Stephen King: Cookie Jar

“Scooped them into galvanized trash cans I bought at the hardware store. Did it while Dad was asleep. I felt like a damn burglar. I put them out back, and on the third night I borrowed a pickup truck from where I worked and hauled them down to the river. I meant to throw them in, but in the end I couldn’t do that.”

“What stopped you?”

The memory of those walking skeletons, Rhett thought. The ones that stared at us through the barbed wire with the mist drifting around them. How could I remember those starving creatures, and then just dump four steel cans loaded with food into the water?

“I knew there were poor folks who came down to the river to fish. Back then the water was still clean enough to eat what you caught. And there were homeless people, too. They lived in the kind of camp we called a Hooverville, although I’m glad to say that it was gone by 1950 or so.”

Just in time for the next war, he thought. North Korea and South Korea, Black John and Red Henry.

“I’m sure those folks had…” He trailed off.

“Rhett? You okay?”

“Yup. Just had a senior moment. I was going to say that I’m sure those homeless people had a cookie feast.”

“At ninety, I guess you’re entitled to all the senior moments you want,” Dale said, and that made Rhett laugh. A good kid, fast on his feet. Would he ask the most obvious question? Rhett was betting he would. And Dale did.

Yes, he thought about throwing the blue ceramic jar away, but in the end could not bring himself to do it. Hauling cookies to the riverside in galvanized trash cans was one thing; throwing out a miracle, one that had belonged to his mother, was another.

Sometimes—often—he wondered how she had come by it in the first place. When he asked his father, George Alderson only shook his head. “That old blue cookie jar? No idea. But she used to haunt the church sales and rumble sales, called ’em the best entertainment in the world, and sometimes she brought things home. Cookie jar was probably one of them.” He lit his pipe and blew out a fragrant cloud of Cherry Blend. “That was back when her mind was still right. Before all that map nonsense.”

A week or so after he disposed of Cookie Mountain, Rhett returned the blue ceramic jar to the attic. Before he left, he took the cover off one last time. It was full to the brim, those enticing smells of vanilla and chocolate wafting up. Cookies that were as fresh as ever, sweetness masking a window into a blackened, blistered world that was always at war. He thought, If I were wearing the Bulova watch and put it inside the rim, the second hand would stop. It might stop even if I laid it against the blue glaze of the jar’s surface. But the watch had gone back to Pete.

He thought about taking one more cookie—one more act of communion—and resisted the temptation. He put the cover back on and left the attic.

Too many sweets weren’t good for you.

“We finally did put Dad in a home,” Rhett said. “It was all right, but not as nice as this place. He didn’t mind, because by then he’d started to get foggy upstairs, although he was only in his fifties. He aged all at once, it seemed. It wasn’t fair, but—we sold the house—Pete and I did—and split the profits. I moved across town, and bought my own place. I brought along a few pieces of furniture I was attached to…and the cookie jar. I brought that, too, although I never opened it again.”

“Never?” It was as if the kid couldn’t get this straight in his mind.

“Never. I met a girl, I got married, I had kids—including your gramps—and I bought the business I was working in. Now there are Alderson Auto Shops all over the Midwest, and a few in the South, too.”

“Wow, and you live here?”

“It’s as good a place as any,” Rhett said, and meant it. He was measuring out the end of his life in coverall games, but so what? He had a few friends, and you had to measure out the end of your life in something. “I lived with Pete’s grandson for a little while—this would be your uncle, or maybe your great-uncle, I get all confused about such things—but when I sensed I was becoming a burden, I came here. Someone or other said that fish and guests both stink after three days, and I was at your uncle Bill’s a lot longer than that. This is a roundabout way of getting back to your question, Dale, but first let me ask you a question. How much of this do you believe?”

The boy was quiet for a long time. Rhett respected his silence. At last he said, “I don’t really know.”

“A fair answer, but I think you can do better. If you want to. The last of my things are still stored in Bill Alderson’s attic.” Was he doing this wide-eyed, clear-skinned kid a favor by telling him that? Or cursing him? Well, either way, it was out now. “There are a few suits so old they might be back in fashion, some medals I won in the war—one of them’s a Silver Star, believe it or not—and the cookie jar.”

“Really?” Dale’s voice was soft with awe, his eyes so wide he looked closer to six than thirteen.

“Unless it’s been broken, yes. You could go see. In fact, I give it to you—think of it as a pre-death inheritance, and I’ll be gone soon enough. Have a few cookies. I’m sure they’re still fresh. Only…be careful.”

“I will! I will!”

You won’t, Rhett thought. You won’t be able to, any more than my mother was. Or I was. Any more than Jack would have been, if Jack had lived. In the end we all prefer the bitter to the sweet. It’s our curse. So you’ll turn the cookie jar upside down, and dump out all that’s inside, and peer into that other world. After that…

“Thanks, Rhett! Thanks!”

Rhett patted his great-grandson on the shoulder with one gnarled hand, and smiled, and thought: After that, you’re on your own.