Bag of Bones Part 3

'You sound a little tense, Michael. Is everything - '

'Everything is fine. Talk to them about just one book, with a sweetener for speeding up production at my end. Okay?'

'Okay,' he said after one of his most significant pauses. 'But I hope this doesn't mean that you won't entertain a three- or four-book contract later on. Make hay while the sun shines, remember. It's the motto Of champions.'

'Cross each bridge when you come to it is the motto of champions,' I said, and that night I dreamt I went to Sara Laughs again.

In that dream - in all the dreams I had that fall and winter - I am walking up the lane to the lodge. The lane is a two-mile loop through the woods with ends opening onto Route 68. It has a number at either end (Lane Forty-two, if it matters) in case you have to call in a fire, but no name. Nor did Jo and I ever give it one, not even between ourselves. It is narrow, really just a double rut with timothy and witchgra.s.s growing on the crown. When you drive in, you can hear that gra.s.s whispering like low voices against the undercarriage of your car or truck.

I don't drive in the dream, though. I never drive. In these dreams I walk.

The trees huddle in close on either side of the lane. The darkening sky overhead is little more than a slot. Soon I will be able to see the first peeping stars. Sunset is past. Crickets chirr. Loons cry on the lake. Small things - chipmunks, probably, or the occasional squirrel - rustle in the woods.

Now I come to a dirt driveway sloping down the hill on my right. It is our driveway, marked with a little wooden sign which reads SARA LAUGHS. I stand at the head of it, but I don't go down. Below is the lodge. It's all logs and added-on wings, with a deck jutting out behind. Fourteen rooms in all, a ridiculous number of rooms. It should look ugly and awkward, but somehow it does not. There is a brave-dowager quality to Sara, the look of a lady pressing resolutely on toward her hundredth year, still taking pretty good strides in spite of her arthritic hips and gimpy old knees.

The central section is the oldest, dating back to 1900 or so. Other sections were added in the thirties, forties, and sixties. Once it was a hunting lodge; for a brief period in the early seventies it was home to a small commune of transcendental hippies. These were lease or rental deals; the owners from the late forties until 1984 were the Hingermans, Darren and Marie . . . then Marie alone when Darren died in 1971. The only visible addition from our period of ownership is the tiny DSS dish mounted on the central roofpeak. That was Johanna's idea, and she never really got a chance to enjoy it.

Beyond the house, the lake glimmers in the afterglow of sunset. The driveway, I see, is carpeted with brown pine needles and littered with fallen branches. The bushes which grow on either side of it have run wild, reaching out to one another like lovers across the narrowed gap which separates them. If you brought a car down here, the branches would sc.r.a.pe and unpleasantly against its sides. Below, I see, there's moss growing logs of the main house, and three large sunflowers with faces like have grown up through the boards of the little driveway-side. The overall feeling is not neglect, exactly, but forgottenness. forgottenness.

There is a breath of breeze, and its coldness on my skin makes me that I have been sweating. I can smell pine - a smell which is sour and clean at the same time - and the faint but somehow smell of the lake. Dark Score is one of the cleanest, deepest in Maine. It was bigger until the late thirties, Marie Hingerman us; that was when Western Maine Electric, working hand in hand the mills and paper operations around Rumford, had gotten state to dam the Gessa River. Marie also showed us some charming photographs of white-frocked ladies and vested gentlemen in canoes - snaps were from the time of the First World War, she said, and to one of the young women, frozen forever on the rim of the with a dripping paddle upraised. 'That's my mother,' she said, the man she's threatening with the paddle is my father.'

Loons crying, their voices like loss. Now I can see Venus in the dark-sky. Star light, star bright, wish I may, wish I might . . . in these I always wish for Johanna.

With my wish made, I try to walk down the driveway. Of course I do. It's my house, isn't it? Where else would I go but my house, now that dark and now that the stealthy rustling in the woods seems closer and somehow more purposeful? Where else can can I go? It's dark, and it will be frightening to go into that dark place alone (suppose been left so long alone? suppose she's angry?), but I must. If the electricity's off, I'll light one of the hurricane lamps we keep in a kitchen cabinet. I go? It's dark, and it will be frightening to go into that dark place alone (suppose been left so long alone? suppose she's angry?), but I must. If the electricity's off, I'll light one of the hurricane lamps we keep in a kitchen cabinet.

I can't go down. My legs won't move. It's as if my body knows something about the house down there that my brain does not. The breeze rises again, chilling gooseflesh out onto my skin, and I wonder what I have done to get myself all sweaty like this. Have I been running? And if so, what have I been running toward? Or from?

My hair is sweaty, too; it lies on my brow in an unpleasantly heavy clump. I raise my hand to brush it away and see there is a shallow cut, fairly recent, running across the back, just beyond the knuckles. Sometimes this cut is on my right hand, sometimes it's on the left. I think, If this is a dream, the details are good If this is a dream, the details are good. Always that same thought: If this is a dream, the details are good If this is a dream, the details are good. It's the absolute truth. They are a novelist's details . . . but in dreams, perhaps everyone is a novelist. How is one to know?

Now Sara Laughs is only a dark hulk down below, and I realize I don't want to go down there, anyway. I am a man who has trained his mind to misbehave, and I can imagine too many things waiting for me inside. A rabid racc.o.o.n crouched in a corner of the kitchen. Bats in the bath-room - if disturbed they'll crowd the air around my cringing face, squeaking and fluttering against my cheeks with their dusty wings. Even one of William Denbrough's famous Creatures from Beyond the Universe, now hiding under the porch and watching me approach with glittering, pus-rimmed eyes.

'Well, I can't stay up here,' I say, but my legs won't move, and it seems I will will be staying up here, where the driveway meets the lane; that I will be staying up here, like it or not. Now the rustling in the woods behind me sounds not like small animals (most of them would by then be nested or burrowed for the night, anyway) but approaching footsteps. I try to turn and see, but I can't even do that . . . be staying up here, where the driveway meets the lane; that I will be staying up here, like it or not. Now the rustling in the woods behind me sounds not like small animals (most of them would by then be nested or burrowed for the night, anyway) but approaching footsteps. I try to turn and see, but I can't even do that . . .

. . . and that was where I usually woke up. The first thing I always did was to turn over, establishing my return to reality by demonstrating to myself that my body would once more obey my mind. Sometimes - most times, actually - I would find myself thinking Manderley, I have dreamt again of Manderley Manderley, I have dreamt again of Manderley. There was something creepy about this (there's something creepy about any repeating dream, I think, about knowing your subconscious is digging obsessively at some object that won't be dislodged), but I would be lying if I didn't add that some part of me enjoyed the breathless summer calm in which the dream always wrapped me, and that part also enjoyed the sadness and foreboding I felt when I awoke. There was an exotic strangeness to the dream that was missing from my waking life, now that the road leading out of my imagination was so effectively blocked.

The only time I remember being really frightened (and I must tell I don't completely trust any of these memories, because for so long they didn't seem to exist at all) was when I awoke one night speaking clearly into the dark of my bedroom: 'Something's behind me, don't let it get me, something in the woods, please don't let it get me.' wasn't the words themselves that frightened me so much as the tone in which they were spoken. It was the voice of a man on the raw edge of panic, and hardly seemed like my own voice at all.

Two days before Christmas of 1997, I once more drove down to Fidelity where once more the bank manager escorted me to my safe-box in the fluorescent-lit catacombs. As we walked down the stairs he a.s.sured me (for the dozenth time, at least) that his wife was a huge huge fan of my work, she'd read all my books, couldn't get enough. For the dozenth time (at least) I replied that now I must get fan of my work, she'd read all my books, couldn't get enough. For the dozenth time (at least) I replied that now I must get him him in my clutches. He responded with his usual chuckle. I thought of this oft-repeated exchange as Banker's Communion. in my clutches. He responded with his usual chuckle. I thought of this oft-repeated exchange as Banker's Communion.

Mr. Quinlan inserted his key in Slot A and turned it. Then, as discreetly as a pimp who has conveyed a customer to a wh.o.r.e's crib, he left. I inserted my own key in Slot B, turned it, and opened the drawer. It very vast now. The one remaining ma.n.u.script box seemed almost to quail in the far corner, like an abandoned puppy who somehow knows his sibs have been taken off and ga.s.sed. Promise Promise was scrawled across the top in fat black letters. I could barely remember what the G.o.ddam story was about. was scrawled across the top in fat black letters. I could barely remember what the G.o.ddam story was about.

I s.n.a.t.c.hed that time-traveller from the eighties and slammed the box shut. Nothing left in there now but dust. Give me that Give me that, Jo had hissed in my dream - it was the first time I'd thought of that one in years. Give me that, it's my dust-catcher. Give me that, it's my dust-catcher.

Mr Quinlan, I'm finished,' I called. My voice sounded rough and unsteady to my own ears, but Quinlan seemed to sense nothing wrong . . . or perhaps he was just being discreet. I can't have been the only customer after all, who found his or her visits to this financial version of Forest Lawn emotionally distressful.

'I'm really going to read one of your books,' he said, dropping an involuntary little glance at the box I was holding (I suppose I could have brought a briefcase to put it in, but on those expeditions I never did). 'In fact, I think I'll put it on my list of New Year's resolutions.'

'You do that,' I said. 'You just do that, Mr. Quinlan.'

'Mark,' he said. 'Please.' He'd said this before, too.

I had composed two letters, which I slipped into the ma.n.u.script box before setting out for Federal Express. Both had been written on my computer, which my body would let me use as long as I chose the Note Pad function. It was only opening Word Six that caused the storms to start. I never tried to compose a novel using the Note Pad function, understanding that if I did, I'd likely lose that option, too . . . not to mention my ability to play Scrabble and do crosswords on the machine. I had tried a couple of times to compose longhand, with spectacular lack of success. The problem wasn't what I had once heard described as 'screen shyness'; I had proved that to myself.

One of the notes was to Harold, the other to Debra Weinstock, and both said pretty much the same thing: here's the new book, Helen's Promise Helen's Promise, hope you like it as much as I do, if it seems a little rough it's because I had to work a lot of extra hours to finish it this soon, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Erin Go Bragh, trick or treat, hope someone gives you a f.u.c.king pony.

I stood for almost an hour in a line of shuffling, bitter-eyed late mailers (Christmas is such a carefree, low-pressure time - that's one of the things I love about it), with Helen's Promise Helen's Promise under my left arm and a paperback copy of Nelson DeMille's under my left arm and a paperback copy of Nelson DeMille's The Charm School The Charm School in my right hand. in my right hand.

I read almost fifty pages before entrusting my final unpublished novel to a harried-looking clerk. When I wished her a Merry Christmas she shuddered and said nothing.

CHAPTER FOUR

The phone was ringing when I walked in my front door. It was Frank asking me if I'd like to join him for Christmas. Join them them, as matter of fact; all of his brothers and their families were coming.

I opened my mouth to say no - the last thing on earth I needed was a Irish Christmas with everybody drinking whiskey and waxing sentimental about Jo while perhaps two dozen snotcaked rugrats crawled around the floor - and heard myself saying I'd come.

Frank sounded as surprised as I felt, but honestly delighted. 'Fantastic!' He cried. 'When can you get here?'

I was in the hall, my galoshes dripping on the tile, and from where I standing I could look through the arch and into the living room. There was no Christmas tree; I hadn't bothered with one since Jo died. The room looked both ghastly and much too big to me . . . a roller rink furnished in Early American.

'I've been out running errands,' I said. 'How about I throw some in a bag, get back into the car, and come south while the still blowing warm air?'

'Tremendous,' Frank said without a moment's hesitation. 'We can have us a sane bachelor evening before the Sons and Daughters of East Malden start arriving. I'm pouring you a drink as soon as I get off the telephone.'

'Then I guess I better get rolling,' I said.

That was hands down the best holiday since Johanna died. The only good holiday, I guess. For four days I was an honorary Arlen. I drank too much, toasted Johanna's memory too many times . . . and knew, somehow, that she'd be pleased to know I was doing it. Two babies spit up on me, one dog got into bed with me in the middle of the night, and Nicky Arlen's sister-in-law made a bleary pa.s.s at me on the night after Christmas, when she caught me alone in the kitchen making a turkey sandwich. I kissed her because she clearly wanted to be kissed, and an adventurous (or perhaps 'mischievous' is the word I want) hand groped me for a moment in a place where no one other than myself had groped in almost three and a half years. It was a shock, but not an entirely unpleasant one.

It went no further - in a houseful of Arlens and with Susy Donahue not quite officially divorced yet (like me, she was an honorary Arlen that Christmas), it hardly could have done - but I decided it was time to leave . . . unless, that was, I wanted to go driving at high speed down a narrow street that most likely ended in a brick wall. I left on the twenty-seventh, very glad that I had come, and I gave Frank a fierce goodbye hug as we stood by my car. For four days I hadn't thought at all about how there was now only dust in my safe-deposit box at Fidelity Union, and for four nights I had slept straight through until eight in the morning, sometimes waking up with a sour stomach and a hangover headache, but never once in the middle of the night with the thought Manderley, I have dreamt again of Manderley Manderley, I have dreamt again of Manderley going through my mind. I got back to Derry feeling refreshed and renewed. going through my mind. I got back to Derry feeling refreshed and renewed.

The first day of 1998 dawned clear and cold and still and beautiful. I got up, showered, then stood at the bedroom window, drinking coffee. It suddenly occurred to me - with all the simple, powerful reality of ideas like up is over your head and down is under your feet - that I could write now. It was a new year, something had changed, and I could write now if I wanted to. The rock had rolled away.

I went into the study, sat down at the computer, and turned it on. My heart was beating normally, there was no sweat on my forehead or the back of my neck, and my hands were warm. I pulled down the main menu, the one you get when you click on the apple, and there was my Word Six. I clicked on it. The pen-and-parchment logo came up, and when it did I suddenly couldn't breathe. It was as if iron bands had clamped around my chest. I pushed back from the desk, gagging and clawing at the round neck of the sweatshirt I was wearing. The wheels of my office chair caught on little throw rug - one of Jo's finds in the last year of her life - and I tipped right over backward. My head banged the floor and I saw a fountain of bright sparks go whizzing across my field of vision. I suppose I was lucky to black out, but I think my real luck on New Year's Morning of 1998 was that I tipped over the way I did. If I'd only pushed back from the desk so that I was still looking at the logo - and at the hideous blank screen followed it - I think I might have choked to death.

'When I staggered to my feet, I was at least able to breathe. My throat the size of a straw, and each inhale made a weird screaming sound, but I was breathing. I lurched into the bathroom and threw up in the basin with such force that vomit splashed the mirror. I grayed out and my knees buckled. This time it was my brow I struck, thunking it against the lip of the basin, and although the back of my head didn't bleed there was a very respectable lump there by noon, though), my forehead did, a little. This latter b.u.mp also left a purple mark, which I of course lied about, telling folks who asked that I'd run into the bathroom door in the middle of the night, silly me, that'll teach a fella to get up at two A.M. without turning on a lamp.

,'When I regained complete consciousness (if there is such a state), I was curled up on the floor. I got up, disinfected the cut on my forehead, and sat on the lip of the tub with my head lowered to my knees until I felt confident enough to stand up. I sat there for fifteen minutes, I guess, and in that s.p.a.ce of time I decided that barring some miracle, my career was over. Harold would scream in pain and Debra would moan in disbelief, but what could they do? Send out the Publication Police? me with the Book-of-the-Month-Club Gestapo? Even if they could, what difference would it make? You couldn't get sap out of a brick or blood out of a stone. Barring some miraculous recovery, my life as a writer was over.

And if it is? I asked myself. I asked myself. What's on for the back forty, Mike? You can play a lot of Scrabble in forty years, go on a lot of Crossword Cruises, drink a lot of whiskey. But is that enough? What else are you going to put on your back forty? What's on for the back forty, Mike? You can play a lot of Scrabble in forty years, go on a lot of Crossword Cruises, drink a lot of whiskey. But is that enough? What else are you going to put on your back forty?

I didn't want to think about that, not then. The next forty years could take care of themselves; I would be happy just to get through New Year's Day of 1998.

When I felt I had myself under control, I went back into my study, shuffled to the computer with my eyes resolutely on my feet, felt around for the right b.u.t.ton, and turned off the machine. You can damage the program shutting down like that without putting it away, but under the circ.u.mstances, I hardly thought it mattered.

That night I once again dreamed I was walking at twilight on Lane Forty-two, which leads to Sara Laughs; once more I wished on the evening star as the loons cried on the lake, and once more I sensed something in the woods behind me, edging ever closer. It seemed my Christmas holiday was over.

That was a hard, cold winter, lots of snow and in February a flu epidemic that did for an awful lot of Derry's old folks. It took them the way a hard wind will take old trees after an ice storm. It missed me completely. I hadn't so much as a case of the sniffles that winter.

In March, I flew to Providence and took part in Will Weng's New England Crossword Challenge. I placed fourth and won fifty bucks. I framed the uncashed check and hung it in the living room. Once upon a time, most of my framed Certificates of Triumph (Jo's phrase; all the good phrases are Jo's phrases, it seems to me) went up on my office walls, but by March of 1998, I wasn't going in there very much. When I wanted to play Scrabble against the computer or do a tourney-level crossword puzzle, I used the Powerbook and sat at the kitchen table.

I remember sitting there one day, opening the Powerbook's main menu, going down to the crossword puzzles, then dropping the cursor two or three items further, until it had highlighted my old pal, Word Six.

What swept over me then wasn't frustration or impotent, balked fury (I'd experienced a lot of both since finishing All the Way from the Top All the Way from the Top), but sadness and simple longing. Looking at the Word Six icon was suddenly like looking at the pictures of Jo I kept in my wallet. Studying those, I'd sometimes think that I would sell my immortal soul in order have her back again . . . and on that day in March, I thought I would sell my soul to be able to write a story again.

Go on and try it, then Go on and try it, then, a voice whispered. Maybe things have changed. Maybe things have changed.

Except that nothing had changed, and I knew it. So instead of opening Word Six, I moved it across to the trash barrel in the lower righthand corner of the screen, and dropped it in. Goodbye, old pal. Except that nothing had changed, and I knew it. So instead of opening Word Six, I moved it across to the trash barrel in the lower righthand corner of the screen, and dropped it in. Goodbye, old pal.

Weinstock called a lot that winter, mostly with good news. Early in March she reported that Helen's Promise Helen's Promise had been picked as one half of the Literary Guild's main selection for August, the other half a legal thriller by Steve Martini, another veteran of the eight-to-fifteen segment of the had been picked as one half of the Literary Guild's main selection for August, the other half a legal thriller by Steve Martini, another veteran of the eight-to-fifteen segment of the Times Times bestseller list. And my British publisher, Debra, loved bestseller list. And my British publisher, Debra, loved Helen Helen, was sure it would be my 'breakthrough book.' (My British sales had always lagged.) 'Promise is sort of a new direction for you,' Debra said. 'Wouldn't you say?' is sort of a new direction for you,' Debra said. 'Wouldn't you say?'

'I kind of thought it was,' I confessed, and wondered how Debbie respond if I told her my new-direction book had been written a dozen years ago.

'It's got . . . I don't know . . . a kind of maturity maturity.'

'Thanks.'

'Mike? I think the connection's going. You sound m.u.f.fled.'

Sure I did. I was biting down on the side of my hand to keep from howling with laughter. Now, cautiously, I took it out of my mouth and examined the bite-marks. 'Better?'

'Yes, lots. So what's the new one about? Give me a hint.'

'You know the answer to that one, kiddo.'

Debra laughed. ''You'll have to read the book to find out, Josephine,'' she said. 'Right?'

'Yessum.'

'Well, keep it coming. Your pals at Putnam are crazy about the way you're taking it to the next level.'

I said goodbye, I hung up the telephone, and then I laughed wildly for about ten minutes. Laughed until I was crying. That's me, though. Always taking it to the next level.

During this period I also agreed to do a phone interview with a Newsweek Newsweek writer who was putting together a piece on The New American Gothic (whatever that was, other than a phrase which might sell a few magazines), and to sit for a writer who was putting together a piece on The New American Gothic (whatever that was, other than a phrase which might sell a few magazines), and to sit for a Publishers Weekly Publishers Weekly interview which would appear just before publication of interview which would appear just before publication of Helen's Promise Helen's Promise. I agreed to these because they both sounded softball, the sort of interviews you could do over the phone while you read your mail. And Debra was delighted because I ordinarily say no to all the publicity. I hate that part of the job and always have, especially the h.e.l.l of the live TV chat-show, where n.o.body's ever read your G.o.ddam book and the first question is always 'Where in the world do you get those wacky ideas?' The publicity process is like going to a sushi bar where you're the sushi, and it was great to get past it this time with the feeling that I'd been able to give Debra some good news she could take to her bosses. 'Yes,' she could say, 'he's still being a booger about publicity, but I got him to do a couple of things.'

All through this my dreams of Sara Laughs were going on - not every night but every second or third night, with me never thinking of them in the daytime. I did my crosswords, I bought myself an acoustic steel guitar and started learning how to play it (I was never going to be invited to tour with Patty Loveless or Alan Jackson, however), I scanned each day's bloated obituaries in the Derry Derry News News for names that I knew. I was pretty much dozing on my feet, in other words. for names that I knew. I was pretty much dozing on my feet, in other words.

What brought all this to an end was a call from Harold Oblowski not more than three days after Debra's book-club call. It was storming out-side - a vicious snow-changing-over-to-sleet event that proved to be the last and biggest blast of the winter. By mid-evening the power would be off all over Derry, but when Harold called at five P.M., things were just getting cranked up.

'I just had a very good conversation with your editor,' Harold said. 'A very enlightening, very energizing energizing conversation. Just got off the in fact.' conversation. Just got off the in fact.'

'Oh?'

'Oh indeed. There's a feeling at Putnam, Michael, that this latest of yours may have a positive effect on your sales position in the market. It's very strong.'

'Yes,' I said, 'I'm taking it to the next level.'

'Huh?'

'I'm just blabbing, Harold. Go on.'

'Well . . . Helen Nearing's a great lead character, and Skate is your best villain ever.'

I said nothing.

'Debra raised the possibility of making Helen's Promise Helen's Promise the opener of a three-book contract. A very the opener of a three-book contract. A very lucrative lucrative three-book contract. All without prompting from me. Three is one more than any publisher has wanted to commit to 'til now. I mentioned nine million dollars, three per book, in other words, expecting her to laugh . . . but an agent has to start three-book contract. All without prompting from me. Three is one more than any publisher has wanted to commit to 'til now. I mentioned nine million dollars, three per book, in other words, expecting her to laugh . . . but an agent has to start somewhere somewhere, and I always choose the highest ground I can find. I think I must have Roman military officers somewhere back in my family tree.'

Ethiopian rug-merchants, more like it Ethiopian rug-merchants, more like it, I thought, but didn't say. I felt the way you do when the dentist has gone a little heavy on the Novocain and flooded your lips and tongue as well as your bad tooth and the patch of gum surrounding it. If I tried to talk, I'd probably only flap and spread spit. Harold was almost purring. A three-book contract for the new mature Michael Noonan. Tall tickets, baby.

This time I didn't feel like laughing. This time I felt like screaming. Harold went on, happy and oblivious. Harold didn't know the bookberry-tree had died. Harold didn't know the new Mike Noonan had cataclysmic shortness of breath and projectile-vomiting fits every time he tried to write.

'You want to hear how she came back to me, Michael?'

'Lay it on me.'

'Well, nine's obviously high, but it's as good a place to start as any. We feel this new book is a big step forward for him.' This is extraordinary. Extraordinary Extraordinary. Now, I haven't given anything away, wanted to talk to you first, of course, but I think we're looking at seven-point-five, minimum. In fact - '

'No.'

He paused a moment. Long enough for me to realize I was gripping the phone so hard it hurt my hand. I had to make a conscious effort to relax my grip. 'Mike, if you'll just hear me out - '

'I don't need to hear you out. I don't want to talk about a new contract.'