Stephen King - The Bad Death of Eduard Delacroix

ALL THIS OTHER WRITING ASIDE, I’ve kept a little diary since I took up residence at Georgia Pines—no big deal, just a couple of paragraphs a day, mostly about the weather—and I looked back through it last evening. I wanted to see just how long it has been since my grandchildren Christopher and Danielle more or less forced me into Georgia Pines. “For your own good, Gramps,” they said. Of course they did. Isn’t that what people mostly say when they have finally figured out how to get rid of a problem that walks and talks?

It’s been a little over two years. The eerie thing is that I don’t know if it feels like two years, or longer than that, or shorter. My sense of time seems to be melting, like a kid’s snowman in a January thaw. It’s as if time as it always was—Eastern Standard Time, Daylight Saving Time, Working-Man Time—doesn’t exist anymore. Here there is only Georgia Pines Time, which is Old Man Time, Old Lady Time, and Piss the Bed Time. The rest… all gone.

This is a dangerous damned place. You don’t realize it at first, at first you think it’s only a boring place, about as dangerous as a nursery school at nap-time, but it’s dangerous, all right. I’ve seen a lot of people slide into senility since I came here, and sometimes they do more than slide—sometimes they go down with the speed of a crash-diving submarine. They come here mostly all right—dim-eyed and welded to the cane, maybe a little loose in the bladder, but otherwise okay—and then something happens to them. A month later they’re just sitting in the TV room, staring up at Oprah Winfrey on the TV with dull eyes, a slack jaw, and a forgotten glass of orange juice tilted and dribbling in one hand. A month after that, you have to tell them their kids’ names when the kids come to visit. And a month after that, it’s their own damned names you have to refresh them on. Something happens to them, all right: Georgia Pines Time happens to them. Time here is like a weak acid that erases first memory and then the desire to go on living.

You have to fight it. That’s what I tell Elaine Connelly, my special friend. It’s gotten better for me since I started writing about what happened to me in 1932, the year John Coffey came on the Green Mile. Some of the memories are awful, but I can feel them sharpening my mind and my awareness the way a knife sharpens a pencil, and that makes the pain worthwhile. Writing and memory alone aren’t enough, though. I also have a body, wasted and grotesque, though it may now be, and I exercise it as much as I can. It was hard at first—old fogies like me aren’t much shakes when it comes to exercise just for the sake of exercise—but it’s easier now that there’s a purpose to my walks.

I go out before breakfast—as soon as it’s light, most days—for my first stroll. It was raining this morning, and the damp makes my joints ache, but I hooked a poncho from the rack by the kitchen door and went out, anyway. When a man has a chore, he has to do it, and if it hurts, too bad. Besides, there are compensations. The chief one is keeping that sense of Real Time, as opposed to Georgia Pines Time. And I like the rain, aches or no aches. Especially in the early morning, when the day is young and seems full of possibilities, even to a washed-up old boy like me.

I went through the kitchen, stopping to beg two slices of toast from one of the sleepy-eyed cooks, and then went out. I crossed the croquet course, then the weedy little putting green. Beyond that is a small stand of woods, with a narrow path winding through it and a couple of sheds, no longer used and mouldering away quietly, along the way. I walked down this path slowly, listening to the sleek and secret patter of the rain in the pines, chewing away at a piece of toast with my few remaining teeth. My legs ached, but it was a low ache, manageable. Mostly I felt pretty well. I drew the moist gray air as deep as I could, taking it in like food.

And when I got to the second of those old sheds, I went in for awhile, and I took care of my business there.

When I walked back up the path twenty minutes later, I could feel a worm of hunger stirring in my belly, and thought I could eat something a little more substantial than toast. A dish of oatmeal, perhaps even a scrambled egg with a sausage on the side. I love sausage, always have, but if I eat more than one these days, I’m apt to get the squitters. One would be safe enough, though. Then, with my belly full and with the damp air still perking up my brain (or so I hoped), I would go up to the solarium and write about the execution of Eduard Delacroix. I would do it as fast as I could, so as not to lose my courage.

It was Mr. Jingles I was thinking about as I crossed the croquet course to the kitchen door—how Percy Wetmore had stamped on him and broken his back, and how Delacroix had screamed when he realized what his enemy had done—and I didn’t see Brad Dolan standing there, half-hidden by the Dumpster, until he reached out and grabbed my wrist.

“Out for a little stroll, Paulie?” he asked.

I jerked back from him, yanking my wrist out of his hand. Some of it was just being startled—anyone will jerk when they’re startled—but that wasn’t all of it. I’d been thinking about Percy Wetmore, remember, and it’s Percy that Brad always reminds me of. Some of it’s how Brad always goes around with a paperback stuffed into his pocket (with Percy it was always a men’s adventure magazine; with Brad it’s books of jokes that are only funny if you’re stupid and mean-hearted), some of it’s how he acts like he’s King Shit of Turd Mountain, but mostly it’s that he’s sneaky, and he likes to hurt.

He’d just gotten to work, I saw, hadn’t even changed into his orderly’s whites yet. He was wearing jeans and a cheesy-looking Western-style shirt. In one hand was the remains of a Danish he’d hooked out of the kitchen. He’d been standing under the eave, eating it where he wouldn’t get wet. And where he could watch for me, I’m pretty sure of that now. I’m pretty sure of something else, as well: I’ll have to watch out for Mr. Brad Dolan. He doesn’t like me much. I don’t know why, but I never knew why Percy Wetmore didn’t like Delacroix, either. And dislike is really too weak a word. Percy hated Del’s guts from the very first moment the little Frenchman came onto the Green Mile.

“What’s with this poncho you got on, Paulie?” he asked, flicking the collar. “This isn’t yours.”

“I got it in the hall outside the kitchen,” I said. I hate it when he calls me Paulie, and I think he knows it, but I was damned if I’d give him the satisfaction of seeing it. “There’s a whole row of them. I’m not hurting it any, would you say? Rain’s what it’s made for, after all.”

“But it wasn’t made for you, Paulie,” he said, giving it another little flick. “That’s the thing. Those slickers’re for the employees, not the residents.”

“I still don’t see what harm it does.”

He gave me a thin little smile. “It’s not about harm, it’s about the rules . What would life be without rules? Paulie, Paulie, Paulie.” He shook his head, as if just looking at me made him feel sorry to be alive. “You probably think an old fart like you doesn’t have to mind about the rules anymore, but that’s just not true. Paulie. ”

Smiling at me. Disliking me. Maybe even hating me. And why? I don’t know. Sometimes there is no why. That’s the scary part.