Stephen King - Duma Key

“What about Tom?” Pam asked at last. There was caution in her voice, deep caution. I was pretty sure that her hair appointment had left her mind.

“I have reason to believe he may be contemplating suicide.” I crooked the phone against my shoulder and began stroking Reba’s hair. “Know anything about that?”

“What do… What do I …” She sounded punched, breathless. “Why in God’s name would I…” She began to gain a little strength, grasping for indignation. It’s handy in such situations, I suppose. “You call out of a clear blue sky and expect me to tell you about Tom Riley’s state of mind? I thought you were getting better, but I guess that was wishful th—”

“Fucking him should give you some insight.” My hand wound into Reba’s fake orange hair and clutched, as if to tear it out by the roots. “Or am I wrong?”

“That is insane !” she nearly screamed. “You need help, Edgar! Either call Dr. Kamen or get help down there, and soon !”

The anger — and the accompanying certainty that I would begin to lose my words — suddenly disappeared. I relaxed my hold on Reba’s hair.

“Calm down, Pam. This isn’t about you. Or me. It’s about Tom. Have you seen signs of depression? You must have.”

No answer. But no hang-up click, either. And I could hear her breathing.

At last she said, “Okay. Okay, right. I know where you got this idea. Little Miss Drama Queen, correct? I suppose Ilse also told you about Max Stanton, out in Palm Desert. Oh, Edgar, you know how she is!”

At that the rage threatened to return. My hand reached out and grasped Reba by her soft middle. I can do this, I thought. It’s not about Ilse, either. And Pam? Pam’s only scared, because this came at her out of left field. She’s scared and angry, but I can do this. I have to do this .

Never mind that for a few moments I wanted to kill her. Or that, if she’d been there in the Florida room with me, I might have tried.

“Ilse didn’t tell me.”

“Enough lunacy, I’m hanging up now—”

“The only thing I don’t know is which one of them talked you into getting the tattoo on your breast. The little rose.”

She cried out. Just one soft cry, but that was enough. There was another moment of silence. It pulsed like black felt. Then she burst out: “That bitch! She saw it and told you! It’s the only way you could know! Well it means nothing ! It proves nothing !”

“This isn’t court, Pam,” I said.

She made no reply, but I could hear her breathing.

“Ilse did have her suspicions about this guy Max, but she doesn’t have a clue about Tom. If you tell her, you’ll break her heart.” I paused. “And that’ll break mine.”

She was crying. “Fuck your heart. And fuck you. I wish you were dead, you know it? You lying, prying bastard, I wish you were dead.”

At least I no longer felt that way about her. Thank God.

The track on the water had darkened to burnished copper. Now the orange would begin to creep in.

“What do you know about Tom’s state of mind?”

“Nothing. And for your information I’m not having an affair with him. If I did have one, it lasted for all of three weeks. It’s over. I made that clear to him when I came back from Palm Desert. There are all sorts of reasons, but basically he’s too…” Abruptly she jumped back. “She must have told you. Melinda wouldn’t’ve, even if she’d known.” And, absurdly spiteful: “ She knows what I’ve been through with you!”

It was surprising, really, how little interest I had in going down that road with her. I was interested in something else. “He’s too what?”

“ Who’s too what?” she cried. “Jesus, I hate this! This interrogation!”

Like I was loving it. “Tom. You said ‘Basically he’s too,’ then stopped.”

“Too moody. He’s an emotional grab-bag. One day up, one day down, one day both, especially if he doesn’t take—”

She ceased abruptly.

“If he doesn’t take his pills,” I finished for her.

“Yeah, well, I’m not his psychiatrist,” she said, and that wasn’t tinny petulance in her voice; I was pretty sure it was blue steel. Jesus. The woman I’d been married to could be tough when the situation called for it, but I thought that unforgiving blue steel was a new thing: her part of my accident. I thought it was Pam’s limp.

“I got enough of that shrinky-dink shit with you, Edgar. Just once I’d like to meet a man who was a man and not a pill-popping Magic 8-Ball. ‘Cannot say now, ask later when I’m not feeling so upset.’”

She sniffed in my ear, and I waited for the follow-up honk. It came. She cried the same way as always; some things apparently didn’t change.

“Fuck you, Edgar, for fucking up what was actually a pretty good day.”

“I don’t care who you sleep with,” I said. “We’re divorced. All I want is to save Tom Riley’s life.”

This time she screamed so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “I’m not RESPONSIBLE for his life! WE’RE QUITS! Did you miss that?” Then, a little lower (but not much): “He’s not even in St. Paul. He’s on a cruise with his mother and that gayboy brother of his.”

Suddenly I understood, or thought I did. It was as if I were flying over it, getting an aerial view. Maybe because I had contemplated suicide, cautioning myself all the while that it must absolutely look like an accident. Not so the insurance money would get paid, but so that my daughters wouldn’t have to go through life with the stigma of everyone knowing —

And that was the answer, wasn’t it?

“Tell him you know. When he gets back, tell him you know he’s planning to kill himself.”

“Why would he believe me?”

“Because he is planning to. Because you know him. Because he’s mentally ill, and probably thinks he’s going around with a sign that says PLANNING SUICIDEtaped to his back. Tell him you know he’s been ditching his antidepressants. You do know that, right? For a fact.”

“Yes. But telling him to take them never helped before.”

“Did you ever tell him you’d tattle on him if he didn’t start taking his medicine? Tattle to everyone?”

“No, and I’m not going to now!” She sounded appalled. “Do you think I want everyone in St. Paul to know I slept with Tom Riley? That I had a thing with him?”

“How about all of St. Paul knowing you care what happens to him? Would that be so goddam awful?”

She was silent.

“All I want is for you to confront him when he comes back—”

“All you want! Right! Your whole life has been about all you want! I tell you what, Eddie, if this is such a BFD to you, then you confront him!” It was that shrill hardness again, but this time with fear behind it.

I said, “If you were the one who broke it off, you probably still have power over him. Including — maybe — the power to make him save his life. I know that’s scary, but you’re stuck with it.”

“No I’m not. I’m hanging up.”

“If he kills himself, I doubt if you’ll spend the rest of your life with a bad conscience… but I think you will have one miserable year. Or two.”

“I won’t. I’ll sleep like a baby.”

“Sorry, Panda, I don’t believe you.”

It was an ancient pet name, one I hadn’t used in years, and I don’t know where it came from, but it broke her. She began to cry again. This time there was no anger in it. “Why do you have to be such a bastard? Why won’t you leave me alone?”

I wanted no more of this. What I wanted was a couple of pain pills. And maybe to sprawl on my bed and have a good cry myself, I wasn’t sure. “Tell him you know. Tell him to see his psychiatrist and start taking his antidepressants again. And here’s the most important thing — tell him that if he kills himself, you’ll tell everyone, starting with his mother and brother. That no matter how good he makes it look, everyone will know it was really suicide.”