began to explore the gray steel sides of the water fountain, and when I left the office tonight, the fountain was pretty much buried. It looks as if those of us who like a drink of water every now and then during the course of the day are going to be buying Evian at Smiler's from now on.

Sandra squatted down and held out her hand, the way you might hold your hand out for a strange dog to sniff. I didn't like to see her that way, not while she was so close to the green avalanche we'd let out of the janitor's closet. In its shadow, so to speak. I reached out to pull her back, but Roger stopped me. He had a queer little smile on his face.