Lisey’s Story by Stephen King Page A

of hot, high-calorie food. She supposed that now she had an idea of what war veterans had to deal with. That had been her only battle, but
    ( no, Lisey )
    â€œQuit it,” she whispered, and pushed her plate
    ( no, babyluv )
    violently away from her. Christ, but she wanted
    ( you know better )
    a cigarette. And even more than a ciggy, she wanted all these old memories to go aw—
    Lisey!
    That was Scott’s voice, on top of her mind for a change and so clear she answered out loud over the kitchen table and with no self-consciousness at all: “What, hon?”
    Find the silver shovel and all this crap will blow away . . . like the smell of the mill when the wind swung around and blew from the south. Remember?
    Of course she did. Her apartment had been in the little town of Cleaves Mills, just one town east of Orono. There weren’t any actual mills in Cleaves by the time Lisey lived there, but there had still been plenty in Oldtown, and when the wind blew from the north—especially if the day happened to be overcast and damp—the stench was atrocious. Then, if the wind changed . . . God! You could smell the ocean, and it was like being born again. For awhile wait for the wind to change had become part of their marriage’s interior language, like strap it on and SOWISA and smuck for fuck. Then it had fallen out of favor somewhere along the way, and she hadn’t thought of it for years: wait for the wind to change, meaning hang on in there, baby. Meaning don’t give up yet. Maybe it had been the sort of sweetly optimistic attitude only a young marriage can sustain. She didn’t know. Scott might have been able to offer an informed opinion; he’d kept a journal even back then, in their
    (EARLY YEARS!)
    scuffling days, writing in it for fifteen minutes each evening while she watched sitcoms or did the household accounts. And sometimes instead of watching TV or writing checks, she watched him. She liked the way the lamplight shone in his hair and made deep triangular shadows on hischeeks as he sat there with his head bent over his looseleaf notebook. His hair had been both longer and darker in those days, unmarked by the gray that had begun to show up toward the end of his life. She liked his stories, but she liked how his hair looked in the spill of the lamplight just as much. She thought his hair in the lamplight was its own story, he just didn’t know it. She liked how his skin felt under her hand, too. Forehead or foreskin, both were good. She would not have traded one for the other. What worked for her was the whole package.
    Lisey! Find the shovel!
    She cleared the table, then stored the remaining Cheeseburger Pie in a Tupperware dish. She was certain she’d never eat it now that her madness had passed, but there was too much to scrape down the sink-pig; how the Good Ma Debusher who still kept house in her head would scream at waste like that! Better by far to hide it in the fridge behind the asparagus and the yogurt, where it would age quietly. And as she did these simple chores, she wondered how in the name of Jesus, Mary, and JoJo the Carpenter finding that silly ceremonial shovel could do anything for her peace of mind. Something about the magical properties of silver, maybe? She remembered watching some movie on the Late Show with Darla and Cantata, some supposedly scary thing about a werewolf . . . only Lisey hadn’t been much frightened, if at all. She’d thought the were-wolf more sad than scary, and besides—you could tell the moviemaking people were changing his face by stopping the camera every now and then to put on more makeup and then running it again. You had to give them high marks for effort, but the finished product wasn’t all that believable, at least in her humble opinion. The story was sort of interesting, though. The first part took place in an English pub, and one of the old geezers drinking there said you