11/22/63: A Novel (32 page)

Back at my place, I inventoried the contents of my Lord Buxton briefcase and fancy-Dan ostrich wallet. I had Al’s exhaustive notes on Oswald’s movements after he mustered out of the Marines on September 11, 1959. My ID was still all present and accounted for. My cash situation was better than I’d expected; with the extra money Al had saved back, added to what I already had, my net worth was still over five thousand dollars.

There was hamburger in the meat drawer of my refrigerator. I cooked up some of it and put it in Elmore’s dish. I stroked him as he ate. “If I don’t come back, go next door to the Ritters’,” I said. “They’ll take care of you.”

Elmore took no notice of this, of course, but I knew he’d do it if I wasn’t there to feed him. Cats are survivors. I picked up the briefcase, went to the door, and fought off a brief but strong urge to run into my bedroom and hide under the covers. Would my cat
and my house even be here when I came back, if I succeeded in what I was setting out to do? And if they were, would they still belong to me? No way of telling. Want to know something funny? Even people capable of living in the past don’t really know what the future holds.

“Hey, Ozzie,” I said softly. “I’m coming for you, you fuck.”

I closed the door and went out.

The diner was weird without Al, because it felt as if Al was still there—his ghost, I mean. The faces on his Town Wall of Celebrity seemed to stare down at me, asking what I was doing here, telling me I didn’t belong here, exhorting me to leave well enough alone before I snapped the universe’s mainspring. There was something particularly unsettling about the picture of Al and Mike Michaud, hanging where the photo of Harry and me belonged.

I went into the pantry and began to take small, shuffling steps forward.
Pretend you’re trying to find the top of a staircase with the lights out,
Al had said.
Close your eyes, buddy, it’s easier that way.

I did. Two steps down, I heard that pressure-equalizing pop deep in my ears. Warmth hit my skin; sunlight shone through my closed eyelids; I heard the
shat-HOOSH, shat-HOOSH
of the weaving flats. It was September 9, 1958, two minutes before noon. Tugga Dunning was alive again, and Mrs. Dunning’s arm had not yet been broken. Not far from here, at Titus Chevron, a nifty red Ford Sunliner convertible was waiting for me.

But first, there was the former Yellow Card Man to deal with. This time he was going to get the dollar he requested, because I had neglected to put a fifty-cent piece in my pocket. I ducked under the chain and paused long enough to put a dollar bill in my right front pants pocket.

That was where it stayed, because when I came around the corner of the drying shed, I found the Yellow Card Man sprawled
on the concrete with his eyes open and a pool of blood spreading around his head. His throat was slashed from ear to ear. In one hand was the jagged shard of green wine bottle he had used to do the job. In the other he held his card, the one that supposedly had something to do with it being double-money day at the greenfront. The card that had once been yellow, then orange, was now dead black.

I crossed the employee parking lot for the third time, not quite running. I once more rapped on the trunk of the white-over-red Plymouth Fury as I went by. For good luck, I guess. In the weeks, months, and years to come, I was going to need all the good luck I could get.

This time I didn’t visit the Kennebec Fruit, and I had no intention of shopping for clothes or a car. Tomorrow or the next day would do for that, but today might be a bad day to be a stranger in The Falls. Very shortly someone was going to find a dead body in the millyard, and a stranger might be questioned. George Amberson’s ID wouldn’t stand up to that, especially when his driver’s license was for a house on Bluebird Lane that hadn’t been built yet.

I made it to the millworkers’ bus stop outside the parking lot just as the bus with LEWISTON EXPRESS in its destination window came snoring along. I got on and handed over the dollar bill I’d meant to give to the Yellow Card Man. The driver clicked a handful of silver out of the chrome change-maker he wore on his belt. I dropped fifteen cents into the fare box and made my way down the swaying aisle to a seat near the back, behind two pimply sailors—probably from the Brunswick Naval Air Station—who were talking about the girls they hoped to see at a strip joint called the Holly. Their conversation was punctuated by an exchange of hefty shoulder-punches and a great deal of snorkeling laughter.

I watched Route 196 unroll almost without seeing it. I kept thinking about the dead man. And the card, which was now dead black. I’d wanted to put distance between myself and that troubling corpse as quickly as possible, but I had paused long enough to touch the card. It wasn’t cardboard, as I had first assumed. Not plastic, either. Celluloid, maybe . . . except it hadn’t exactly felt like that, either. What it felt like was dead skin—the kind you might pare off a callus. There had been no writing on it, at least none that I could see.

Al had assumed the Yellow Card Man was just a wet-brain who’d been driven crazy by an unlucky combination of booze and proximity to the rabbit-hole. I hadn’t questioned that until the card turned orange. Now I more than questioned it; I flat-out didn’t believe it. What
was
he, anyway?

Dead, that’s what he is. And that’s all he is. So let it go. You’ve got a lot to do.

When we passed the Lisbon Drive-In, I yanked the stop-cord. The driver pulled over at the next white-painted telephone pole.

“Have a nice day,” I told him as he pulled the lever that flopped the doors open.

“Ain’t nothin nice about this run except a cold beer at quittin time,” he said, and lit a cigarette.

A few seconds later I was standing on the gravel shoulder of the highway with my briefcase dangling from my left hand, watching the bus lumber off toward Lewiston, trailing a cloud of exhaust. On the back was an ad-card showing a housewife who held a gleaming pot in one hand and an S.O.S. Magic Scouring Pad in the other. Her huge blue eyes and toothy red-lipsticked grin suggested a woman who might be only minutes away from a catastrophic mental breakdown.

The sky was cloudless. Crickets sang in the high grass. Somewhere a cow lowed. With the diesel stink of the bus whisked away by a light breeze, the air smelled sweet and fresh and new. I started trudging the quarter mile or so to the Tamarack Motor Court. Just a short walk, but before I got to my destination, two people pulled
over and asked me if I wanted a ride. I thanked them and said I was fine. And I was. By the time I reached the Tamarack I was whistling.

September of ’58, United States of America.

Yellow Card Man or no Yellow Card Man, it was good to be back.

I spent the rest of that day in my room, going over Al’s Oswald notes for the umpteenth time, this time paying special attention to the two pages at the end marked
CONCLUSIONS ON HOW TO PROCEDE.
Trying to watch the TV, which essentially got just one channel, was an exercise in absurdity, so when dusk came I ambled down to the drive-in and paid a special walk-in price of thirty cents. There were folding chairs set up in front of the snackbar. I bought a bag of popcorn plus a tasty cinnamon-flavored soft drink called Pepsol, and watched
The Long, Hot Summer
with several other walk-ins, mostly elderly people who knew each other and chatted companionably. The air had turned chilly by the time
Vertigo
started, and I had no jacket. I walked back to the motor court and slept soundly.

The next morning I took the bus back to Lisbon Falls (no cabs; I considered myself on a budget, at least for the time being), and made the Jolly White Elephant my first stop. It was early, and still cool, so the beatnik was inside, sitting on a ratty couch and reading
Argosy.

“Hi, neighbor,” he said.

“Hi yourself. I guess you sell suitcases?”

“Oh, I got a few in stock. No more’n two-three hundred. Walk all the way to the back—”

“And look on the right,” I said.

“That’s right. Have you been here before?”

“We’ve
all
been here before,” I said. “This thing is bigger than pro football.”

He laughed. “Groovy, Jackson. Go pick yourself a winner.”

I picked the same leather valise. Then I went across the street and bought the Sunliner again. This time I bargained harder and got it for three hundred. When the dickering was done, Bill Titus sent me over to his daughter.

“You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” she said.

“Wisconsin originally, but I’ve been in Maine for quite awhile. Business.”

“Guess you weren’t around The Falls yesterday, huh?” When I said I hadn’t been, she popped her gum and said: “You missed some excitement. They found an old boozer dead outside the drying shed over at the mill.” She lowered her voice. “Suicide. Cut his own throat with a piece of glass. Can you imagine?”

“That’s awful,” I said, tucking the Sunliner’s bill of sale into my wallet. I bounced the car keys on my palm. “Local guy?”

“Nope, and no ID. He probably came down from The County in a boxcar, that’s what my dad says. For the apple picking over in Castle Rock, maybe. Mr. Cady—he’s the clerk at the greenfront—told my dad the guy came in yesterday morning and tried to buy a pint, but he was drunk and smelly, so Mr. Cady kicked him out. Then he must have went over to the millyard to drink up whatever he had left, and when it was gone, he broke the bottle and cut his throat with one of the pieces.” She repeated: “Can you
imagine
?”

I skipped the haircut, and I skipped the bank, too, but I once more bought clothes at Mason’s Menswear.

“You must like that shade of blue,” the clerk commented, and held up the shirt on top of my pile. “Same color as the one you’re wearing.”

In fact it
was
the shirt I was wearing, but I didn’t say so. It would only have confused us both.

I drove up the Mile-A-Minute Highway that Thursday afternoon. This time I didn’t need to buy a hat when I got to Derry, because I’d remembered to add a nice summer straw to the purchases I made at Mason’s. I registered at the Derry Town House, had a meal in the dining room, then went into the bar and ordered a beer from Fred Toomey. On this go-round I made no effort to engage him in conversation.

The following day I rented my old apartment on Harris Avenue, and far from keeping me awake, the sound of the descending planes actually lulled me to sleep. The day after that, I went down to Machen’s Sporting Goods and told the clerk I was interested in buying a handgun because I was in the real estate business and blah blah blah. The clerk brought out my .38 Police Special and once more told me it was a fine piece of protection. I bought it and put it in my briefcase. I thought about walking out Kansas Street to the little picnic area so I could watch Richie-from-the-ditchie and Bevvie-from-the-levee practice their Jump Street moves, then realized I’d missed them. I wished I’d thought to check the late November issues of the
Daily News
during my brief return to 2011; I could have found out if they’d won their talent show.

I made it a habit to drop into The Lamplighter for an early-evening beer, before the place started to fill up. Sometimes I ordered Lobster Pickin’s. I never saw Frank Dunning there, nor wanted to. I had another reason for making The Lamplighter a regular stop. If all went well, I’d soon be heading for Texas, and I wanted to build up my personal treasury before I went. I made friends with Jeff the bartender, and one evening toward the end of September, he brought up a subject I’d been planning to raise myself.

“Who do you like in the Series, George?”

“Yankees, of course,” I said.

“You say that? A guy from
Wisconsin
?”

“Home-state pride has nothing to do with it. The Yankees are a team of destiny this year.”

“Never happen. Their pitchers are old. Their defense is leaky. Mantle’s got bad wheels. The Bronx Bomber dynasty is over. Milwaukee might even sweep.”

I laughed. “You make a few good points, Jeff, I can see you’re a student of the game, but ’fess up—you hate the Yanks just like everybody else in New England, and it’s destroyed your perspective.”

“You want to put your money where your mouth is?”

“Sure. A fin. I make it a point not to take any more than a five-spot from the wage-slaves. Are we on?”

“We are.” And we shook on it.

“Okay,” I said, “now that we’ve got that accomplished, and since we’re on the subjects of baseball and betting—the two great American pastimes—I wonder if you could tell me where I could find some serious action in this town. If I may wax poetic, I want to lay a major wager. Bring me another beer and draw one for yourself.”

I said
major wager
Maine-style—
majah wajah
—and he laughed as he drew a couple of Narragansetts (which I had learned to call Nasty Gansett; when in Rome, one should, as much as possible, speak as the Romans do).

We clinked glasses, and Jeff asked me what I meant by serious action. I pretended to consider, then told him.

“Five hundred smacks? On the
Yankees
? When the Braves’ve got Spahn and Burdette? Not to mention Hank Aaron and Steady Eddie Mathews? You’re nuts.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. We’ll see starting October first, won’t we?
Is
there anyone in Derry who’ll fade a bet of that size?”

Did I know what he was going to say next? No. I’m not that prescient. Was I surprised? No again. Because the past isn’t just obdurate; it’s in harmony with both itself and the future. I experienced that harmony time and again.

“Chaz Frati. You’ve probably seen him in here. He owns a bunch of hockshops. I wouldn’t exactly call him a bookie, but he keeps
plenty busy at World Series time and during high school football and basketball season.”

“And you think he’ll take my action.”

“Sure. Give you odds and everything. Just . . .” He looked around, saw we still had the bar to ourselves, but dropped his voice to a whisper anyway. “Just don’t stiff him, George. He knows people.
Strong
people.”