Stephen King - Duma Key

“That’s the doll you’re supposed to yell at when you forget things, right?”

“Something like that. Anyway, I drew the picture. It took maybe an hour. By the time I was finished, I felt better.” Although I remembered very little about making the drawing, I remembered enough to know this story was a lie. “Then I lay down and took a nap. End of story.”

“Can I have it?”

I felt a surge of dismay, but couldn’t think of a way to say no that wouldn’t hurt her feelings or sound crazy. “If you really want it. It’s not much, though. Wouldn’t you rather have one of Freemantle’s Famous Sunsets? Or the mailbox with the rocking horse! I could—”

“This is the one I want,” she said. “It’s funny and sweet and even a little… I don’t know… ominous. You look at her one way and you say, ‘A doll.’ You look another way and say, ‘No, a little girl — after all, isn’t she standing up?’ It’s amazing how much you’ve learned to do with colored pencils.” She nodded decisively. “This is the one I want. Only you have to name it. Artists have to name their pictures.”

“I agree, but I wouldn’t have any idea—”

“Come on, come on, no weaseling. First thing to pop into your mind.”

I said, “All right — The End of the Game .”

She clapped her hands. “Perfect. Perfect! And you have to sign it, too. Ain’t I bossy?”

“You always were,” I said. “ Très bossy. You must be feeling better.”

“I am. Are you?”

“Yes,” I said, but I wasn’t. All at once I had a bad case of the mean reds. Venus doesn’t make that color, but there was a new, nicely sharpened Venus Black in the gutter of the easel. I picked it up and signed my name by one of back-to doll’s pink legs. Beyond her, a dozen wrong-green tennis balls floated on a mild wave. I didn’t know what those rogue balls meant, but I didn’t like them. I didn’t like signing my name to this picture, either, but after I had, I jotted The End of the Game up one side. And what I felt was what Pam had taught the girls to say when they were little, and had finished some unpleasant chore.

Over-done with-gone.

She stayed two more days, and they were good days. When Jack and I took her back to the airport, she’d gotten some sun on her face and arms and seemed to give off her own benevolent radiation: youth, health, well-being.

Jack had found a travel-tube for her new picture.

“Daddy, promise you’ll take care of yourself and call if you need me,” she said.

“Roger that,” I said, smiling.

“And promise me you’ll get someone to give you an opinion on your pictures. Someone who knows about that stuff.”

“Well—”

She lowered her chin and frowned at me. When she did that it was again like looking at Pam when I’d first met her. “You better promise, or else.”

And because she meant it — the vertical line between her eyebrows said so — I promised.

The line smoothed out. “Good, that’s settled. You deserve to get better, you know. Sometimes I wonder if you really believe that.”

“Of course I do,” I said.

Ilse went on as if she hadn’t heard. “Because what happened wasn’t your fault.”

I felt tears well up at that. I suppose I did know, but it was nice to hear someone else say it out loud. Someone besides Kamen, that is, whose job it was to scrape caked-on grime off those troublesome unwashed pots in the sinks of the subconscious.

She nodded at me. “You are going to get better. I say so, and I’m très bossy.”

The loudspeaker honked: Delta flight 559, service to Cincinnati and Cleveland. The first leg of Ilse’s trip home.

“Go on, hon, better let em wand your bod and check your shoes.”

“I have one other thing to say first.”

I threw up the one hand I still had. “What now, precious girl?”

She smiled at that: it was what I’d called both girls when my patience was finally nearing an end.

“Thank you for not telling me that Carson and I are too young to be engaged.”

“Would it have done any good?”

“No.”

“No. Besides, your mother will do an adequate job of that for both of us, I think.”

Ilse scrunched her mouth into an ouch shape, then laughed. “So will Linnie… but only cause I got ahead of her for once.”

She gave me one more strong hug. I breathed deep of her hair — that good sweet smell of shampoo and young, healthy woman. She pulled back and looked at my man-of-all-work, standing considerately off to one side. “You better take good care of him, Jack. He’s the goods.”

They hadn’t fallen in love — no breaks there, muchacho — but he gave her a warm smile. “I’ll do my best.”

“And he promised to get an opinion on his pictures. You’re a witness.”

Jack smiled and nodded.

“Good.” She gave me one more kiss, this one on the tip of the nose. “Be good, father. Heal thyself.” Then she went through the doors, festooned with bags but still walking briskly. She looked back just before they closed. “And get some paints!”

“I will!” I called back, but I don’t know if she heard me; in Florida, doors whoosh shut in a hurry to save the air conditioning. For a moment or two everything in the world blurred and grew brighter; there was a pounding in my temples and a damp prickle in my nose. I bent my head and worked briskly at my eyes with the thumb and second finger of my hand while Jack once more pretended to see something interesting in the sky. There was a word and it wouldn’t come. I thought borrow, then tomorrow .

Give it time, don’t get mad, tell yourself you can do this, and the words usually come. Sometimes you don’t want them, but they come, anyway. This one was sorrow .

Jack said, “You want to wait for me to bring the car, or—”

“No, I’m good to walk.” I wrapped my fingers around the grip of my crutch. “Just keep an eye on the traffic. I don’t want to get run down crossing the road. Been there, done that.”

We stopped at Art & Artifacts of Sarasota on our way back, and while we were in there, I asked Jack if he knew anything about Sarasota art galleries.

“Way ahead of you, boss. My Mom used to work in one called the Scoto. It’s on Palm Avenue.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“It’s the hot-shit gallery on the arty side of town,” he said, then rethought that. “I mean that in a nice way. And the people who run it are nice… at least they always were to my Mom, but… you know…”

“It is a hot-shit gallery.”

“Yeah.”

“Meaning big prices?”

“It’s where the elite meet.” He spoke solemnly, but when I burst out laughing, he joined me. That was the day, I think, when Jack Cantori became my friend rather than my part-time gofer.

“Then that’s settled,” I said, “because I am definitely elite. Give it up, son.”

I raised my hand, and Jack gave it a smack.

Back at Big Pink, he helped me into the house with my loot — five bags, two boxes, and a stack of nine stretched canvases. Almost a thousand dollars’ worth of stuff. I told him we’d worry about getting it upstairs the next day. Painting was the last thing on earth I wanted to do that night.

I limped across the living room toward the kitchen, meaning to put together a sandwich, when I saw the message light on the answering machine blinking. I thought it must be Ilse, saying her flight had been cancelled due to weather or equipment problems.

It wasn’t. The voice was pleasant but cracked with age, and I knew who it was at once. I could almost see those enormous blue sneakers propped on the bright footplates of her wheelchair.