The Dead Zone(19)

Vera had closed her eyes and had folded her hands in the middle of her thin bosom. Herb tried to control his irritation. Restrained himself from saying, 'Vera, the Bible makes the strong suggestion that you go and do that in your closet.' That would earn him Vera Smith's Sweet Smile for Unbelieving and Hellbound Husbands. At two o'clock in the morning, and on hold to boot, he didn't think he could take that particular smile.

The phone clunked again and a different male voice, an older one, said, 'Hello, Mr. Smith?'

'Yes, who is this?'

'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, sir. Sergeant Meggs of the state police, Orono branch.'

'Is it my boy? Something about my boy?'

Unaware, he sagged onto the seat of the phone nook. He felt weak all over.

Sergeant Meggs said, 'Do you have a son named John Smith, no middle initial?'

'Is he all right? Is he okay?'

Footsteps on the stairs. Vera stood beside him. For a moment she looked calm, and then she clawed for the phone like a tigress. 'What is it? What's happened to my Johnny?'

Herb yanked the handset away from her, splintering one of her fingernails. Staring at her hard he said, 'I am handling this.'

She stood looking at him, her mild, faded blue eyes wide above the hand clapped to her mouth.

'Mr. Smith, are you there?'

Words that seemed coated with novocaine fell from Herb's mouth. 'I have a son named John Smith, no middle initial, yes. He lives in Cleaves Mills. He's a teacher at the high school there.'

'He's been in a car accident, Mr. Smith. His condition is extremely grave. I'm very sorry to have to give you this news.' The voice of Meggs was cadenced, formal.

'Oh, my God,' Herb. said. His thoughts were whirling. Once, in the army, a great, mean, blond-haired Southern boy named Childress had beaten the crap out of him behind an Atlanta bar. Herb had felt like this then, unmanned, all his thoughts knocked into a useless, smeary sprawl. 'Oh, my God,' he said again.

'He's dead?' Vera asked. 'He's dead? Johnny's dead?'

He covered the mouthpiece. 'No,' he said. 'Not dead.'

'Not dead! Not dead!' she cried, and fell on her knees in the phone nook with an audible thud. '0 God we most heartily thank Thee and ask that You show Thy tender care and loving mercy to our son and shelter him with Your loving hand we ask it in the name of Thy only begotten Son Jesus and...

'Vera shut up!'

For a moment all three of them were silent, as if considering the world and its not-so-amusing ways: Herb, his bulk squashed into the phone nook bench with his knees crushed up against the underside of the desk and a bouquet of plastic flowers in his face: Vera with her knees planted on the hallway furnace grille; the unseen Sergeant Meggs was in a strange auditory way witnessing this black comedy.

'Mr. Smith?'

'Yes.I... I apologize for the ruckus.'

'Quite understandable,' Meggs said.

'My boy... Johnny.. was he driving his Volkswagen?'

'Deathtraps, deathtraps, those little beetles are death-traps,' Vera babbled. Tears streamed down her face, sliding over the smooth hard surface of the nightpack like rain on chrome.

'He was in a Bangor & Orono Yellow Cab,' Meggs said. 'I'll give you the situation as I understand it now. There were three vehicles involved, two of them driven by kids from Cleaves Mills. They were dragging. They came up over what's known as Carson's Hill on Route 6, headed east. Your son was in the cab, headed west, toward Cleaves. The cab and the car on the wrong side of the road collided headon. The cab driver was killed, and so was the boy driving the other car. Your son and a passenger in that other car are at Eastern Maine Med. I understand both of them are listed as critical.'

'Critical,' Herb said.

'Critical! Critical! ' Vera moaned.

Oh, Christ, we sound like one of those weird off Broadway shows, Herb thought. He felt embarrassed for Vera, and for Sergeant Meggs, who must surely be hearing Vera, like some nutty Greek chorus in the back-ground. He wondered how many conversations like this Sergeant Meggs had held in the course of his job. He decided he must have had a good many. Possibly he had already called the cab driver's wife and the dead boy's mother to pass the news. How had they reacted? And what did it matter? Wasn't it Vera's right to weep for her son? And why did a person have to think such crazy things at a time like this?

'Eastern Maine,' Herb said. He jotted it on a pad. The drawing on top of the pad showed a smiling telephone handset. The phone cord spelled out the words PHONE PAL. 'How is he hurt?'

'I beg your pardon, Mr. Smith?'

'Where did he get it? Head? Belly? What? Is he burned?'

Vera shrieked.

'Vera can you please shut UP!'

'You'd have to call the hospital for that information,' Meggs said carefully. 'I'm a couple of hours from having a complete report.'

'All right. All right.'

'Mr. Smith, I'm sorry to have to call you in the middle of the night with such bad news ...

'It's bad, all right,' he said. 'I've got to call the hospital, Sergeant Meggs. Good-bye.'

'Good night, Mr. Smith.'

Herb hung up and stared stupidly at the phone. Just like that it happens, he thought. How 'bout that. Johnny.