Stephen King - The Dead Zone

“Do you?” Ngo remarked. “Yes, I believe you do know it. Your fellow New Hampshires, they see him as an engaging clown. They set him the way many of this world are seeing this black man, Idi Amin Dada. But you do not.

“No,” Johnny said. “But to suggest he should be killed…

“Politically killed,” Ngo said, smiling. “I am only suggesting he should be politically killed.”

“And if he can't be politically killed?”

Ngo smiled at Johnny. He unfolded his index finger, cocked his thumb, and then snapped it down. “Bam,” he said softly. “Bam, bam, ham.”

“No,” Johnny said, surprised at the hoarseness in his own voice. “That's never an answer. Never”

“No? I thought it was an answer you Americans used quite often. “Ngo picked up the handle of the red wagon. “I must be planting these weeds, Johnny. So long, man.

Johnny watched him go, a small man in suntans and moccasins, pulling a wagonload of baby pines. He disappeared around the corner of the house.

No. Killing only sows more dragon's teeth. I believe that. I believe it with all my heart.

On the first Tuesday in November, which happened to be the second day in the month, Johnny Smith sat slumped in the easy chair of his combined kitchen-living room and watched the election returns. Chancellor and Brinkley were featuring a large electronic map that showed the results of the presidential race in a color-code as each state came in. Now, at nearly midnight, the race between Ford and Carter looked very cl6se. But Carter would win; Johnny had no doubt of it.

Greg Stillson had also won.

His victory had been extensively covered on the local newsbreaks, but the national reporters had also taken some note of it, comparing his victory to that of James Longley, Maine's independent governor, two years before.

Chancellor said, “Late polls showing that the Republican candidate and incumbent Harrison Fisher was closing the gap were apparently in error; NBC predicts that Stilison, who campaigned in a construction worker's hard hat and on a platform that included the proposal that all pollution be sent into outer space, ended up with forty-six percent of the vote, to Fisher's thirty-one percent. In a district where the Democrats have always been poor relations, David Bowes could only poll twenty-three per-cent of the vote.”

“And so,” Brinkley said, “it's hot dog time down in New Hampshire… for the next two years, at least. “He and Chancellor grinned. A commercial came on. Johnny didn't grin. He was thinking of tigers.

The time between the Trimbull rally and election night had been busy for Johnny. His work with Chuck had continued, and Chuck continued to improve at a slow but steady pace. He had taken two summer courses, passed them both, and retained his sports eligibility. Now, with the football season just ending, it looked very much as if he would be named to the Gannett newspaper chain's All New England team. The careful, almost ritualistic visits from the college scouts had already begun, but they would have to wait another year; the decision had already been made between Chuck and his father that he would spend a year at Stovington Prep, a good private school in Vermont. Johnny thought Stovington would probably be delirious at the news. The Vermont school regularly fielded great soccer teams and dismal football teams. They would probably give him a full scholarship and a gold key to the girl's dorm in the bargain. Johnny felt that it had been the right decision. After it had been reached and the pressure on Chuck to take the SATs right away had eased off, his progress had taken another big jump.

In late September. Johnny had gone up to Pownal for the weekend and after an entire Friday night of watching his father fidget and laugh uproariously at jokes on TV that weren't particularly funny, he had asked Herb what the trouble was.

“No trouble,” Herb said, smiling nervously and rubbing his hands together like an accountant who has discovered that the company he just invested his life savings with is bankrupt. “No trouble at all, what makes you think that, son?”

“Well, what's on your mind, then?”

Herb stopped smiling, but he kept rubbing his hands together. “I don't really know how to tell you, Johnny. I mean…

“Is it Charlene?”

“Well, yes. It is.”

“You popped the question.”

Herb looked at Johnny humbly. “How do you feel about coming into a stepmother at the age of twenty-nine, John?”

Johnny grinned. “I feel fine about it. Congratulations, Dad.”

Herb” smiled, relieved. “Well, thanks. I was a little scared to tell you, I don't mind admitting it. I know what you said when we talked about it before, but people sometimes feel one way when something's maybe and another way when it's gonna be. I loved your mom, Johnny. And I guess I always will.”

“I know that, dad.”

“But I'm alone and Charlene's alone and… well, I guess we can put each other to good use.”

Johnny went over to his father and kissed him. “All the best. I know you'll have it.”

“You're a good son, Johnny. “Herb took his handkerchief out of his back pocket and swiped at his eyes with it. “We thought we'd lost you. I did, anyway. Vera never lost hope. She always believed. Johnny, I…”

“Don't, Daddy. It's over.

“I have to,” he said. “It's been in my gut like a stone for a year and a half now. I prayed for you to die, Johnny. My own son, and I prayed for God to take you. “He wiped his tears again and put his handkerchief away. “Turned out God knew a smidge more than I did. Johnny… would you stand up with me? At my wedding?”

Johnny felt something inside that was almost but not quite like sorrow. “That would be my pleasure,” he said.

“Thanks. I'm glad I've… that I've said everything that's on my mind. I feel better than I have in a long, long time.”

“Have you set a date?”

“As a matter of fact, we have. How does January 2 sound to you?”

“Sounds good,” Johnny said. “You can count on me.”

“We're going to put both places on the market, I guess,” Herb” said. “We've got our eye on a farm in Biddeford. Nice place. Twenty acres. Half of it woodlot. A new start.”

“Yes. A new start, that's good.”

“You wouldn't have any objections to us selling the home place?” Herb asked anxiously.

“A little tug,” Johnny said. “That's all.”

“Yeah, that's what I feel. A little tug. “He smiled. “Somewhere around the heart, that's where mine is. What about you?”

“About the same,” Johnny said.

“How's it going down there for you?”

“Good.”

“Your boy's getting along?”

“Amazin well,” Johnny said, using one of his father's pet expressions and grinning.

“How long do you think you'll be there?”

“Working with Chuck? I guess I'll stick with it through the school year, if they want me. Working one-on one has been a new kind of experience. I like it. And this has been a really good job. Atypically good, I'd say.”

“What are you going to do after?”

Johnny shook his head. “I don't know yet. But I know one thing.”

“What's that?”

“I'm going out for a bottle of champagne. We're going to get bombed.”

His father had stood up on that September evening and clapped him on the back. “Make it two,” he said.

He still got the occasional letter from Sarah Hazlett. She and Walt were expecting their second child in April. Johnny wrote back his congratulations and his good wishes for Walt's canvass. And he thought sometimes about his afternoon with Sarah, the long, slow afternoon.

It wasn't a memory he allowed himself to take out too often; he was afraid that constant exposure to the sunlight of recollection might cause it to wash out and fade, like the reddish-tinted proofs they used to give you of your graduation portraits.