Stephen King - The House on Maple Street

Brian and Lissa had heard the commotion and had come creeping down the stairs in their pajamas to see what was going on, although both of them – all four children, for that matter – had been strictly forbidden by Daddy Lew to leave the upper floors of the house once the party began. ‘University people don’t like to see children at faculty parties,’ Lew had explained brusquely that afternoon. ‘It sends all sorts of mixed signals.’ When they saw their mother on the floor in a circle of kneeling, concerned faculty members (Mrs. Krutchmer was not there; she had run for the kitchen, wanting to get some cold water on the front of her dress before the sauce-stains could set) they had forgotten their stepfather’s firm order and had run in, Lissa crying, Brian bellowing in excited dismay. Lissa managed to kick the head of Asian Studies in the left kidney. Brian, who was two years older and thirty pounds heavier, did even better: he knocked the fall semester’s guest lecturer, a plump babe in a pink dress and curly-toed evening slippers, smack into the fireplace. She sat there, dazed, in a large puff of gray-black ashes.

‘Mom! Mommy!’ Brian cried, shaking the former Catherine Bradbury. ‘Mommy! Wake up!’ Mrs. Evans stirred and moaned.

‘Get upstairs,’ Lew said coldly. ‘Both of you.’

When they showed no signs of obeying, Lew put his hand on Lissa’s shoulder and tightened it until she squeaked with pain. His eyes blazed at her out of a face, which had gone dead pale except for red spots as bright as dimestore rouge in the center of each cheek. ‘I’ll take care of this,’ he said through teeth so tightly clamped they refused to entirely unlock even to speak. ‘You and your brother go upstairs right n…’ ‘Take your hand off her, you son of a bitch,’ Trent said clearly. Lew – and all the party-goers who had arrived early enough to witness this entertaining sideshow – turned toward the archway between the living room and the hallway. Trent and Laurie stood there, side by side. Trent was as pale as his stepfather, but his face was calm and set. There were people at the party – not many but a few – who had known Catherine Evans’s first husband, and they agreed later that the resemblance between father and son was extraordinary. That it was, in fact, almost as though Bill Bradbury had come back from the dead to confront his ill-tempered replacement.

‘I want you to go upstairs,’ Lew said. ‘All four of you. There’s nothing here to concern you.

Nothing to concern you at all.’

Mrs. Krutchmer had come back into the room, the bosom of her Norma Kamali damp but reasonably free of stains.

‘Get your hand off Lissa,’ Trent said.

‘And get away from our mother,’ Laurie said.

Now Mrs. Evans was sitting up, her hands to her head, looking around dazedly. The headache had popped like a balloon, leaving her disoriented and weak but at last out of the agony she had endured for the last fourteen days. She knew she had done something terrible, embarrassed Lew, perhaps even disgraced him, but for the moment she was too grateful that the pain had stopped to care. The shame would come later. Now she only wanted to go upstairs – very slowly – and lie down.

‘You’ll be punished for this,’ Lew said, looking at his four stepchildren in the nearly perfect shocked silence of the living room. He didn’t look at them all at once but one at a time, as if marking the nature and extent of each crime. When his gaze fell on Lissa, she began to cry. ‘I’m sorry for their misbehavior,’ he said to the room at large. ‘My wife is a bit lax with them, I’m afraid. What they need is a good English nanny…’ ‘Don’t be a jackass, Lew,’ Mrs. Krutchmer said. Her voice was very loud but not very tuneful; she sounded a bit like a jackass in full bray herself. Brian jumped, clutched his sister, and also gave way to tears. ‘Your wife fainted. They were concerned, that’s all.’ ‘Quite right, too,’ the guest lecturer said, struggling to extract her considerable bulk from the fireplace. Her pink dress was now a splotchy gray and her face was streaked with soot. Only her shoes with their absurd but engaging curly tips seemed to have escaped, but she looked quite unperturbed by the whole thing. ‘Children should care about their mothers. And husbands about their wives.’

She looked pointedly at Lew Evans as she said this last, but Lew missed her gaze; he was marking Trent and Laurie’s progress as they assisted their mother up the stairs. Lissa and Brian trailed along behind, like an honor guard.

The party went on. The incident was more or less papered over, as unpleasant incidents at faculty parties usually are. Mrs. Evans (who had slept three hours a night at most since her husband had announced his intention of throwing a party) was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, and the children heard Lew downstairs, booming out bonhomie without her. Trent suspected that he was even a little relieved not to have to contend with his scurrying, frightened mouse of a wife anymore.

He never once broke away to come up and check on her.

Not once. Not until the party was over.

After the last guest had been shown out, he walked heavily upstairs and told her to wake up… which she did, obedient in this as she had been in everything else since the day when she had made the mistake of telling the minister she did and Lew that she would. Lew poked his head into Trent’s room next and measured the children with his gaze. ‘I knew you’d all be in here,’ he said with a satisfied little nod. ‘Conspiring. You’re going to be punished, you know. Yes indeed. Tomorrow. Tonight I want you to go right to bed and think about it. Now go to your rooms. And no creeping around, either.’ Neither Lissa nor Brian did any ‘creeping around,’ certainly; they were too exhausted and emotionally wrung out to do anything but go to bed and fall immediately asleep. But Laurie came back down to Trent’s room in spite of ‘Daddy Lew,’ and the two of them listened in silent dismay as their stepfather upbraided their mother for daring to faint at his party… and as their mother wept and offered not a word of argument or even demurral. ‘Oh, Trent, what are we going to do?’ Laurie asked, her voice muffled against his shoulder. Trent’s face was extraordinarily pale and still. ‘Do?’ he said. ‘Why, we’re not going to do anything, Sprat.’

‘We have to! Trent, we have to! We have to help her!’

‘No, we don’t,’ Trent said. A small and somehow terrible smile played around his lips. ‘The house is going to do it for us.’ He looked at his watch and calculated. ‘At around three-thirty-four tomorrow afternoon, the house is going to do it all.’

There were no punishments in the morning; Lew Evans was too preoccupied with his eight o’clock seminar on Consequences of the Norman Conquest. Neither Trent nor Laurie was very surprised at this, but both were extremely grateful. He told them he would see them in his study that night, one by one, and ‘mete a few fair strokes to each.’ Once this threat in the form of an obscure quotation had been given, he marched out with his head up and his briefcase clasped firmly in his right hand. Their mother was still asleep when his Porsche snarled its way down the street.

The two younger kids were standing by the kitchen with their arms around each other, looking to Laurie like an illustration from a Grimm’s fairytale. Lissa was crying. Brian was keeping a stiff upper lip, at least so far, but he was pale and there were purple pouches under his eyes. ‘He’ll spank us,’ Brian said to Trent. ‘And he spanks hard, too.’

‘Nope,’ Trent said. They looked at him hopefully but dubiously. Lew had, after all, promised spankings; even Trent was not to be spared this painful indignity. ‘But, Trent…’ Lissa began.