Pet Sematary (38 page)

“So off they go, dropping those flag-covered coffins every other stop or two. Eighteen or twenty of em in all. Huey said it went on all the way to Boston, and there was weeping and wailing relatives at every stop except Ludlow . . . and at Ludlow he was treated to the sight of Bill Baterman, who, he said, looked like he was dead inside and just waiting for his soul to stink. When he got off that train, he said he woke up that army fella, and they hit some spots—fifteen or twenty—and Huey got drunker than he had ever been and went to a whore, which he'd never done in his whole life, and woke up with a set of crabs so big and mean they gave him the shivers, and he said that if that was what they called a mystery train, he never wanted to drive no mystery train again.

“Timmy's body was taken up to the Greenspan Funeral Home on Fern Street—it used to be across from where the New Franklin Laundry stands now—and two days later he was buried in Pleasantview Cemetery with full military honors.

“Well, I tell you, Louis: Missus Baterman was dead ten years then, along with the second child she tried to bring into the world, and that had a lot to do with what happened. A second child might have helped to ease the pain, don't you think? A second child might have reminded old Bill that there's others that feel the pain and have to be
helped through. I guess in that way, you're luckier—having another child and all, I mean. A child and a wife who are both alive and well.

“According to the letter Bill got from the lieutenant in charge of his boy's platoon, Timmy was shot down on the road to Rome on July 15, 1943. His body was shipped home two days later, and it got to Limestone on the nineteenth. It was put aboard Huey Garber's mystery train the very next day. Most of the GIs who got killed in Europe were buried in Europe, but all of the boys who went home on that train were special—Timmy had died charging a machine-gun nest, and he had won the Silver Star Posthumously.

“Timmy was buried—don't hold me to this, but I think it was on July 22. It was four or five days later that Marjorie Washburn, who was the mailwoman in those days, saw Timmy walking up the road toward York's Livery Stable. Well, Margie damn near drove right off the road, and you can understand why. She went back to the post office, tossed her leather bag with all her undelivered mail still in it on George Anderson's desk, and told him she was going home and to bed right then.

“ ‘Margie, are you sick?' George asks. ‘You are just as white as a gull's wing.'

“ ‘I've had the fright of my life, and I don't want to talk to you about it,' Margie Washburn says. ‘I ain't going to talk to Brian about it, or my mom, or anybody. When I get up to heaven, if Jesus asks me to talk to Him about it, maybe I will. But I don't believe it.' And out she goes.

“Everybody knew Timmy was dead; there was his bituary in the Bangor
Daily News
and the Ellsworth
American
just the week before, picture and all, and half the town turned out for his funeral up to the city. And here Margie seen him, walking up the road—
lurching
up the road, she finally told old George Anderson—only this was twenty years later, and she was dying, and George told me it seemed to him like she wanted to tell somebody what she'd seen. George said it seemed to him like it preyed on her mind, you know.

“Pale he was, she said, and dressed in an old pair of chino pants and a faded flannel hunting shirt, although it must have been ninety degrees in the shade that day. Margie said all his hair was sticking up in the back. ‘His eyes were like raisins stuck in bread dough. I saw a ghost that day, George. That's what scared me so. I never thought I'd see such a thing, but there it was.'

“Well, word got around. Pretty soon some other people saw Timmy, too. Missus Stratton—well, we called her ‘missus,' but so far as anyone knew she could have been single or divorced or grass-widowed; she had a little two-room house down where the Pedersen Road joins the Hancock Road, and she had a lot of jazz records, and sometimes she'd be willing to throw you a little party if you had a ten-dollar bill that wasn't working too hard. Well, she saw him from her porch, and she said he walked right up to the edge of the road and stopped there.

“He just stood there, she said, his hands dangling at his sides and his head pushed forward, lookin like a boxer who's ready to eat him some
canvas. She said she stood there on her porch, heart goin like sixty, too scared to move. Then she said he turned around, and it was like watching a drunk man try to do an about-face. One leg went way out and the other foot turned, and he just about fell over. She said he looked right at her and all the strength just run out of her hands and she dropped the basket of washing she had, and the clothes fell out and got smutty all over again.

“She said his eyes . . . she said they looked as dead and dusty as marbles, Louis. But he saw her . . . and he grinned . . . and she said he talked to her. Asked her if she still had those records because he wouldn't mind cutting a rug with her. Maybe that very night. And Missus Stratton went back inside, and she wouldn't come out for most of a week, and by then it was over anyway.

“Lot of people saw Timmy Baterman. Many of them are dead now—Missus Stratton is, for one, and others have moved on, but there are a few old crocks like me left around who'll tell you . . . if you ask em right.

“We saw him, I tell you, walking back and forth along the Pedersen Road, a mile east of his daddy's house and a mile west. Back and forth he went, back and forth all day, and for all anyone knew, all night. Shirt untucked, pale face, hair all stuck up in spikes, fly unzipped sometimes, and this look on his face . . . this
look . . .”

Jud paused to light a cigarette, then shook the match out, and looked at Louis through the haze of drifting blue smoke.
And although the story was, of course, utterly mad, there was no lie in Jud's eyes.

“You know, they have these stories and these movies—I don't know if they're true—about zombies down in Haiti. In the movies they just sort of shamble along, with their dead eyes starin straight ahead, real slow and sort of clumsy. Timmy Baterman was like that, Louis, like a zombie in a movie, but he
wasn't.
There was somethin
more.
There was somethin
goin on
behind his eyes, and sometimes you could see it and sometimes you couldn't see it.
Somethin behind his eyes, Louis.
I don't think that thinkin is what I want to call it. I don't know what in the hell I want to call it.

“It was sly, that was one thing. Like him tellin Missus Stratton he wanted to cut a rug with her. There was somethin
goin on
in there, Louis, but I don't think it was thinkin and I don't think it had much—maybe nothing at all—to do with Timmy Baterman. It was more like a . . . a radio signal that was comin from somewhere else. You looked at him and you thought, ‘If he touches me, I'm gonna scream.' Like that.

“Back and forth he went, up and down the road, and one day after I got home from work—this must have been, oh, I'm going to say it was July 30 or so—here is George Anderson, the postmaster, don't you know, sitting on my back porch, drinking iced tea with Hannibal Benson, who was then our second selectman, and Alan Purinton, who was fire chief. Norma sat there too but never said a thing.

“George kept rubbing the stump at the top of his right leg. Lost most of that leg working on the railroad, he did, and the
stump used to bother him something fierce on those hot and muggy days. But here he was, misery or not.

“ ‘This has gone far enough,' George says to me. ‘I got a mailwoman who won't deliver out on the Pedersen Road—that's one thing. It's starting to raise Cain with the government, and that's something else.'

“ ‘What do you mean, it's raising Cain with the government?' I asked.

“Hannibal said he'd had a call from the War Department. Some lieutenant named Kinsman whose job it was to sort out malicious mischief from plain old tomfoolery. ‘Four or five people have written anonymous letters to the War Department,' Hannibal says, ‘and this Lieutenant Kinsman is starting to get a little bit concerned. If it was just one fellow who had written one letter, they'd laugh it off. If it was just one fellow writing a whole bunch of letters, Kinsman says he'd call the state police up in Derry Barracks and tell em they might have a psychopath with a hate on against the Baterman family in Ludlow. But these letters all came from different people. He said you could tell that by the handwriting, name or no name, and they all say the same crazy thing—that if Timothy Baterman is dead, he makes one hell of a lively corpse walking up and down Pedersen Road with his bare face hanging out.

“ ‘This Kinsman is going to send a fellow out or come himself if this don't settle down,' Hannibal finishes up. ‘They want to know if Timmy's dead, or AWOL, or what because they don't like to think their records are all at sixes
and sevens. Also they're gonna want to know who was buried in Timmy Baterman's box, if he wasn't.'

“Well, you can see what kind of a mess it was, Louis. We sat there most of an hour, drinking iced tea and talking it over. Norma asked us if we wanted sandwidges, but no one did.

“We talked it around and talked it around, and finally we decided we had to go out there to the Baterman place. I'll never forget that night, not if I live to be twice as old's I am now. It was hot, hotter than the hinges of hell, with the sun going down like a bucket of guts behind the clouds. There was none of us wanted to go, but we had to. Norma knew it before any of us. She got me inside on some pretext or other and said, ‘Don't you let them dither around and put this off, Judson. You got to get this taken care of. It's an abomination.' ”

Jud measured Louis evenly with his eyes.

“That was what she called it, Louis. It was her word. Abomination. And she kind of whispers in my ear, ‘If anything happens, Jud, you just run. Never mind these others; they'll have to look out for themselves. You remember me and bust your hump right out of there if anything happens.'

“We drove over in Hannibal Benson's car—that son of a bitch got all the A-coupons he wanted, I don't know how. Nobody said much, but all four of us was smokin like chimblies. We was scared, Louis, just as scared as we could be. But the only one who really said anything was Alan Purinton. He says to George, ‘Bill Baterman has been up
to dickens in that woods north of Route 15, and I'll put my warrant to that.' Nobody answered, but I remember George noddin his head.

“Well, we got there, and Alan knocked, but nobody answered, so we went around to the back and there the two of them were. Bill Baterman was sitting there on his back stoop with a pitcher of beer, and Timmy was at the back of the yard, just staring up at that red, bloody sun as it went down. His whole face was orange with it, like he'd been flayed alive. And Bill . . . he looked like the devil had gotten him after his seven years of highfalutin. He was floatin in his clothes, and I judged he'd lost forty pounds. His eyes had gone back in their sockets until they were like little animals in a pair of caves . . . and his mouth kept goin tick-tick-tick on the left side.”

Jud paused, seemed to consider, and then nodded imperceptibly. “Louis, he looked
damned.

“Timmy looked around at us and grinned. Just seeing him grin made you want to scream. Then he turned and went back to looking at the sun go down. Bill says, ‘I didn't hear you boys knock,' which was a bald-faced lie, of course, since Alan laid on that door loud enough to wake the . . . to wake up a deaf man.

“No one seemed like they was going to say anything, so I says, ‘Bill, I heard your boy was killed over in Italy.'

“ ‘That was a mistake,' he says, looking right at me.

“ ‘Was it?' I says.

“ ‘You see him standin right there, don't you?' he says.

“ ‘So who do you reckon was in that coffin you had buried out at Pleasantview?' Alan Purinton asks him.

“ ‘Be damned if I know,' Bill says, ‘and be damned if I care.' He goes to get a cigarette and spills them all over the back porch, then breaks two or three trying to pick them up.

“ ‘Probably have to be an exhumation,' Hannibal says. ‘You know that, don't you? I had a call from the goddam War Department, Bill. They are going to want to know if they buried some other mother's son under Timmy's name.'

“ ‘Well, what in the hell of it?' Bill says in a loud voice. ‘That's nothing to me, is it? I got my boy. Timmy come home the other day. He's been shell-shocked or something. He's a little strange now, but he'll come around.'

“ ‘Let's quit this, Bill,' I says, and all at once I was pretty mad at him. ‘If and when they dig up that army coffin, they're gonna find it dead empty, unless you went to the trouble of filling it up with rocks after you took your boy out of it, and I don't think you did. I know what happened, Hannibal and George and Alan here know what happened, and you know what happened too. You been foolin around up in the woods, Bill, and you have caused yourself and this town a lot of trouble.'

“ ‘You fellas know your way out, I guess,' he says. ‘I don't have to explain myself to you, or justify myself to you, or nothing. When I got that telegram, the life ran right out of me. I felt her go, just like piss down the inside of my leg. Well, I got my boy back. They had no right to take my
boy. He was only seventeen. He was all I had left of his dear mother, and it was ill-fuckin-legal. So fuck the army, and fuck the War Department, and fuck the United States of America, and fuck you boys too. I got him back. He'll come around. And that's all I got to say. Now you all just march your boots back where you came from.'

“And his mouth is tick-tick-tickin, and there's sweat all over his forehead in big drops, and that was when I saw he was crazy. It would have driven me crazy too. Living with that . . . that thing.”