Bag of Bones   ::   Кинг Стивен

Denise Breedlove, Pete’s mother, called and asked if I wouldn’t like her to bring a couple of her friends over one day the following week and give the big old Edwardian pile I now lived in alone—rolling around in it like the last pea in a restaurant-sized can—a good stem-to-stern cleaning. They would do it, she said, for a hundred dollars split even among the three of them, and mostly because it wasn’t good for me to go on without it. There had to be a scrubbing after a death, she said, even if the death didn’t happen in the house itself.

I told her it was a fine idea, but I would pay her and the women she brought a hundred dollars each for six hours’ work. At the end of the six hours, I wanted the job done. And if it wasn’t, I told her, it would be done, anyway.

“Mr. Noonan, that’s far too much,” she said.

“Maybe and maybe not, but it’s what I’m paying,” I said. “Will you do it?”

She said she would, of course she would.

Perhaps predictably, I found myself going through the house on the evening before they came, doing a pre-cleaning inspection. I guess I didn’t want the women (two of whom would be complete strangers to me) finding anything that would embarrass them or me: a pair of Johanna’s silk panties stuffed down behind the sofa cushions, perhaps (“We are often overcome on the sofa, Michael,” she said to me once, “have you noticed?”), or beer cans under the loveseat on the sunporch, maybe even an unfiushed toilet. In truth, I can’t tell you any one thing I was looking for; that sense of operating in a dream still held firm control over my mind. The clearest thoughts I had during those days were either about the end of the novel I was writing (the psychotic killer had lured my heroine to a high-rise building and meant to push her off the roof) or about the Norco Home Pregnancy Test Jo had bought on the day she died. Sinus prescription, she had said. Piece of fish for supper, she had said. And her eyes had shown me nothing else I needed to look at twice.

Near the end of my “pre-cleaning,” I looked under our bed and saw an open paperback on Jo’s side. She hadn’t been dead long, but few household lands are so dusty as the Kingdom of Underbed, and the light-gray coating I saw on the book when I brought it out made me think of Johanna’s face and hands in her coffin—Jo in the Kingdom of Underground. Did it get dusty inside a coffin? Surely not, but- I pushed the thought away. It pretended to go, but all day long it kept creeping back, like Tolstoy’s white bear.

Johanna and I had both been English majors at the University of Maine, and like many others, I reckon, we fell in love to the sound of Shakespeare and the Tilbury Town cynicism of Edwin Arlington Robinson.