Misery (40 page)

I
n
his mi
n
d Geoffrey echoed Ia
n
's ques
t
io
n
: Wha
t
are we goi
n
g
t
o do? Wha
t
are we
t
o do for our poor darli
n
g?

     Hezekiah said: "
N
o
t
hi
n
g ca
n
do
n
ow, boss -- bu
t
she is i
n n
o da
n
ger. As lo
n
g as de drums dey bea
t
, de bees will sleep. A
n
d Mis'wess, she is goa
n
sleep,
t
oo.

     
N
ow
t
he bees covered her i
n
a
t
hick a
n
d movi
n
g bla
n
ke
t
; her eyes, ope
n
bu
t
u
n
seei
n
g, seemed
t
o be recedi
n
g i
nt
o a livi
n
g cave of crawli
n
g, s
t
umbli
n
g, dro
n
i
n
g

bees.

     "A
n
d if
t
he drums s
t
op?" Geoffrey asked i
n
a low almos
t
s
t
re
n
g
t
hless voice, a
n
d jus
t t
he
n
,
t
he drums did.

Paul looked unbelievingly at the last line, then picked the Royal up — he had gone on lifting it like some weird barbell when she was out of the room, God knew why — and shook it again. The keys clittered, and then another chunk of metal fell out on the board which served as his desk.

  Outside he could hear the roaring sound of Annie's bright-blue riding lawnmower — she was around front, giving the grass a good trim so those cockadoodie Roydmans wouldn't have anything to talk about in town.

   He set the typewriter down, then rocked it up so he could fish out this new surprise. He looked at it in the strong late afternoon sunlight slanting in through the window. His expression of disbelief never altered.

Printed in raised and slightly ink-stained metal on the head of the key was:

E e

  Just to add to the fun, the old Royal had now thrown the most frequently used letter in the English language.

    Paul looked at the calendar. The picture was of a flowered meadow and the month said May, but Paul kept his own dates now on a piece of scrap paper, and according to his home-made calendar it was June 21.

  
Roll out those lazy hazy crazy days of summer,
he though sourly, and threw the key-hammer in the general direction of the wastebasket.

  
Well, what do I do now?
he thought, but of course he knew what came next. Longhand. That was what came next.

   But not now. Although he had been tearing along like house afire a few seconds ago, anxious to get Ian, Geoffrey, and the ever-amusing Hezekiah caught in the Bourkas ambush so that the entire party could be transported to the caves behind the face of the idol for the rousing finale, he was suddenly tired. The hole in the paper had closed with an adamant bang.

  Tomorrow.

  He would go to longhand tomorrow.

  
Fuck longhand. Complain to the management, Paul.

  But he would do no such thing. Annie had gotten to too weird.

   He listened to the monotonous snarl of the riding lawnmower, saw her shadow, and, as so often happened when he thought of how weird Annie was getting, his mind recalled the image of the axe rising, then falling; the image of her horrid impassive deadly face splattered with his blood. I was clear. Every word she had spoken, every word he had screamed, the squeal of the axe pulling away from the severed bone, the blood on the wall. All crystal-clear. And, as he also so often did, he tried to block this memory; and found himself a second too late.

  Because the crucial plot-twist of
Fast Cars
concerned Tony Bonasaro's near-fatal crack-up in his last desperate effort to escape the police (and this led to the epilogue, which consisted of the bruising interrogation conducted by the late Lieutenant Gray's partner in Tony's hospital room), Paul had interviewed a number of crash victims. He had heard the same thing time and time again. It came in different wrappers, but it always boiled down to the same thing: I
remember getting into
the car, and I remember waking up here. Everything else is a blank.

  Why couldn't that have happened to
him

  
Because writers remember
everything,
Paul. Especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff,
point to the scars, and he'll tell you the story of each small one. From the big ones you get novels,
not amnesia. A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real
requirement is that ability to remember the story of every scar.

  
Art consists of the persistence of memory.

  Who had said that? Thomas Szasz? William Faulkner? Cyndi Lauper?

  But that last name brought its own association, a painful and unhappy one under these circumstances: a memory of Cyndi Lauper hiccuping her way cheerfully through 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' that was so clear it was almost auditory:
Oh daddy dear, you're still number one / But
girls, they wanna have fuh-un / Oh when the workin day is done / Girls just wanna have fun.

   Suddenly he wanted a hit of rock and roll worse than he had ever wanted a cigarette. It didn't have to be Cyndi Lauper. Anyone would do. Jesus Christ, Ted Nugent would be just fine.

  The axe coming down.

  The whisper of the axe.

  
Don't think about it.

  But that was stupid. He kept telling himself not to think about it, knowing all the while that it was there, like a bone in his throat. Was he going to let it stay there, or was he going to be a man and sick the fucking thing up?

  Another memory came then; it seemed like this was an All Request Oldies day for Paul Sheldon. This one was of Oliver Reed as the mad but silkily persuasive scientist in David Cronenberg's movie,
The Brood.
Reed urging his patients at The Institute of Psychoplasmatics (a name Paul had found deliciously funny) to 'go through it! Go all the way through it!'

  Well . . . maybe sometimes that wasn't such bad advice.

  
I went through it once. That was enough.

  Bullshit was what
that
was. If going through things once was enough, he would have been a fucking vacuum-cleaner salesman, like his father.

  
Go through it, then. Go all the way through it, Paul. Start with Misery.

  
No.

  
Yes.

  
Fuck you.

  Paul leaned back, put his hand over his eyes, and, like it or not, he began to go through it.

  All the way through it.

He hadn't died, hadn't slept, but for awhile after Annie hobbled him the pain went away. He had only drifted, feeling untethered from his body, a balloon of pure thought rising away from its string.

   Oh shit, why was he bothering? She had done it, and all the time between then and now had been pain and boredom and occasional bouts of work on his stupidly melodramatic book to escape the former two. The whole thing was meaningless.

  O
h, but it's not — there is a theme here, Paul. It's the thread that runs through everything. The
thread that runs so true. Can't you see it?

    Misery, of course. That was the thread that ran through everything, but, true thread or false, it was so goddam silly.

   As a common noun it meant pain, usually lengthy and often pointless; as a proper one it meant a character and a plot, the latter most assuredly lengthy and pointless, but on which would nonetheless end very soon. Misery ran through the last four (or maybe it was five) months of his life, all right, plenty of Misery, Misery day in and Misery day out but surely that was too simple, surely —

  
Oh no, Paul. Nothing is simple about Misery. Except that you owe her your life, such as that
may be
. . .
because you turned out to be Scheherazade after all, didn't you?

  Again he tried to turn aside from these thoughts, but found himself unable. The persistence of memory and all that. Hacks just want to have fun. Then an unexpected idea came, a new one which opened a whole new avenue of thought.

  
What you keep overlooking, because it's so obvious, is that you were
—
are
—
also
Scheherazade to yourself.

    He blinked, lowering his head and staring stupidly out into the summer he had never expected he would see. Annie's shadow passed and then disappeared again.

  Was that true?

  
Scheherazade to myself
he thought again. If so, then he was faced with an idiocy that was utterly colossal: he owed his survival to the fact that he wanted to finish the piece of shit Annie had coerced him into writing. He should have died . . . but couldn't. Not until he knew how it all came out.

  
Oh you're fucking crazy.

  
You sure?

  No. He was no longer sure. Not about anything.

  With one exception: his whole life had hinged and continued to hinge on Misery.

  He let his mind drift.

  
The cloud,
he thought.
Begin with the cloud.

This time the cloud had been darker, denser, somehow smoother. There was a sensation not of floating but of sliding. Sometimes thoughts came, and sometimes there was pain, and sometimes, dimly, he heard Annie's voice, sounding the way it had when the burning manuscript in the barbecue had threatened to get out of control: 'Drink this, Paul . . . you've
got
to!'

  
Sliding?

  No.

   That was not quite the right verb. The right verb was
sinking.
He remembered a telephone call which had come at three in the morning - this was when he was in college. Sleepy fourth-floor dorm proctor hammering on his door, telling him to come on and answer the fucking phone. His mother.
Come home as quick as you can, Paulie. Your father has had a bad stroke. He's sinking.
And he
had
come as fast as he could, pushing his old Ford wagon to seventy in spite of the frontend shimmy that developed at speeds over fifty, but in the end it had all been for nothing. When he got there, his father was no longer sinking but sunk.