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# 2025-11-19 - Mrs. Todd's Shortcut by Stephen King
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"There goes the Todd woman," I said.
Homer Buckland watched the little Jaguar go by and nodded. The woman
raised her hand to Homer.
Homer nodded his big, shaggy head to her but didn't raise his own
hand in return. The Todd family had a big summer home on Castle Lake,
and Homer had been their caretaker since time out of mind. I had an
idea that he disliked Worth Todd's second wife every bit as much as
he'd liked 'Phelia Todd, the first one.
This was just about two years ago and we were sitting on a bench in
front of Bell's Market, me with an orange soda-pop, Homer with a
glass of mineral water. It was October, which is a peaceful time in
Castle Rock. Lots of the lake places still get used on the weekends,
but the aggressive, boozy summer socializing is over by then and the
hunters with their big guns and their expensive nonresident permits
pinned to their orange caps haven't started to come into town yet.
Crops have been mostly laid by. Nights are cool, good for sleeping,
and old joints like mine haven't yet started to complain. In October
the sky over the lake is passing fair, with those big white clouds
that move so slow; I like how they seem so flat on the bottoms, and
how they are a little gray there, like with a shadow of sundown
foretold, and I can watch the sun sparkle on the water and not be
bored for some space of minutes. It's in October, sitting on the
bench in front of Bell's and watch ing the lake from afar off, that I
still wish I was a smoking man.
"She don't drive as fast as 'Phelia," Homer said. "I swan I used to
think what an old-fashion name she had for a woman that could put a
car through its paces like she could."
Summer people like the Todds are nowhere near as interesting to the
year-round residents of small Maine towns as they themselves believe.
Year-round folk prefer their own love stones and hate stories and
scandals and rumors of scandal. When that textile fellow from
Amesbury shot himself, Estonia Corbridge found that after a week or
so she couldn't even get invited to lunch on her story of how she
found him with the pistol still in one stiffening hand. But folks are
still not done talking about Joe Camber, who got killed by his own
dog.
Well, it don't matter. It's just that they are different racecourses
we run on. Summer people are trotters; us others that don't put on
ties to do our week's work are just pacers. Even so there was quite a
lot of local interest when Ophelia Todd disappeared back in 1973.
Ophelia was a genuinely nice woman, and she had done a lot of things
in town. She worked to raise money for the Sloan Library, helped to
refurbish the war memorial, and that sort of thing. But all the
summer people like the idea of raising money. You mention raising
money and their eyes light up and commence to gleam. You mention
raising money and they can get a committee together and appoint a
secretary and keep an agenda. They like that. But you mention time
(beyond, that is, one big long walloper of a combined cocktail party
and committee meeting) and you're out of luck. Time seems to be what
summer people mostly set a store by. They lay it by, and if they
could put it up in Ball jars like preserves, why, they would. But
'Phelia Todd seemed willing to spend time--to do desk duty
in the library as well as to raise money for it. When it got down to
using scouring pads and elbow grease on the war memorial, 'Phelia was
right out there with town women who had lost sons in three different
wars, wearing an overall with her hair done up in a kerchief. And
when kids needed ferrying to a summer swim program, you'd be as apt
to see her as anyone headed down Landing Road with the back of Worth
Todd's big shiny pickup full of kids. A good woman. Not a town woman,
but a good woman. And when she disappeared, there was concern. Not
grieving, exactly, because a disappearance is not exactly like a
death. It's not like chopping something off with a cleaver; more like
something running down the sink so slow you don't know it's all gone
until long after it is.
"'Twas a Mercedes she drove," Homer said, answering the question I
hadn't asked. "Two-seater sportster. Todd got it for her in
sixty-four or sixty-five, I guess. You remember her taking the kids
to the lake all those years they had Frogs and Tadpoles?"
"Ayuh."
"She'd drive 'em no more than forty, mindful they was in the back.
But it chafed her. That woman had lead in her foot and a ball bearing
sommers in the back of her ankle."
It used to be that Homer never talked about his summer people. But
then his wife died. Five years ago it was. She was plowing a grade
and the tractor tipped over on her and Homer was taken bad off about
it. He grieved for two years or so and then seemed to feel better.
But he was not the same. He seemed waiting for something to happen,
waiting for the next thing. You'd pass his neat little house
sometimes at dusk and he would be on the porch smoking a pipe with a
glass of mineral water on the porch rail and the sunset would be in
his eyes and pipe smoke around his head and you'd think--I did,
anyway--Homer is waiting for the next thing. This bothered me over a
wider range of my mind than I liked to admit, and at last I decided
it was because if it had been me, I wouldn't have been waiting for
the next thing, like a groom who has put on his morning coat and
finally has his tie right and is only sitting there on a bed in the
upstairs of his house and looking first at himself in the mirror and
then at the clock on the mantel and waiting for it to be eleven
o'clock so he can get married. If it had been me, I would not have
been waiting for the next thing; I would have been waiting for the
last thing.
But in that waiting period--which ended when Homer went to Vermont a
year later--he sometimes talked about those people. To me, to a few
others.
"She never even drove fast with her husband, s'far as I know. But
when I drove with her, she made that Mercedes strut."
A fellow pulled in at the pumps and began to fill up his car. The car
had a Massachusetts plate.
"It wasn't one of these new sports cars that run on onleaded gasoline
and hitch every time you step on it; it was one of the old ones, and
the speedometer was calibrated all the way up to a hundred and sixty.
It was a funny color of brown and I ast her one time what you called
that color and she said it was Champagne. Ain't that good, I says,
and she laughs fit to split. I like a woman who will laugh when you
don't have to point her right at the joke, you know."
The man at the pumps had finished getting his gas.
"Afternoon, gentlemen," he says as he comes up the steps.
"A good day to you," I says, and he went inside.
"'Phelia was always lookin for a shortcut," Homer went on as if we
had never been interrupted. "That woman was mad for a shortcut. I
never saw the beat of it. She said if you can save enough distance,
you'll save time as well. She said her father swore by that
scripture. He was a salesman, always on the road, and she went with
him when she could, and he was always lookin for the shortest way. So
she got in the habit.
I ast her one time if it wasn't kinda funny--here she was on the one
hand, spendin her time rubbin up that old statue in the Square and
takin the little ones to their swimmin lessons instead of playing
tennis and swimming and getting boozed up like normal summer people,
and on the other hand bein so damn set on savin fifteen minutes
between here and Fryeburg that thinkin about it probably kep her up
nights. It just seemed to me the two things went against each other's
grain, if you see what I mean. She just looks at me and says, "I like
being helpful, Homer. I like driving, too--at least sometimes, when
it's a challenge--but I don't like the time it takes. It's like
mending clothes--sometimes you take tucks and sometimes you let
things out. Do you see what I mean?"
"I guess so, missus," I says, kinda dubious.
"If sitting behind the wheel of a car was my idea of a really good
time all the time, I would look for long-cuts," she says, and that
tickled me s'much I had to laugh.
The Massachusetts fellow came out of the store with a six-pack in one
hand and some lottery tickets in the other.
"You enjoy your weekend," Homer says.
"I always do," the Massachusetts fellow says. "I only wish I could
afford to live here all year round."
"Well, we'll keep it all in good order for when you can come," Homer
says, and the fellow laughs.
We watched him drive off toward someplace, that Massachusetts plate
showing. It was a green one.
My Marcy says those are the ones the Massachusetts Motor Registry
gives to drivers who ain't had a accident in that strange, angry,
fuming state for two years. If you have, she says, you got to have a
red one so people know to watch out for you when they see you on the
roll.
"They was in-state people, you know, the both of them," Homer said,
as if the Massachusetts fellow had reminded him of the fact.
"I guess I did know that," I said.
"The Todds are just about the only birds we got that fly north in the
winter. The new one, I don't think she likes flying north too much."
He sipped his mineral water and fell silent a moment, thinking.
"She didn't mind it, though," Homer said. "At least, I judge she
didn't although she used to complain about it something fierce. The
complaining was just a way to explain why she was always lookin for a
shortcut."
"And you mean her husband didn't mind her traipsing down every
wood-road in tarnation between here and Bangor just so she could see
if it was nine-tenths of a mile shorter?"
"He didn't care piss-all," Homer said shortly, and got up, and went
in the store.
There now, Owens, I told myself, you know it ain't safe to ast him
questions when he's yarning, and you went right ahead and ast one,
and you have buggered a story that was starting to shape up
promising.
I sat there and turned my face up into the sun and after about ten
minutes he come out with a boiled egg and sat down. He ate her and I
took care not to say nothing and the water on Castle Lake sparkled as
blue as something as might be told of in a story about treasure. When
Homer had finished his egg and had a sip of mineral water, he went
on. I was surprised, but still said nothing. It wouldn't have been
wise.
"They had two or three different chunks of rolling iron," he said.
"There was the Cadillac, and his truck, and her little Mercedes
go-devil. A couple of winters he left the truck, 'case they wanted to
come down and do some skiin. Mostly when the summer was over he'd
drive the Caddy back up and she'd take her go-devil."
I nodded but didn't speak. In truth, I was afraid to risk another
comment. Later I thought it would have taken a lot of comments to
shut Homer Buckland up that day. He had been wanting to tell the
story of Mrs. Todd's shortcut for a long time.
"Her little go-devil had a special odometer in it that told you how
many miles was in a trip, and every time she set off from Castle Lake
to Bangor she'd set it to 000-point-0 and let her clock up to
whatever. She had made a game of it, and she used to chafe me with
it."
He paused, thinking that back over.
"No, that ain't right."
He paused more and faint lines showed up on his forehead like steps
on a library ladder.
"She made like she made a game of it, but it was a serious business
to her. Serious as anything else, anyway." He flapped a hand and I
think he meant the husband. "The glovebox of the little go-devil was
filled with maps, and there was a few more in the back where there
would be a seat in a regular car. Some was gas station maps, and some
was pages that had been pulled from the Rand-McNally Road Atlas; she
had some maps from Appalachian Trail guidebooks and a whole mess of
topographical survey-squares, too. It wasn't her having those maps
that made me think it wa'n't a game; it was how she'd drawed lines on
all of them, showing routes she'd taken or at least tried to take."
"She'd been stuck a few times, too, and had to get a pull from some
farmer with a tractor and chain."
"I was there one day laying tile in the bathroom, sitting there with
grout squittering out of every damn crack you could see--I dreamed of
nothing but squares and cracks that was bleeding grout that
night--and she come stood in the doorway and talked to me about it
for quite a while. I used to chafe her about it, but I was also sort
of interested, and not just because my brother Franklin used to live
down-Bangor and I'd traveled most of the roads she was telling me of.
I was interested just because a man like me is always uncommon
interested in knowing the shortest way, even if he don't always want
to take it. You that way too?"
"Ayuh," I said. There's something powerful about knowing the shortest
way, even if you take the longer way because you know your
mother-in-law is sitting home. Getting there quick is often for the
birds, although no one holding a Massachusetts driver's license seems
to know it. But knowing how to get there quick--or even knowing how
to get there a way that the person sitting beside you don't know...
that has power.
"Well, she had them roads like a Boy Scout has his knots," Homer
said, and smiled his large, sunny grin. "She says, 'Wait a minute,
wait a minute,' like a little girl, and I hear her through the wall
rummaging through her desk, and then she comes back with a little
notebook that looked like she'd had it a good long time. Cover was
all rumpled, don't you know, and some of the pages had pulled loose
from those little wire rings on one side. 'The way Worth goes--the
way most people go--is Route 97 to Mechanic Falls, then Route 11 to
Lewiston, and then the Interstate to Bangor. 156.4 miles.'"
I nodded.
"'If you want to skip the turnpike--and save some distance--you'd go
to Mechanic Falls, Route 11 to Lewiston, Route 202 to Augusta, then
up Route 9 through China Lake and Unity and Haven to Bangor. That's
144.9 miles.'"
"'You won't save no time that way, missus,' I says, 'not going
through Lewiston and Augusta. Although I will admit that drive up the
Old Derry Road to Bangor is real pretty.'"
"'Save enough miles and soon enough you'll save time,' she says. 'And
I didn't say that's the way I'd go, although I have a good many
times; I'm just running down the routes most people use. Do you want
me to go on?'"
"'No,' I says, 'just leave me in this cussed bathroom all by myself
starin at all these cussed cracks until I start to rave.'"
"'There are four major routes in all,' she says. The one by Route 2
is 163.4 miles. I only tried it once. Too long.'"
"'That's the one I'd hosey if my wife called and told me it was
leftovers,' I says, kinda low."
"'What was that?' she says."
"'Nothin,' I says. 'Talkin to the grout.'"
"'Oh. Well, the fourth--and there aren't too many who know about it,
although they are all good roads--paved, anyway--is across Speckled
Bird Mountain on 219 to 202 beyond Lewiston. Then, if you take Route
19, you can get around Augusta. Then you take the Old Derry Road.
That way is just 129.2.'"
"I didn't say nothing for a little while and p'raps she thought I was
doubting her because she says, a little pert, 'I know it's hard to
believe, but it's so.'"
"I said I guessed that was about right, and I thought--looking
back--it probably was. Because that's the way I'd usually go when I
went down to Bangor to see Franklin when he was still alive. I hadn't
been that way in years, though. Do you think a man could
just--well--forget a road, Dave?"
I allowed it was. The turnpike is easy to think of. After a while it
almost fills a man's mind, and you think not how could I get from
here to there but how can I get from here to the turnpike ramp that's
closest to there. And that made me think that maybe there are lots of
roads all over that are just going begging; roads with rock walls
beside them, real roads with blackberry bushes growing alongside them
but nobody to eat the berries but the birds and gravel pits with old
rusted chains hanging down in low curves in front of their entryways,
the pits themselves as forgotten as a child's old toys with
scrumgrass growing up their deserted unremembered sides. Roads that
have just been forgot except by the people who live on them and think
of the quickest way to get off them and onto the turnpike where you
can pass on a hill and not fret over it. We like to joke in Maine
that you can't get there from here, but maybe the joke is on us. The
truth is there's about a damn thousand ways to do it and man doesn't
bother.
Homer continued: "I grouted tile all afternoon in that hot little
bathroom and she stood there in the doorway all that time, one foot
crossed behind the other, bare-legged, wearin loafers and a
khaki-colored skirt and a sweater that was some darker. Hair was
drawed back in a hosstail. She must have been thirty-four or five
then, but her face was lit up with what she was tellin me and I swan
she looked like a sorority girl home from school on vacation.
"After a while she musta got an idea of how long she'd been there
cuttin the air around her mouth because she says, 'I must be boring
the hell out of you, Homer.'
"'Yes'm,' I says, 'you are. I druther you went away and left me to
talk to this damn grout.'"
"'Don't be sma'at, Homer,' she says."
"'No, missus, you ain't borin me,' I says."
"So she smiles and then goes back to it, pagin through her little
notebook like a salesman checkin his orders. She had those four main
ways--well, really three because she gave up on Route 2 right
away--but she must have had forty different other ways that were
play-offs on those. Roads with state numbers, roads without, roads
with names, roads without. My head fair spun with 'em. And finally
she says to me, 'You ready for the blue-ribbon winner, Homer?'"
"'I guess so,' I says."
"'At least it's the blue-ribbon winner so far,' she says. 'Do you
know, Homer, that a man wrote an article in Science Today in 1923
proving that no man could run a mile in under four minutes? He proved
it, with all sorts of calculations based on the maximum length of the
male thigh-muscles, maximum length of stride, maximum lung capacity,
maximum heart-rate, and a whole lot more. I was taken with that
article! I was so taken that I gave it to Worth and asked him to give
it to Professor Murray in the math department at the University of
Maine. I wanted those figures checked because I was sure they must
have been based on the wrong postulates, or something. Worth probably
thought I was being silly--"Ophelia's got a bee in her bonnet" is
what he says--but he took them. Well, Professor Murray checked
through the man's figures quite carefully... and do you know what,
Homer?'"
"'No, missus.'"
"Those figures were right. The man's criteria were solid. He proved,
back in 1923, that a man couldn't run a mile in under four minutes.
He proved that. But people do it all the time, and do you know what
that means?'"
"'No, missus,' I said, although I had a glimmer."
"'It means that no blue ribbon is forever,' she says. 'Someday--if
the world doesn't explode itself in the meantime--someone will run a
two-minute mile in the Olympics. It may take a hundred years or a
thousand, but it will happen. Because there is no ultimate blue
ribbon. There is zero, and there is eternity, and there is mortality,
but there is no ultimate.'"
"And there she stood, her face clean and scrubbed and shinin, that
darkish hair of hers pulled back from her brow, as if to say 'Just
you go ahead and disagree if you can.' But I couldn't. Because I
believe something like that. It is much like what the minister means,
I think, when he talks about grace.
"'You ready for the blue-ribbon winner for now?' she says."
"'Ayuh,' I says, and I even stopped groutin for the time bein. I'd
reached the tub anyway and there wasn't nothing left but a lot of
those frikkin squirrelly little corners. She drawed a deep breath and
then spieled it out at me as fast as that auctioneer goes over in
Gates Falls when he has been putting the whiskey to himself, and I
can't remember it all, but it went something like this."
Homer Buckland shut his eyes for a moment, his big hands lying
perfectly still on his long thighs, his face turned up toward the
sun. Then he opened his eyes again and for a moment I swan he looked
like her, yes he did, a seventy-year-old man looking like a woman of
thirty-four who was at that moment in her time looking like a college
girl of twenty, and I can't remember exactly what he said any more
than he could remember exactly what she said, not just because it was
complex but because I was so fetched by how he looked sayin it, but
it went close enough like this:
"'You set out Route 97 and then cut up Denton Street to the Old
Townhouse Road and that way you get around Castle Rock downtown but
back to 97. Nine miles up you can go an old logger's road a mile and
a half to Town Road #6, which takes you to Big Anderson Road by
Sites' Cider Mill. There's a cut-road the oldtimers call Bear Road,
and that gets you to 219. Once you're on the far side of Speckled
Bird Mountain you grab the Stanhouse Road, turn left onto the Bull
Pine Road--there's a swampy patch there but you can spang right
through it if you get up enough speed on the gravel--and so you come
out on Route 106. 106 cuts through Alton's Plantation to the Old
Derry Road--and there's two or three woods roads there that you
follow and so come out on Route 3 just beyond Derry Hospital. From
there it's only four miles to Route 2 in Etna, and so into Bangor.'"
"She paused to get her breath back, then looked at me. 'Do you know
how long that is, all told?'"
"'No'm,' I says, thinking it sounds like about a hundred and ninety
miles and four bust springs."
"'It's 116.4 miles,' she says."
I laughed. The laugh was out of me before I thought I wasn't doing
myself any favor if I wanted to hear this story to the end. But Homer
grinned himself and nodded.
"I know. And you know I don't like to argue with anyone, Dave. But
there's a difference between having your leg pulled and getting it
shook like a damn apple tree."
"'You don't believe me,' she says."
"'Well, it's hard to believe, missus,' I said."
"'Leave that grout to dry and I'll show you,' she says. 'You can
finish behind the tub tomorrow. Come on, Homer. I'll leave a note for
Worth--he may not be back tonight anyway--and you can call your wife!
We'll be sitting down to dinner in the Pilot's Grille in'--she looks
at her watch--'two hours and forty-five minutes from right now. And
if it's a minute longer, I'll buy you a bottle of Irish Mist to take
home with you. You see, my dad was right. Save enough miles and
you'll save time, even if you have to go through every damn bog and
sump in Kennebec County to do it. Now what do you say?'"
"She was lookin at me with her brown eyes just like lamps, there was
a devilish look in them that said 'turn your cap around back'rds,
Homer, and climb aboard this hoss, I be first and you be second and
let the devil take the hindmost,' and there was a grin on her face
that said the exact same thing, and I tell you, Dave, I wanted to go.
I didn't even want to top that damn can of grout. And I certain sure
didn't want to drive that go-devil of hers. I wanted just to sit in
it on the shotgun side and watch her get in, see her skirt come up a
little, see her pull it down over her knees or not, watch her hair
shine."
He trailed off and suddenly let off a sarcastic, choked laugh. That
laugh of his sounded like a shotgun loaded with rock salt.
"Just call up Megan and say, 'You know 'Phelia Todd, that woman
you're halfway to being so jealous of now you can't see straight and
can't ever find a good word to say about her? Well, her and me is
going to make this speed-run down to Bangor in that little
champagne-colored go-devil Mercedes of hers, so don't wait dinner.'"
"Just call her up and say that. Oh yes. Oh ayuh."
And he laughed again with his hands lying there on his legs just as
natural as ever was and I seen something in his face that was almost
hateful and after a minute he took his glass of mineral water from
the railing there and got outside some of it.
"You didn't go," I said.
"Not then."
He laughed, and this laugh was gentler.
"She must have seen something in my face, because it as like she
found herself again. She stopped looking like a sorority girl and
just looked like 'Phelia Todd again. She looked down at the notebook
like she didn't know what it was she had been holding and put it down
by her side, almost behind her skirt."
"I says, 'I'd like to do just that thing, missus, but I got to finish
up here, and my wife has got a roast on for dinner.'"
"She says, 'I understand, Homer--I just got a little carried away. I
do that a lot. All the time, Worth says.' Then she kinda straightened
up and says, 'But the offer holds, any time you want to go. You can
even throw your shoulder to the back end if we get stuck somewhere.
Might save me five dollars.' And she laughed."
"'I'll take you up on it, missus,' I says, and she seen that I meant
what I said and wasn't just being polite."
"'And before you just go believing that a hundred and sixteen miles
to Bangor is out of the question, get out your own map and see how
many miles it would be as the crow flies.'"
"I finished the tiles and went home and ate leftovers--there wa'n't
no roast, and I think 'Phelia Todd knew it--and after Megan was in
bed, I got out my yardstick and a pen and my Mobil map of the state,
and I did what she had told me... because it had laid hold of my mind
a bit, you see. I drew a straight line and did out the calculations
accordin to the scale of miles. I was some surprised. Because if you
went from Castle Rock up there to Bangor like one of those little
Piper Cubs could fly on a clear day--if you didn't have to mind
lakes, or stretches of lumber company woods that was chained off, or
bogs, or crossing rivers where there wasn't no bridges, why, it would
just be seventy-nine miles, give or take."
I jumped a little.
"Measure it yourself, if you don't believe me," Homer said. "I never
knew Maine was so small until I seen that."
He had himself a drink and then looked around at me.
"There come a time the next spring when Megan was away in New
Hampshire visiting with her brother. I had to go down to the Todds'
house to take off the storm doors and put on the screens, and her
little Mercedes go-devil was there. She was down by herself."
"She come to the door and says: 'Homer! Have you come to put on the
screen doors?'"
"And right off I says: 'No, missus, I come to see if you want to give
me a ride down to Bangor the short way.'"
"Well, she looked at me with no expression on her face at all, and I
thought she had forgotten all about it. I felt my face gettin red,
the way it will when you feel you just pulled one hell of a boner.
Then, just when I was getting ready to 'pologize, her face busts into
that grin again and she says, 'You just stand right there while I get
my keys. And don't change your mind, Homer!'"
"She come back a minute later with 'em in her hand. 'If. we get
stuck, you'll see mosquitoes just about the size of dragonflies.'"
"'I've seen 'em as big as English sparrows up in Rangely, missus,' I
said, 'and I guess we're both a spot too heavy to be carried off.'"
"She laughs. 'Well, I warned you, anyway. Come on, Homer.'"
"'And if we ain't there in two hours and forty-five minutes,' I says,
kinda sly, 'you was gonna buy me a bottle of Irish Mist.'"
"She looks at me kinda surprised, the driver's door of the go-devil
open and one foot inside. 'Hell, Homer,' she says, 'I told you that
was the Blue Ribbon for then. I've found a way up there that's
shorter. We'll be there in two and a half hours. Get in here, Homer.
We are going to roll.'"
He paused again, hands lying calm on his thighs, his eyes dulling,
perhaps seeing that champagnecolored two-seater heading up the Todds'
steep driveway.
"She stood the car still at the end of it and says, 'You sure?'"
"'Let her rip,' I says. The ball bearing in her ankle rolled and that
heavy foot come down. I can't tell you nothing much about whatall
happened after that. Except after a while I couldn't hardly take my
eyes off her. There was somethin wild that crep into her face,
Dave--something wild and something free, and it frightened my heart.
She was beautiful, and I was took with love for her, anyone would
have been, any man, anyway, and maybe any woman too, but I was scairt
of her too, because she looked like she could kill you if her eye
left the road and fell on you and she decided to love you back. She
was wearin blue jeans and a old white shirt with the sleeves rolled
up--I had a idea she was maybe fixin to paint somethin on the back
deck when I came by--but after we had been goin for a while seemed
like she was dressed in nothin but all this white billowy stuff like
a pitcher in one of those old gods-and-goddesses books."
He thought, looking out across the lake, his face very somber.
"Like the huntress that was supposed to drive the moon across the
sky."
"Diana?"
"Ayuh. Moon was her go-devil. 'Phelia looked like that to me and I
just tell you fair out that I was stricken in love for her and never
would have made a move, even though I was some younger then than I am
now. I would not have made a move even had I been twenty, although I
suppose I might of at sixteen, and been killed for it--killed if she
looked at me was the way it felt.
"She was like that woman drivin the moon across the sky, halfway up
over the splashboard with her gossamer stoles all flyin out behind
her in silver cobwebs and her hair streamin back to show the dark
little hollows of her temples, lashin those horses and tellin me to
get along faster and never mind how they blowed, just faster, faster,
faster.
"We went down a lot of woods roads--the first two or three I knew,
and after that I didn't know none of them. We must have been a sight
to those trees that had never seen nothing with a motor in it before
but big old pulp-trucks and snowmobiles; that little go-devil that
would most likely have looked more at home on the Sunset Boulevard
than shooting through those woods, spitting and bulling its way up
one hill and then slamming down the next through those dusty green
bars of afternoon sunlight--she had the top down and I could smell
everything in those woods, and you know what an old fine smell that
is, like something which has been mostly left alone and is not much
troubled. We went on across corduroy which had been laid over some of
the boggiest parts, and black mud squelched up between some of those
cut logs and she laughed like a kid.
Some of the logs was old and rotted, because there hadn't been nobody
down a couple of those roads--except for her, that is--in I'm going
to say five or ten years. We was alone, except for the birds and
whatever animals seen us.' The sound of that go-devil's engine, first
buzzin along and then windin up high and fierce when she punched in
the clutch and shifted down... that was the only motor-sound I could
hear. And although I knew we had to be close to someplace all the
time--I mean, these days you always are--I started to feel like we
had gone back in time, and there wasn't nothing. That if we stopped
and I climbed a high tree, I wouldn't see nothing in any direction
but woods and woods and more woods. And all the time she's just
hammering that thing along, her hair all out behind her, smilin, her
eyes flashin. So we come out on the Speckled Bird Mountain Road and
for a while I known where we were again, and then she turned off and
for just a little bit I thought I knew, and then I didn't even bother
to kid myself no more. We went cut-slam down another woods road, and
then we come out--I swear it--on a nice paved road with a sign that
said MOTORWAY B. You ever heard of a road in the state of Maine that
was called MOTORWAY B?"
"No," I says. "Sounds English."
"Ayuh. Looked English. These trees like willows overhung the road.
'Now watch out here, Homer,' she says, 'one of those nearly grabbed
me a month ago and gave me an Indian burn.'"
"I didn't know what she was talkin about and started to say so, and
then I seen that even though there was no wind, the branches of those
trees was dippin down--they was waverin down. They looked black and
wet inside the fuzz of green on them. I couldn't believe what I was
seein. Then one of em snatched off my cap and I knew I wasn't asleep.
'Hi!' I shouts. 'Give that back!'"
"Too late now, Homer,' she says, and laughs. 'There's daylight, just
up ahead... we're okay.'"
"Then another one of 'em comes down, on her side this time, and
snatches at her--I swear it did. She ducked, and it caught in her
hair and pulled a lock of it out. 'Ouch, dammit that hurts!' she
yells, but she was laughin, too. The car swerved a little when she
ducked and I got a look into the woods and holy God, Dave!
Every thin in there was movin. There was grasses wavin and plants
that was all knotted together so it seemed like they made faces, and
I seen somethin sittin in a squat on top of a stump, and it looked
like a tree-toad, only it was as big as a full-growed cat.
"Then we come out of the shade to the top of a hill and she says,
'There! That was exciting, wasn't it?' as if she was talkin about no
more than a walk through the Haunted House at the Fryeburg Fair.
"About five minutes later we swung onto another of her woods roads. I
didn't want no more woods right then--I can tell you that for
sure--but these were just plain old woods. Half an hour after that,
we was pulling into the parking lot of the Pilot's Grille in Bangor.
She points to that little odometer for trips and says, 'Take a
gander, Homer.' I did, and it said 111.6. 'What do you think now? Do
you believe in my shortcut?'"
"That wild look had mostly faded out of her, and she was just 'Phelia
Todd again. But that other look wasn't entirely gone. It was like she
was two women, 'Phelia and Diana, and the part of her that was Diana
was so much in control when she was driving the back roads that the
part that was 'Phelia didn't have no idea that her shortcut was
taking her through places... places that ain't on any map of Maine,
not even on those survey-squares.
"She says again, 'What do you think of my shortcut, Homer?'"
"And I says the first thing to come into my mind, which ain't
something you'd usually say to a lady like 'Phelia Todd. 'It's a real
piss-cutter, missus,' I says."
"She laughs, just as pleased as punch, and I seen it then, just as
clear as glass: She didn't remember none of the funny stuff. Not the
willow-branches--except they weren't willows, not at all, not really
anything like em, or anything else--that grabbed off m'hat, not that
MOTORWAY B sign, or that awful-lookin toad-thing."
She didn't remember none of that funny stuff! Either I had dreamed it
was there or she had dreamed it wasn't.
All I knew for sure, Dave, was that we had rolled only a hundred and
eleven miles and gotten to Bangor, and that wasn't no daydream; it
was right there on the little go-devil's odometer, in black and
white.
"'Well, it is,' she says. 'It is a piss-cutter. I only wish I could
get Worth to give it a go sometime... but he'll never get out of his
rut unless someone blasts him out of it, and it would probably take a
Titan II missile to do that, because I believe he has built himself a
fallout shelter at the bottom of that rut. Come on in, Homer, and
let's dump some dinner into you.'"
"And she bought me one hell of a dinner, Dave, but I couldn't eat
very much of it. I kep thinkin about what the ride back might be
like, now that it was drawing down dark. Then, about halfway through
the meal, she excused herself and made a telephone call. When she
came back she ast me if I would mind drivin the go-devil back to
Castle Rock for her. She said she had talked to some woman who was on
the same school committee as her, and the woman said they had some
kind of problem about somethin or other. She said she'd grab herself
a Hertz car if Worth couldn't see her back down. 'Do you mind awfully
driving back in the dark?' she ast me."
"She looked at me, kinda smilin, and I knew she remembered some of it
all right--Christ knows how much, but she remembered enough to know I
wouldn't want to try her way after dark, if ever at all... although I
seen by the light in her eyes that it wouldn't have bothered her a
bit."
"So I said it wouldn't bother me, and I finished my meal better than
when I started it. It was drawin down dark by the time we was done,
and she run us over to the house of the woman she'd called. And when
she gets out she looks at me with that same light in her eyes and
says, 'Now, you're sure you don't want to wait, Homer? I saw a couple
of side roads just today, and although I can't find them on my maps,
I think they might chop a few miles.'"
"I says, 'Well, missus, I would, but at my age the best bed to sleep
in is my own, I've found. I'll take your car back and never put a
ding in her... although I guess I'll probably put on some more miles
than you did.'"
"Then she laughed, kind of soft, and she give me a kiss. That was the
best kiss I ever had in my whole life, Dave. It was just on the
cheek, and it was the chaste kiss of a married woman, but it was as
ripe as a peach, or like those flowers that open in the dark, and
when her lips touched my skin I felt like ... I don't know exactly
what I felt like, because a man can't easily hold on to those things
that happened to him with a girl who was ripe when the world was
young or how those things felt--I'm talking around what I mean, but I
think you understand. Those things all get a red cast to them in your
memory and you cannot see through it at all.
"'You're a sweet man, Homer, and I love you for listening to me and
riding with me,' she says. 'Drive safe.'"
"Then in she went, to that woman's house. Me, I drove home."
"How did you go?" I asked.
He laughed softly. "By the turnpike, you damned fool," he said, and I
never seen so many wrinkles in his face before as I did then.
He sat there, looking into the sky.
"Came the summer she disappeared. I didn't see much of her ... that
was the summer we had the fire, you'll remember, and then the big
storm that knocked down all the trees. A busy time for caretakers.
Oh, I thought about her from time to time, and about that day, and
about that kiss, and it started to seem like a dream to me. Like one
time, when I was about sixteen and couldn't think about nothing but
girls. I was out plowing George Bascomb's west field, the one that
looks acrost the lake at the mountains, dreamin about what teenage
boys dream of. And I pulled up this rock with the harrow blades, and
it split open, and it bled. At least, it looked to me like it bled.
Red stuff come runnin out of the cleft in the rock and soaked into
the soil. And I never told no one but my mother, and I never told her
what it meant to me, or what happened to me, although she washed my
drawers and maybe she knew. Anyway, she suggested I ought to pray on
it. Which I did, but I never got no enlightenment, and after a while
something started to suggest to my mind that it had been a dream.
It's that way, sometimes. There is holes in the middle, Dave. Do you
know that?"
"Yes," I says, thinking of one night when I'd seen something. That
was in '59, a bad year for us, but my kids didn't know it was a bad
year; all they knew was that they wanted to eat just like always. I'd
seen a bunch of whitetail in Henry Brugger's back field, and I was
out there after dark with a jacklight in August. You can shoot two
when they're summer-fat; the second'll come back and sniff at the
first as if to say What the hell? Is it fall already? and you can pop
him like a bowlin pin. You can hack off enough meat to feed yowwens
for six weeks and bury what's left. Those are two whitetails the
hunters who come in November don't get a shot at, but kids have to
eat. Like the man from Massachusetts said, he'd like to be able to
afford to live here the year around, and all I can say is sometimes
you pay for the privilege after dark. So there I was, and I seen this
big orange light in the sky; it come down and down, and I stood and
watched it with my mouth hung on down to my breastbone and when it
hit the lake the whole of it was lit up for a minute a purpleorange
that seemed to go right up to the sky in rays. Wasn't nobody ever
said nothing to me about that light, and I never said nothing to
nobody myself, partly because I was afraid they'd laugh, but also
because they'd wonder what the hell I'd been doing out there after
dark to start with. And after a while it was like' Homer said--it
seemed like a dream I had once had, and it didn't signify to me
because I couldn't make nothing of it which would turn under my hand.
It was like a moonbeam. It didn't have no handle and it didn't have
no blade. I couldn't make it work so I left it alone, like a man does
when he knows the day is going to come up nevertheless.
"There are holes in the middle of things," Homer said, and he sat up
straighter, like he was mad."
"Right in the damn middle of things, not even to the left or right
where your p'riph'ral vision is and you could say 'Well, but hell--'
They are there and you go around them like you'd go around a pothole
in the road that would break an axle. You know? And you forget it. Or
like if you are plowin, you can plow a dip. But if there's somethin
like a break in the earth, where you see darkness,.like a cave might
be there, you say 'Go around, old hoss. Leave that alone! I got a
good shot over here to the left'ards.' Because it wasn't a cave you
was lookin for, or some kind of college excitement, but good plowin."
"Holes in the middle of things."
He fell still a long time then and I let him be still. Didn't have no
urge to move him. And at last he says:
"She disappeared in August. I seen her for the first time in early
July, and she looked..." Homer turned to me and spoke each word with
careful, spaced emphasis. "Dave Owens, she looked gorgeous! Gorgeous
and wild and almost untamed. The little wrinkles I'd started to
notice around her eyes all seemed to be gone. Worth Todd, he was at
some conference or something in Boston. And she stands there at the
edge of the deck--I was out in the middle with my shirt off--and she
says, 'Homer, you'll never believe it.'"
"'No, missus, but I'll try,' I says."
"'I found two new roads,' she says, 'and I got up to Bangor this last
time in just sixty-seven miles.'"
"I remembered what she said before and I says, 'That's not possible,
missus. Beggin your pardon, but I did the mileage on the map myself,
and seventy-nine is tops ... as the crow flies.'"
"She laughed, and she looked prettier than ever. Like a goddess in
the sun, on one of those hills in a story where there's nothing but
green grass and fountains and no puckies to tear at a man's forearms
at all."
'That's right,' she says, 'and you can't run a mile in under four
minutes. It's been mathematically proved.'"
"'It ain't the same,' I says."
"'It's the same,' she says. 'Fold the map and see how many miles it
is then, Homer. It can be a little less than a straight line if you
fold it a little, or it can be a lot less if you fold it a lot.'"
"I remembered our ride then, the way you remember a dream, and I
says, 'Missus, you can fold a map on paper but you can't fold land.
Or at least you shouldn't ought to try. You want to leave it
alone.'"
"'No sir,' she says. 'It's the one thing right now in my life that I
won't leave alone, because it's there, and it's mine.'"
"Three weeks later--this would be about two weeks before she
disappeared--she give me a call from Bangor. She says, 'Worth has
gone to New York, and I am coming down. I've misplaced my damn key,
Homer. I'd like you to open the house so I can get in.'"
"Well, that call come at eight o'clock, just when it was starting to
come down dark. I had a sanwidge and a beer before leaving--about
twenty minutes. Then I took a ride down there. All in all, I'd say I
was fortyfive minutes. When I got down there to the Todds', I seen
there was a light on in the pantry I didn't leave on while I was
comin down the driveway. I was lookin at that, and I almost run right
into her little go-devil. It was parked kind of on a .slant, the way
a drunk would park it, and it was splashed with muck all the way up
to the windows, and there was this stuff stuck in that mud along the
body that looked like seaweed... only when my lights hit it, it
seemed to be movin. I parked behind it and got out of my truck. That
stuff wasn't seaweed, but it was weeds, and it was movin... kinda
slow and sluggish, like it was dyin. I touched a piece of it, and it
tried to wrap itself around my hand. It felt nasty and awful. I drug
my hand away and wiped it on my pants. I went around to the front of
the car. It looked like it had come through about ninety miles of
splash and low country. Looked tired, it did. Bugs was splashed all
over the windshield--only they didn't look like no kind of bugs I
ever seen before. There was a moth that was about the size of a
sparrow, its wings still flappin a little, feeble and dyin. There was
things like mosquitoes, only they had real eyes that you could
see--and they seemed to be seein me. I could hear those weeds scrapin
against the body of the go-devil, dyin, tryin to get a hold on
somethin. And all I could think was Where in the hell has she been?
And how did she get here in only three-quarters of an hour? Then I
seen somethin else. There was some kind of a animal half-smashed onto
the radiator grille, just under where that Mercedes ornament is--the
one that looks kinda like a star looped up into a circle? Now most
small animals you kill on the road is bore right under the car,
because they are crouching when it hits them, hoping it'll just go
over and leave them with their hide still attached to their meat. But
every now and then one will jump, not away, but right at the damn
car, as if to get in one good bite of whatever the buggardly thing is
that's going to kill it--I have known that to happen. This thing had
maybe done that. And it looked mean enough to jump a Sherman tank. It
looked like something which come of a mating between a woodchuck and
a weasel, but there was other stuff thrown in that a body didn't even
want to look at. It hurt your eyes, Dave; worse'n that, it hurt your
mind. Its pelt was matted with blood, and there was claws sprung out
of the pads on its feet like a cat's claws, only longer. It had big
yellowy eyes, only they was glazed. When I was a kid I had a
porcelain marble--a croaker--that looked like that. And teeth. Long
thin needle teeth that looked almost like darning needles, stickin
out of its mouth. Some of them was sunk right into that steel
grillwork. That's why it was still hanging on; it had hung its own
self on by the teeth. I looked at it and knowed it had a headful of
poison just like a rattlesnake, and it jumped at that go-devil when
it saw it was about to be run down, tryin to bite it to death. And I
wouldn't be the one to try and yonk it offa there because I had cuts
on my hands-- hay-cuts--and I thought it would kill me as dead as a
stone parker if some of that poison seeped into the cuts.
"I went around to the driver's door and opened it. The inside light
come on, and I looked at that special odometer that she set for
trips... and what I seen there was 31.6."
"I looked at that for a bit, and then I went to the back door. She'd
forced the screen and broke the glass by the lock so she could get
her hand through and let herself in. There was a note that said:
'Dear Homer--got here a little sooner than I thought I would. Found a
shortcut, and it is a dilly! You hadn't come yet so I let myself in
like a burglar. Worth is coming day after tomorrow. Can you get the
screen fixed and the door reglazed by then? Hope so. Things like that
always bother him. If I don't come out to say hello, you'll know I'm
asleep. The drive was very tiring, but I was here in no time!
Ophelia.'"
"'Tirin! I took another look at that bogey-thing hangin offa the
grille of her car, and I thought Yessir, it must have been tiring. By
God, yes."
He paused again, and cracked a restless knuckle. "I seen her only
once more. About a week later. Worth was there, but he was swimmin
out in the lake, back and forth, back and forth, like he was sawin
wood or signin papers. More like he was signin papers, I guess."
"'Missus,' I says, 'this ain't my business, but you ought to leave
well enough alone. That night you corne back and broke the glass of
the door to come in, I seen somethin hangin off the front of your
car--'"
"'Oh, the chuck! I took care of that,' she says."
"'Christ!' I says. 'I hope you took some care!'"
"'I wore Worth's gardening gloves,' she said. 'It wasn't anything
anyway, Homer, but a jumped-up woodchuck with a little poison in
it.'"
"'But missus,' I says, 'where there's woodchucks there's bears. And
if that's what the woodchucks look like along your shortcut, what's
going to happen to you if a bear shows up?'"
"She looked at me, and I seen that other woman in her--that
Diana-woman. She says, 'If things are different along those roads,
Homer, maybe I am different, too. Look at this.'"
"Her hair was done up in a clip at the back, looked sort of like a
butterfly and had a stick through it. She let it down. It was the
kind of hair that would make a man wonder what it would look like
spread out over a pillow. She says, 'It was coming in gray, Homer. Do
you see any gray?' And she spread it with her fingers so the sun
could shine on it."
"'No'm,' I says."
"She looks at me, her eyes all a-sparkle, and she says, 'Your wife is
a good woman, Homer Buckland, but she has seen me in the store and in
the post office, and we've passed the odd word or two, and I have
seen her looking at my hair in a kind of satisfied way that only
women know. I know what she says, and what she tells her friends...
that Ophelia Todd has started dyeing her hair. But I have not. I have
lost my way looking for a shortcut more than once... lost my way...
and lost my gray.' And she laughed, not like a college girl but like
a girl in high school. I admired her and longed for her beauty, but I
seen that other beauty in her face as well just then... and I felt
afraid again. Afraid for her, and afraid of her.
"'Missus,' I says, 'you stand to lose more than a little sta'ch in
your hair.'"
"'No,' she says. 'I tell you I am different over there ... I am all
myself over there. When I am going along that road in my little car I
am not Ophelia Todd, Worth Todd's wife who could never carry a child
to term, or that woman who tried to write poetry and failed at it, or
the woman who sits and takes notes in committee meetings, or anything
or anyone else. When I am on that road I am in the heart of myself,
and I feel like--'"
"'Diana,' I said."
"She looked at me kind of funny and kind of surprised, and then she
laughed. 'O like some goddess, I suppose,' she said. 'She will do
better than most because I am a night person--I love to stay up until
my book is done or until the National Anthem comes on the TV, and
because I am very pale, like the moon--Worth is always saying I need
a tonic, or blood tests or some sort of similar bosh. But in her
heart what every woman wants to be is some kind of goddess, I
think--men pick up a ruined echo of that thought and try to put them
on pedestals (a woman, who will pee down her own leg if she does not
squat! it's funny when you stop to think of it)--but what a man
senses is not what a woman wants. A woman wants to be in the clear,
is all. To stand if she will, or walk ...' Her eyes turned toward
that little go-devil in the driveway, and narrowed. Then she smiled.
'Or to drive, Homer. A man will not see that. He thinks a goddess
wants to loll on a slope somewhere on the foothills of Olympus and
eat fruit, but there is no god or goddess in that. All a woman wants
is what a man wants--a woman wants to drive.'"
"'Be careful where you drive, missus, is all,' I says, and she laughs
and give me a kiss spang in the middle of the forehead."
"She says, 'I will, Homer,' but it didn't mean nothing, and I known
it, because she said it like a man who says he'll be careful to his
wife or his girl when he knows he won't ... can't."
"I went back to my truck and waved to her once, and it was a week
later that Worth reported her missing. Her and that go-devil both.
Todd waited seven years and had her declared legally dead, and then
he waited another year for good measure--I'll give the sucker that
much--and then he married the second Missus Todd. the one that just
went by. And I don't expect you'll believe a single damn word of the
whole yarn."
In the sky one of those big flat-bottomed clouds moved enough to
disclose the ghost of the moon--half-full and pale as milk. And
something in my heart leaped up at the sight, half in fright, half in
love.
"I do though," I said. "Every frigging damned word. And even if it
ain't true, Homer, it ought to be."
He give me a hug around the neck with his forearm, which is all men
can do since the world don't let them kiss but only women, and
laughed, and got up.
"Even if it shouldn't ought to be, it is," he said. He got his watch
out of his pants and looked at it. "I got to go down the road and
check on the Scott place. You want to come?"
"I believe I'll sit here for a while," I said, "and think."
He went to the steps, then turned back and looked at me,
half-smiling. "I believe she was right," he said. "She was different
along those roads she found ... wasn't nothing that would dare touch
her. You or me, maybe, but not her."
"And I believe she's young."
Then he got in his truck and set off to check the Scott place. That
was two years ago, and Homer has since gone to Vermont, as I think I
told you. One night he come over to see me. His hair was combed, he
had a shave, and he smelled of some nice lotion. His face was clear
and his eyes were alive. That night he looked sixty instead of
seventy, and I was glad for him and I envied him and I hated him a
little, too. Arthritis is one buggardly great old fisherman, and that
night Homer didn't look like arthritis had any fishhooks sunk into
his hands the way they were sunk into mine.
"I'm going," he said.
"Ayuh?"
"Ayuh."
"All right; did you see to forwarding your mail?"
"Don't want none forwarded," he said. "My bills are paid. I am going
to make a clean break."
"Well, give me your address. I'll drop you a line from one time to
the another, old hoss." Already I could feel loneliness settling over
me like a cloak ... and looking at him, I knew that things were not
quite what they seemed.
"Don't have none yet," he said.
"All right," I said. "Is it Vermont, Homer?"
"Well," he said, "it'll do for people who want to know."
I almost didn't say it and then I did. "What does she look like now?"
"Like Diana," he said. "But she is kinder."
"I envy you, Homer," I said, and I did.
I stood at the door. It was twilight in that deep part of summer when
the fields fill with perfume and Queen Anne's Lace. A full moon was
beating a silver track across the lake. He went across my porch and
down the steps. A car was standing on the soft shoulder of the road,
its engine idling heavy, the way the old ones do that still run full
bore straight ahead and damn the torpedoes. Now that I think of it,
that car looked like a torpedo. It looked beat up some, but as if it
could go the ton without breathin hard. He stopped at the foot of my
steps and picked something up--it was his gas can, the big one that
holds ten gallons. He went down my walk to the passenger side of the
car. She leaned over and opened the door. The inside light came on
and just for a moment I saw her, long red hair around her face, her
forehead shining like a lamp. Shining like the moon. He got in and
she drove away. I stood out on my porch and watched the taillights of
her little go-devil twinkling red in the dark ... getting smaller and
smaller. They were like embers, then they were like flickerflies, and
then they were gone.
Vermont, I tell the folks from town, and Vermont they believe,
because it's as far as most of them can see inside their heads.
Sometimes I almost believe it myself, mostly when I'm tired and done
up. Other times I think about them, though--all this October I have
done so, it seems, because October is the time when men think mostly
about far places and the roads, which might get them there. I sit on
the bench in front of Bell's Market and think about Homer Buckland
and about the beautiful girl who leaned over to open his door when he
come down that path with the full red gasoline can in his right
hand--she looked like a girl of no more than sixteen, a girl on her
learner's permit, and her beauy was terrible, but I believe it would
no longer kill the man it turned itself on; for a moment her eyes lit
on me, I was not killed, although part of me died at her feet.
Olympus must be a glory to the eyes and the heart, and there are
those who crave it and those who find a clear way to it, mayhap, but
I know Castle Rock like the back of my hand and I could never leave
it for no shortcuts where the roads may go; in October the sky over
the lake is no glory but it is passing fair, with those big white
clouds that move so slow; I sit here on the bench, and think about
'Phelia Todd and Homer Buckland, and I don't necessarily wish I was
where they are ... but I still wish I was a smoking man.
IMG Artemis by Marilee Heyer (2001)
tags: fantasy,personal anthology,short story
# Tags
DIR fantasy
DIR personal anthology
DIR short story