Salem's Lot

Chapter Eight

BEN (III)

1

The kicking must have been going on for a long time, because it seemed to echo far down the avenues of sleep as he slowly struggled up to wakefulness. It was dark outside, but when he turned to grasp the clock and bring it to his face, he knocked it onto the floor. He felt disoriented and frightened.

‘Who is it?’ he called out.

‘It’s Eva, Mr Mears. There’s a phone call for you.’

He got up, pulled on his pants, and opened the door bare-chested. Eva Miller was in a white terry-cloth robe, and her face was full of the slow vulnerability of a person still two-fifths asleep. They looked at each other nakedly, and he was thinking: Who’s sick? Who’s died?

‘Long-distance?’

‘No, it’s Matthew Burke.’

The knowledge did not relieve him as it should have done. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just after four. Mr Burke sounds very-upset.

Ben went downstairs and picked the phone up. ‘This is Ben, Matt.’

Matt was breathing rapidly into the phone, the sound of his respiration coming in harsh little blurts. ‘Can you come, Ben? Right now?’

‘Yes, all right. What’s the matter? Are you sick?’

‘Not on the phone. Just come.’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘Ben?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you got a crucifix? A St Christopher’s medallion? Anything like that?’

‘Hell no. I’m- was-a Baptist.’

‘All right. Come fast.’

Ben hung up and went back upstairs quickly. Eva was standing with one hand on the newel post, her face filled with worry and indecision-on one hand wanting to know, on the other, not wanting to mix in the tenant’s business.

‘Is Mr Burke sick, Mr Mears?’

‘He says not. He just asked me… say, you aren’t Catholic?’

‘My husband was.’

‘Do you have a crucifix or a rosary or a St Christopher’s medallion?’

‘Well… my husband’s crucifix is in the bedroom… I could… ’

‘Yes, would you?’

She went up the hall, her furry slippers scuffing at the faded strip of carpet. Ben went into his room, pulled on yesterday’s shirt, and slipped his bare feet into a pair of loafers. When he came out again, Eva was standing by his door, holding the crucifix. It caught the light and threw back dim silver.

‘Thank you,’ he said, taking it.

‘Did Mr Burke ask you for this?’

‘Yes, he did.’

She was frowning, more awake now. ‘He’s not Catholic. I don’t believe he goes to church.’

‘He didn’t explain to me.’

‘Oh.’ She nodded in a charade of understanding and gave him the crucifix. ‘Please be careful of it. It has great value for me.’

‘I understand that. I will.’

‘I hope Mr Burke is all right. He’s a fine man.’

He went downstairs and out onto the porch. He could not hold the crucifix and dig for his car keys at the same time, and instead of simply transferring it from his right hand to his left, he slipped it over his neck. The silver slipped comfortably against his shirt, and getting into the car he was hardly aware that he felt comforted.