'Yeah, nobody to say the Monster Words, that's the matter, that's a lot the matter,' Tad answered now, wiping the tears off his cheeks in disgust and embarrassment.
'Well, listen,' Vic said. 'They're written down. That's how I can say them the same every night. I'll print them on a piece of paper and tack them to your wall. And Mommy can read them to you every night I'm gone.'
'Yeah? Will you?'
'Sure. Said I would.'
'You won't forget?'
'No way, man. I'll do it tonight.'
Tad put his arms around his father, and Vic hugged him tight.
That night, after Tad slept, Vic went quietly into the boy's room and tacked a sheet of paper to the wall with a pushpin. He put it right next to Tad's Mighty Marvel Calender, where the kid couldn't miss it. Printed in large, clear letters on this sheet of paper was:
THE MONSTER WORDS
For Tad
Monsters, stay out of this room!
You have no business here.
No monsters under Tad's bed!
You can't fit under there.
No monsters hiding in Tad's closet!
It's too small in there.
No monsters outside of Tad's window!
You can't hold on out there.
No vampires, no werewolves, no things that bite.
You have no business here.
Nothing will touch Tad, or hurt Tad, all this night.
You have no business here.
Vic looked at this for a long time and reminded himself to tell Donna at least twice more before he left to read it to the kid every night. To impress on her how important the Monster Words were to Tad.
On his way out, he saw the closet door was open. just a crack. He closed the door firmly and left his son's room.
Sometime much later that evening, the door swung open again.
Heat lightning flickered sporadically, tattooing crazy shadows in there.
But Tad did not wake.
The next day, at quarter past seven in the morning, Steve Kemp's van backed out onto Route 11. Steve made miles, heading for Route 302. There he would turn left and drive southeast, crossing the state to Portland. He intended to flop at the Portland YMCA for a while.
On the van's dashboard was a neat pile of addressed mail -not printed in block letters this time but typed on his own machine.
The typewriter was now in the back of the van, along with the rest of his stuff. It had taken him only an hour and a half to pack in his Castle Rock operation, including Bernie Carbo, who was now snoozing in his box by the rear doors. He and Bernie traveled light.
The typing job on the envelopes was a professional one. Sixteen years of creative writing had turned him into an excellent typist, if nothing else. He pulled over to the same box from which he had posted the anonymous note to Vic Trenton the night before and dropped the letters in. It would not have bothered him in the least to run out owing rent on the shop and the house if he had intended to leave the state, but since he was only going as far as Portland, it seemed prudent to do everything legally. This time he could afford not to cut corners; there was better than six hundred dollars in cash tucked into the small bolthole behind the van's glove compartment.
In addition to a check covering the rent he owed, he was returning deposits to several people who had made them on bigger jobs.
Accompanying each check was a polite note saying he was very sorry to have caused any inconvenience but his mother had been taken suddenly and seriously ill (every red-blooded American was a sucker for a mornstory). Those for whom he had contracted to do work could pick up their furniture at the shop - the key was on the ledge above the door, just to the right, and would they kindly return the key to the same place after they had made their pickup.
Thank you, thank you, blahdeblah, bullshitbullshit. There would be some inconvenience, but no real hassle.
Steve dropped the letters into the mailbox. There was that satisfied feeling of having his ass well covered. He drove away toward Portland, singing along with the Grateful Dead, who were delivering 'Sugaree.' He pushed the van up to fifty-five, hoping traffic would stay light so he could get to Portland early enough to grab a court at Tennis of Maine. All in all, it looked like a good day. If Mr. Businessman hadn't received his little letter bomb yet, he surely would today. Nifty, Steve thought, and burst out laughing.
At half past seven, as Steve Kemp was thinking Tennis and Vic Trenton was reminding himself to call Joe Camber about his wife's balky Pinto, Charity Camber was fixing her son's breakfast. Joe had left for Lewiston half an hour ago, hoping to find a '72 Camaro windshield at one of the city's automobile junkyards or used-parts outfits. This jibed well with Charity's plans, which she had made slowly and carefully.
She put Brett's plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him and then sat down next to the boy. Brett glanced up from the book he was reading in mild surprise. After fixing his breakfast, his mother usually started on her round of morning chores. If you spoke to her too much before she got herself around a second cup of coffee, she was apt to show you the rough side of her tongue.
'Can I talk to you a minute, Brett?'
Mild surprise turned to something. like amazement. Looking at her, he saw something utterly foreign to his mother's taciturn nature. She was nervous. He closed his book and said, 'Sure, Mom.'
'Would you like-' She cleared her throat and began again. 'How would you like to go down to Stratford, Connecticut, and see your Aunt Holly and your Uncle Jim? And your cousins?'
