Salem's Lot

He had a small house out on the Taggart Stream Road, and had very few callers. He had never been married, had no family except for a brother in Texas who worked for an oil company and never wrote. He did not really miss the attachments. He was a solitary man, but solitude had in no way twisted him.

He paused at the blinking light at the intersection of Jointner Avenue and Brock Street, then turned toward home. The shadows were long now, and the daylight had taken on a curiously beautiful warmth—flat and golden, like something from a French Impressionist painting. He glanced over to his left, saw the Marsten House, and glanced again.

“The shutters,” he said aloud, against the driving beat from the radio. “Those shutters are back up.”

He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that there was a car parked in the driveway. He had been teaching in ’salem’s Lot since 1952, and he had never seen a car parked in that driveway.

“Is someone living up there?” he asked no one in particular, and drove on.

SIXTEEN

6:00 PM

Susan’s father, Bill Norton, the Lot’s first selectman, was surprised to find that he liked Ben Mears—liked him quite a lot. Bill was a big, tough man with black hair, built like a truck, and not fat even after fifty. He had left high school for the Navy in the eleventh grade with his father’s permission, and he had clawed his way up from there, picking up his diploma at the age of twenty-four on a high school equivalency test taken almost as an afterthought. He was not a blind, bullish anti-intellectual as some plain workingmen become when they are denied the level of learning that they may have been capable of, either through fate or their own doing, but he had no patience with “art farts,” as he termed some of the doe-eyed, long-haired boys Susan had brought home from school. He didn’t mind their hair or their dress. What bothered him was that none of them seemed serious-minded. He didn’t share his wife’s liking for Floyd Tibbits, the boy that Susie had been going around with the most since she graduated, but he didn’t actively dislike him, either. Floyd had a pretty good job at the executive level in the Falmouth Grant’s, and Bill Norton considered him to be moderately serious-minded. And he was a hometown boy. But so was this Mears, in a ma

“Now, you leave him alone about that art fart business,” Susan said, rising at the sound of the doorbell. She was wearing a light green summer dress, her new casual hairdo pulled back and tied loosely with a hank of oversized green yarn.

Bill laughed. “I got to call ’em as I see ’em, Susie darlin’. I won’t embarrass you…never do, do I?”

She gave him a pensive, nervous smile and went to open the door.

The man who came back in with her was lanky and agile-looking, with finely drawn features and a thick, almost greasy shock of black hair that looked freshly washed despite its natural oiliness. He was dressed in a way that impressed Bill favorably: plain blue jeans, very new, and a white shirt rolled to the elbows.

“Ben, this is my dad and mom—Bill and A

“Hello. Nice to meet you.”

He smiled at Mrs Norton with a touch of reserve and she said, “Hello, Mr Mears. This is the first time we’ve seen a real live author up close. Susan has been awfullyexcited.”

“Don’t worry; I don’t quote from my own works.” He smiled again.

“H’lo,” Bill said, and heaved himself up out of his chair. He had worked himself up to the union position he now held on the Portland docks, and his grip was hard and strong. But Mears’s hand did not crimp and jellyfish like that of your ordinary, garden-variety art fart, and Bill was pleased. He imposed his second testing criterion.

“Like a beer? Got some on ice out yonder.” He gestured toward the back patio, which he had built himself. Art farts invariably said no; most of them were potheads and couldn’t waste their valuable consciousness juicing.

“Man, I’d love a beer,” Ben said, and the smile became a grin. “Two or three, even.”

Bill’s laughter boomed out. “Okay, you’re my man. Come on.”

At the sound of his laughter, an odd communication seemed to pass between the two women, who bore a strong resemblance to each other. A

Ben followed Bill out onto the veranda. An ice chest sat on a stool in the corner, stuffed with ring-tab cans of Pabst. Bill pulled a can out of the cooler and tossed it to Ben, who caught it one-hand but lightly, so it wouldn’t fizz.

“Nice out here,” Ben said, looking toward the barbecue in the backyard. It was a low, businesslike construction of bricks, and a shimmer of heat hung over it.

“Built it myself,” Bill said. “Better be nice.”

Ben drank deeply and then belched, another sign in his favor.

“Susie thinks you’re quite the fella,” Norton said.

“She’s a nice girl.”

“Good practical girl,” Norton added, and belched reflectively. “She says you’ve written three books. Published ’em, too.”

“Yes, that’s so.”

“They do well?”

“The first did,” Ben said, and said no more. Bill Norton nodded slightly, in approval of a man who had enough marbles to keep his dollars-and-cents business to himself.

“You like to lend a hand with some burgers and hot dogs?”

“Sure.”

“You got to cut the hot dogs to let the squidges out of ’em. You know about that?”

“Yeah.” He made diagonal slashes in the air with his right index finger, gri

“You came from this neck of the woods, all right,” Bill Norton said. “Goddamn well told. Take that bag of briquettes over there and I’ll get the meat. Bring your beer.”

“You couldn’t part me from it.”

Bill hesitated on the verge of going in and cocked an eyebrow at Ben Mears. “You a serious-minded fella?” he asked.

Ben smiled, a trifle grimly. “That I am,” he said.

Bill nodded. “That’s good,” he said, and went inside.

Babs Griffen’s prediction of rain was a million miles wrong, and the backyard di

“I got a book on the fire,” he said. “I owe another six pages. If I get drunk, I won’t even be able to read what I wrote tomorrow morning.”

Susan saw him to the front gate—he had walked up from town. Bill nodded to himself as he damped the fire. He had said he was serious-minded, and Bill was ready to take him at his word. He had not come with a big case on to impress anyone, but any man who worked after di

A

SEVENTEEN

7:00 PM

Floyd Tibbits pulled into the crushed-stone parking lot at Dell’s about ten minutes after Delbert Markey, owner and bartender, had turned on his new pink sign out front. The sign said dell’s in letters three feet high, and the apostrophe was a highball glass.

Outside, the sunlight had been leached from the sky by gathering purple twilight, and soon ground mist would begin to form in the low-lying pockets of land. The night’s regulars would begin to show up in another hour or so.

“Hi, Floyd,” Dell said, pulling a Michelob out of the cooler. “Good day?”

“Fair,” Floyd said. “That beer looks good.”

He was a tall man with a well-trimmed sandy beard, now dressed in double-knit slacks and a casual sports jacket—his Grant’s working uniform. He was second in charge of credit, and liked his work in the absent kind of way that can cross the line into boredom almost overnight. He felt himself to be drifting, but the sensation was not actively unpleasant. And there was Suze—a fine girl. She was going to come around before much longer, and then he supposed he would have to make something of himself.