Stephen King - Duma Key

He gave her name the Spanish pronunciation — Hulia .

“I did not go to the circus. Wireman does the occasional rock-show; he doesn’t do circuses. But here’s the lottery again. Every few days, the circus’s clerical staff would draw slips from a hat to see who’d go shopping for the office snacks — chips, dips, coffee, soda. One day in Omaha, Julia drew the marked slip. While coming back across the supermarket parking lot to the van, a produce truck entering the lot at a high rate of speed struck a line of shopping carts — you know how they stack them up?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Bang! The carts roll thirty feet, strike Julia, break her leg. She was blindsided, had no chance to get out of the way. There happened to be a cop parked nearby, and he heard her screaming. He called an ambulance. He also Breathalyzed the produce truck driver. He blew a one-seven.”

“Is that bad?”

“Yes, muchacho . In Nebraska, a one-seven means do not collect two hundred dollars, go directly to drunk. Julia, on the advice of the doctor who saw her in the Emergency Room, came to us. There were thirty-five lawyers in Findum, Fuckum, and Forgettum back then, and Julia’s personal-injury case could have ended up with any one of fifteen. I got it. Do you see the numbers starting to roll into place?”

“Yes.”

“I did more than represent her; I married her. She wins the suit and a large chunk of change. The circus rolls out of town, as circuses have a way of doing, only minus one accountant. Shall I tell you we were very much in love?”

“No,” I said. “I hear it every time you say her name.”

“Thank you, Edgar. Thanks.” He sat there with his head bowed and his hands on his folder. Then he dragged a battered, bulging wallet from his hip pocket. I had no idea how he could bear to sit on such a rock. He flipped through the little windows meant for photographs and important documents, then stopped and slid out a photograph of a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in a white sleeveless blouse. She looked about thirty. She was a heart-stopper.

“ Mi Julia, ” he said. I started to hand the picture back and he shook his head. He was choosing another photo. I dreaded to see it. I took it, though, when he handed it over.

It was Julia Wireman in miniature. That same dark hair, framing a pale, perfect face. Those same dark solemn eyes.

“Esmeralda,” Wireman said. “The other half of my heart.”

“Esmeralda,” I said. I thought the eyes looking out of this photograph and the eyes looking up at Candy Brown in The Picture were almost the same. But maybe all children’s eyes are the same. My arm began to itch. The one that had been burnt up in a hospital incinerator. I scratched at it and got my ribs. No news there.

Wireman took the pictures back, kissed each with a brief, dry ardor that was terrible to see, and returned them to their transparent sleeves. It took him a little while, because his hands had picked up a tremble. And, I suppose, he was having trouble seeing. “You actually don’t even have to watch those old numbers, amigo . If you close your eyes you can hear them falling into place: Click and click and click . Some guys just strike lucky. Hotcha! ” He popped his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The sound was shockingly loud in the little sedan.

“When Ez was three, Julia signed on part-time with an outfit called Work Fair, Immigration Solutions in downtown Omaha. She helped Spanish-speakers with and without green cards get jobs, and she helped start illegals who wanted citizenship on the right road. Just a little storefront outfit, low profile, but they did a lot more practical good than all the marches and sign-waving. In Wireman’s humble opinion.”

He pressed his hands against his eyes and drew a deep, shuddering breath. Then he let his palms fall on top of the file-folder with a thump.

“When it happened, I was in Kansas City on business. Julia spent Monday to Thursday mornings at Work Fair. Ez went to a daycare. A good one. I could have sued and broken that place — beggared the women who ran it — but I didn’t. Because even in my grief, I understood that what happened to Esmeralda could have happened to anyone’s child. It’s all just la lotería, entiendes ? Once our firm sued a Venetian blind company — I wasn’t personally involved — when a baby lying in his crib got hold of the draw-cord, swallowed it, and choked to death. The parents won and there was a payout, but their baby was just as dead, and if it hadn’t been the cord, it might have been something else. A Matchbox car. The ID tag off the dog’s collar. A marble.” Wireman shrugged. “With Ez it was the marble. She pulled it down her throat during playtime and choked to death.”

“Wireman, Jesus! I’m so sorry!”

“She was still alive when they got her to the hospital. The woman from the daycare called both Julia’s office and mine. She was babbling-crazy, insane. Julia went tearing out of Work Fair, got into her car, drove like hell. Three blocks from the hospital she had a head-on collision with an Omaha Public Works truck. She was killed instantly. By then our daughter had probably already been dead for twenty minutes. That Mary medallion you held for me… that was Julia’s.”

He fell silent, and the silence spun out. I didn’t fill it; there’s nothing to say to a story like that. Eventually he resumed.

“Just another version of the Powerball. Five numbers, plus that all-important Bonus Number. Click, click, click, click, click. And then clack for good measure. Did I think such a thing could happen to me? No, muchacho, never in my wildest, and God punishes us for what we can’t imagine. My mother and dad begged me to go see a psychiatrist, and for a little while — eight months after the funerals — I did indeed go. I was tired of floating through the world like a balloon tethered three feet over my own head.”

“I know the feeling,” I said.

“I know you do. We checked into hell on different shifts, you and me. And out again, I suppose, although my heels are still smoking. How about yours?”

“Yeah.”

“The psychiatrist… nice man, but I couldn’t talk to him. With him I was inarticulate. With him I found myself grinning a lot. I kept expecting a cute chick in a bathing suit to trot out my big cardboard check. The audience would see it and applaud. And eventually a check did come. When we married, I’d taken out a joint life insurance policy. When Ez came, I added to it. So I really did win la lotería . Especially when you add in the compensation Julia received from the accident in the supermarket parking lot. Which brings us to this.”

He held up the slim gray folder.

“The thought of suicide had been out there, circling closer and closer. The primary attraction was the idea that Julia and Esmeralda might also still be out there, waiting for me to catch up… but they might not wait forever. I’m not a conventionally religious man, but I think there’s at least a chance that there is life after death, and that we survive as… you know, ourselves. But of course…” A wintry smile touched the sides of his mouth. “Mostly I was just depressed. I had a gun in my safe. A .22. I bought it for home protection after Esmeralda was born. One night I sat down with it at the dining room table, and… I believe you might know this part of the story, muchacho .”

I raised one hand and seesawed it in a maybe sí, maybe no gesture.

“I sat down at the dining room table in my empty house. There was a bowl of fruit there, courtesy of the home shopper I employed. I put the gun on the table, and then I closed my eyes. I spun the bowl of fruit around two or three times. I told myself if I picked an apple out of the bowl, I’d put the gun to my temple and end my life. If it was an orange, however… then I’d take my lottery winnings and go to Disney World.”