Salem's Lot - Stephen King [60]
‘Yes,’ Ben said, drawn in spite of himself. The teacher had just stated an idea that had been lurking below the level of his consciousness from the day he had arrived back in town, possibly even before that. ‘It stands on that hill overlooking the village like-oh, like some kind of dark idol.’ He chuckled to make the remark seem trivial-it seemed to him that he had said something so deeply felt in an unguarded way that he must have opened a window on his soul to this stranger. Matt Burke’s sudden close scrutiny of him did not make him feel any better.
‘That is talent,’ he said.
‘Pardon me?’
‘You have said it precisely. The Marsten House has looked down on us all for almost fifty years, at all our little peccadilloes and sins and lies. Like an idol.’
‘Maybe it’s seen the good, too,’ Ben said.
‘There’s little good in sedentary small towns. Mostly indifference spiced with an occasional vapid evil-or worse, a conscious one. I believe Thomas Wolfe wrote about seven pounds of literature about that.’
‘I thought you weren’t a cynic.’
‘You said that, not I.’ Matt smiled and sipped at his beer. The band was moving away from the bar, resplendent in their red shirts and glittering vests and neckerchiefs. The lead singer took his guitar and began to chord it.
‘At any rate, you never answered my question. Is your new book about the Marsten House?’
‘I suppose it is, in a way.’
‘I’m pumping you. Sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ Ben said, thinking of Susan and feeling uncomfortable. ‘I wonder what’s keeping Weasel? He’s been gone a hell of a long time.’
‘Could I presume on short acquaintanceship and ask a rather large favor? If you refuse, I’ll more than understand.’
‘Sure, ask,’ Ben said.
‘I have a creative writing class,’ Matt said. ‘They are intelligent children, eleventh- and twelfth-graders, most of them, and I would like to present someone who makes his living with words to them. Someone who-how shall I say?-has taken the word and made it flesh.’
‘I’d be more than happy to,’ Ben said, feeling absurdly flattered. ‘How long are your periods?’
‘Fifty minutes.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose I can bore them too badly in that length of time.’
‘Oh? I do it quite well, I think,’ Matt said. ‘Although I’m sure you wouldn’t bore them at all. This next week?’
‘Sure. Name a day and a time.’
‘Tuesday? Period four? That goes from eleven o’clock until ten of twelve. No one will boo you, but I suspect you will hear a great many stomachs rumble.’
‘I’ll bring some cotton for my ears.’
Matt laughed. ‘I’m very pleased. I will meet you at the office, if that’s agreeable.’
‘Fine. Do you-’
‘Mr Burke?’ It was Jackie, she of the heavy biceps.
‘Weasel’s passed out in the men’s room. Do you suppose-’
‘Oh? Goodness, yes. Ben, would you-’
‘Sure.’
They got up and crossed the room. The band had begun to play again, something about how the kids in Muskogee still respected the college dean.
The bathroom smelled of sour urine and chlorine. Weasel was propped against the wall between two urinals, and a fellow in an army uniform was pissing approximately two inches from his right ear.
His mouth was open and Ben thought how terribly old he looked, old and ravaged by cold, impersonal forces with no gentle touch in them. The reality of his own dissolution, advancing day by day, came home to him, not for the first time, but with shocking unexpectedness. The pity that welled up in his throat like clear, black waters was as much for himself as for Weasel.
‘Here,’ Matt said, ‘can you get an arm under him when this gentleman finishes relieving himself’?’
‘Yes,’ Ben said. He looked at the man in the army uniform, who was shaking off in leisurely fashion. ‘Hurry it up, can you, buddy?’
‘Why? He ain’t in no rush.’
Nevertheless, he zipped up and stepped away from the urinal so they could get in.
Ben got an arm around Weasel’s back, hooked