Stephen King - The Bad Death of Eduard Delacroix

“I’ll read it, though,” she said. “Every word. I promise. But you have to finish writing it, first.”

She left me to it, but it was a long time before I wrote anything. I sat staring out the windows for almost an hour, tapping my pen against the side of the table, watching the gray day brighten a little at a time, thinking about Brad Dolan, who calls me Paulie and never tires of jokes about chinks and slopes and spicks and micks, thinking about what Elaine Connelly had said. He thinks you’ve got a secret. So do I.

And maybe I do. Yes, maybe I do. And of course Brad Dolan wants it. Not because he thinks it’s important (and it’s not, I guess, except to me), but because he doesn’t think very old men like myself should have secrets. No taking the ponchos off the hook outside the kitchen; no secrets, either. No getting the idea that the likes of us are still human. And why shouldn’t we be allowed such an idea? He doesn’t know. And in that, too, he is like Percy.

So my thoughts, like a river that takes an oxbow turn, finally led back to where they had been when Brad Dolan reached out from beneath the kitchen eave and grabbed my wrist: to Percy, mean-spirited Percy Wetmore, and how he had taken his revenge on the man who had laughed at him. Delacroix had been throwing the colored spool he had—the one Mr. Jingles would fetch—and it bounced out of the cell and into the corridor. That was all it took; Percy saw his chance.

“No, you fool!” Brutal yelled, but Percy paid no attention. Just as Mr. Jingles reached the spool—too intent on it to realize his old enemy was at hand—Percy brought the sole of one hard black workshoe down on him. There was an audible snap as Mr. Jingles’s back broke, and blood gushed from his mouth. His tiny black eyes bulged in their sockets, and in them I read an expression of surprised agony that was all too human.

Delacroix screamed with horror and grief. He threw himself at the door of his cell and thrust his arms out through the bars, reaching as far as he could, crying the mouse’s name over and over.

Percy turned toward him, smiling. Toward me and Brutal, as well. “There,” he said. “I knew I’d get him, sooner or later. Just a matter of time, really.” He turned and walked back up the Green Mile, leaving Mr. Jingles lying on the linoleum, his spreading blood red over green.

Dean got up from the duty desk, hitting the side of it with his knee and knocking the cribbage board to the floor. The pegs spilled out of their holes and rolled in all directions. Neither Dean nor Harry, who had been just about to go out, paid the slightest attention to the overturn of the game. “What’d you do this time?” Dean shouted at Percy. “What the hell’d you do this time, you stoopnagel?”

Percy didn’t answer. He strode past the desk without saying a word, patting his hair with his fingers. He went through my office and into the storage shed. William Wharton answered for him. “Boss Dean? I think what he did was teach a certain french-fry it ain’t smart to laugh at him,” he said, and then began to laugh himself. It was a good laugh, a country laugh, cheery and deep. There were people I met during that period of my life (very scary people, for the most part) who only sounded normal when they laughed. Wild Bill Wharton was one of those.

I looked down at the mouse again, stunned. It was still breathing, but there were little minute beads of blood caught in the filaments of its whiskers, and a dull glaze was creeping over its previously brilliant oildrop eyes. Brutal picked up the colored spool, looked at it, then looked at me. He looked as dumbfounded as I felt. Behind us, Delacroix went on screaming out his grief and horror. It wasn’t just the mouse, of course; Percy had smashed a hole in Delacroix’s defenses and all his terror was pouring out. But Mr. Jingles was the focusing point for those pent-up feelings, and it was terrible to listen to him.

“Oh no,” he cried over and over again, amid the screams and the garbled pleas and prayers in Cajun French. “Oh no, oh no, poor Mr. Jingles, poor old Mr. Jingles, oh no.”

“Give im to me.”

I looked up, puzzled by that deep voice, at first not sure who it belonged to. I saw John Coffey. Like Delacroix, he had put his arms through the bars of his cell door, but unlike Del, he wasn’t waving them around. He simply held them out as far as he could, the hands at the ends of them open. It was a purposeful pose, an almost urgent pose. And his voice had the same quality, which was why, I suppose, I didn’t recognize it as belonging to Coffey at first. He seemed a different man from the lost, weepy soul that had occupied this cell for the last few weeks.

“Give im to me, Mr. Edgecombe! While there’s still time!”

Then I remembered what he’d done for me, and understood. I supposed it couldn’t hurt, but I didn’t think it would do much good, either. When I picked the mouse up, I winced at the feel—there were so many splintered bones poking at various spots on Mr. Jingles’s hide that it was like picking up a fur-covered pincushion. This was no urinary infection. Still—

“What are you doing?” Brutal asked as I put Mr. Jingles in Coffey’s huge right hand. “What the hell?”

Coffey pulled the mouse back through the bars. He lay limp on Coffey’s palm, tail hanging over the arc between Coffey’s thumb and first finger, the tip twitching weakly in midair. Then Coffey covered his right hand with his left, creating a kind of cup in which the mouse lay. We could no longer see Mr. Jingles himself, only the tail, hanging down and twitching at the tip like a dying pendulum. Coffey lifted his hands toward his face, spreading the fingers of the right as he did so, creating spaces like those between prison bars. The tail of the mouse now hung from the side of his hands that was facing us.

Brutal stepped next to me, still holding the colored spool between his fingers. “What’s he think he’s doing?”

“Shh,” I said.

Delacroix had stopped screaming. “Please, John,” he whispered. “Oh Johnny, help him, please help him, oh s’il vous plaît .”

Dean and Harry joined us, Harry with our old deck of Airplane cards still in one hand. “What’s going on?” Dean asked, but I only shook my head. I was feeling hypnotized again, damned if I wasn’t.

Coffey put his mouth between two of his fingers and inhaled sharply. For a moment everything hung suspended. Then he raised his head away from his hands and I saw the face of a man who looked desperately sick, or in terrible pain. His eyes were sharp and blazing; his upper teeth bit at his full lower lip; his dark face had faded to an unpleasant color that looked like ash stirred into mud. He made a choked sound way back in his throat.

“Dear Jesus Lord and Savior,” Brutal whispered. His eyes appeared to be in danger of dropping right out of his face.

“What?” Harry almost barked. “What?”

“The tail! Don’t you see it? The tail !”

Mr. Jingles’s tail was no longer a dying pendulum; it was snapping briskly from side to side, like the tail of a cat in a bird-catching mood. And then, from inside Coffey’s cupped hands, came a perfectly familiar squeak.

Coffey made that choking, gagging sound again, then turned his head to one side like a man that has coughed up a wad of phlegm and means to spit it out. Instead, he exhaled a cloud of black insects—I think they were insects, and the others said the same, but to this day I am not sure—from his mouth and nose. They boiled around him in a dark cloud that temporarily obscured his features.

“Christ, what’re those?” Dean asked in a shrill, scared voice.

“It’s all right,” I heard myself say. “Don’t panic, it’s all right, in a few seconds they’ll be gone.”