Lisey’s Story (76 page)

“I hollered myself home,” she told the long and empty room—empty now of his desks and word-processors, his books and his music, empty of his life. “That's what it was. Wasn't it, Scott?”

But there was no answer. It seemed he had finally finished having his say. And maybe that was good. Maybe that was for the best.

Now, while the african was still wet from the pool, she could go back to Boo'ya Moon with it wrapped around her, if she wanted; wrapped in such damp magic she might be able to go even further, to other worlds beyond Boo'ya Moon . . . for she had no doubt such worlds existed, and that the folks who rested on the benches eventually tired of sitting and rose from their seats and found some of them. Wrapped in the soaking african she might even be able to fly, as she had in her dreams. But she wouldn't. Scott had dreamed awake, sometimes brilliantly—but that had been his talent and his job. For Lisey Landon, one world was more than enough, although she suspected she might always harbor a bone-lonely place in her heart for that other one, where she had seen the sun setting in its house of thunder while the moon rose in its house of silver
silence. But hey, what the smuck. She had a place to hang her hat and a good car to drive; she had rags for the bod and shoes for the feet. She also had four sisters, one of whom was going to need plenty of help and understanding in order to get through the years ahead. It would be best to let the african dry, to let its beautiful, lethal weight of dreams and magic evaporate, to let it become an anchor again. She would eventually scissor it into pieces and always keep one with her, a bit of antimagic, a thing to keep her feet on the earth, a ward against wandering.

In the meantime, she wanted to dry her hair and get out of her wet clothes.

Lisey walked to the stairs, dripping dark drops on some of the places where she'd bled. The wrap of the african slipped down to her hips and became skirtlike, exotic, even a little sexy. She turned and looked back over her shoulder at the long empty room, which seemed to dream in the dusty shafts of late August sunlight. She was golden in that light herself and looked young again, although she didn't know it.

“I guess I'm done up here,” she said, feeling suddenly hesitant. “I'll be going. Bye.”

She waited. For what, she didn't know. There was nothing. There was a sense of
something
.

She lifted a hand as if to wave, then dropped it again, as if embarrassed. She smiled a little and one tear fell down her cheek, unnoticed. “I love you, honey. Everything the same.”

Lisey went down the stairs. For a moment her shadow stayed, and then it was gone, too.

The room sighed. Then it was silent.

Center Lovell, Maine
August 4, 2005         

There really
is
a pool where we—and in this case by
we
I mean the vast company of readers and writers—go down to drink and cast our nets.
Lisey's Story
references literally dozens of novels, poems, and songs in an effort to illustrate that idea. I'm not saying that to try and impress anyone with my cleverness—much here is heartfelt, very little is clever—but because I want to acknowledge some of these lovely fish, and give credit where credit is due.

I'm so hot, please give me ice: Trunk Music
, by Michael Connelly.

Suck-oven: Cold Dog Soup
, by Stephen Dobyns.

Sweetmother: The Stones of Summer
, by Dow Mossman.

Pafko at the wall: Underworld
, by Don DeLillo.

Worse things waiting:
The title of a short story collection by Manly Wade Wellman.

No one loves a clown at midnight:
Lon Chaney.

He was sweepin, ya sonsabitches: The Last Picture Show
, by Larry McMurtry.

Empty Devils: The Tempest
, by William Shakespeare (“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.”).

I Ain't Livin' Long Like This
was written by Rodney Crowell. Besides Crowell's version, the song has been recorded by Emmylou Harris, Jerry Jeff Walker, Webb Wilder, and Ole Waylon.

And, of course, everything by Ole Hank. If there's a ghost in these pages, it's as much his as Scott Landon's.

I want to take a moment of your time to thank my wife, too. She's not Lisey Landon, nor are her sisters Lisey's sisters, but I have enjoyed watching Tabitha, Margaret, Anne, Catherine, Stephanie, and Marcella
do “the sister thing” for the last thirty years. The sister thing is never the same from day to day, but it's always interesting. For the stuff I got right, thank them. For the stuff I got wrong, cut me some slack, okay? I've got a great older brother, but I
was
sister-deprived.

Nan Graham edited this book. Quite often reviewers of novels—especially novels by people who usually sell great numbers of books—will say “So-and-so would have benefited from actual editing.” To those tempted to say that about
Lisey's Story
, I would be happy to submit sample pages from my first-draft manuscript, complete with Nan's notes. I had first-year French essays that came back cleaner. Nan did a wonderful job, and I thank her for sending me out in public with my shirt tucked in and my hair combed. As for the few cases in which the author overruled her . . . all I can say is, “reality is Ralph.”

Thanks to L. and R.D., who were there to read these pages in first draft.

Finally, great thanks to Burton Hatlen, of the University of Maine. Burt was the greatest English teacher I ever had. It was he who first showed me the way to the pool, which he called “the language-pool, the myth-pool, where we all go down to drink.” That was in 1968. I have trod the path that leads there often in the years since, and I can think of no better place to spend one's days; the water is still sweet, and the fish still swim.

S.K.

I will holler you home.

STEPHEN KING
is the author of more than fifty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. He is the recipient of the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.

Cover design by Jae Song

Cover photograph of snow scene Miguel Ugalde/Stock.XCHNG

Photo of Shovel © Jae Song

Author photograph by Amy Guip

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DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING

“Jambalaya”: Words and music by Hank Williams © 1952 Sony/ATV Songs LLC and Hiriam Music. All rights on behalf of Sony/ATV Songs LLC administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

“Why Don't You Love Me”: Words and music by Hank Williams © 1950 Sony/ATV Songs LLC and Hiriam Music. All rights on behalf of Sony/ATV Songs LLC administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

“When the Stars Go Blue”: Written by Ryan Adams © 2001 Barland Music (BMI)/Administered by BUG. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

Under the title “Lisey and the Madman,” an excerpt from the opening of
Lisey's Story
appeared in
McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories,
edited by Michael Chabon (Vintage, 2004).

“Bei Hennef” by D. H. Lawrence, reproduced with kind permission of Pollinger Limited for the Estate of Frieda Lawrence Ravagli.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-8571-8 (pbk)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-9373-0 (eBook)

ISBN-10: 1-4165-8571-0 (pbk)