Read Storm of the Century Online
Authors: Stephen King
He slams the car door, starts the engine, and pulls out onto Main Street. HATCH helplessly watches him go.
155 EXTERIOR: THE LAWN OF THE TOWN HALL--MORNING.
THE CAMERA looks down toward Main Street and picks up MIKE’S car, heading toward the docks where the interisland ferry is backed up, ENGINE RUMBLING. We HOLD for a moment, then PAN
LEFT, to the cupola and the memorial bell. A second plaque has been added, to the right of the war dead. Heading it is this: THOSE LOST IN THE STORM OF THE CENTURY, 1989. Below are the names: MARTHA CLARENDON, PETER GODSOE, WILLIAM SOAMES, LLOYD WISHMAN, CORA STANHOPE, JANE KINGSBURY, WILLIAM TIMMONS, GEORGE KIRBY . . . and, at the very bottom, RALPH ANDERSON.
THE CAMERA MOVES IN ON HIS NAME.
156 INTERIOR: THE COUNSELOR’S OFFICE--MORNING.
MOLLY has stopped talking and just looks out the window. Fresh tears well in her eyes and spill down her cheeks, but her weeping REMAINS SILENT.
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Molly . . . ?
He wandered away into the whiteout. Maybe he wound up with Bill Timmons, the gas station man. I like to think so; that he was with somebody at the end. They must have lost their bearings completely and gone into the water. They were the two who were never found.
There’s a great deal of this story you haven’t told me, isn’t there?
(silence from MOLLY)
Until you do, until you tell someone, it will keep festering.
It will fester no matter what I do. Some wounds can never be cleaned out. I didn’t understand that . . . before . . . but now I do.
Why does your husband hate you so, Molly? What really happened to Ralphie?
CAMERA MOVES IN ON MOLLY. She is still looking out the window. It’s sunny in the COUNSELOR’S yard; the grass is green and there are flowers . . . but it’s SNOWING. The snow falls thickly, coating the grass and the walks, heaping on the leafy branches of the trees.
We MOVE IN ON MOLLY, MOVE IN TO EXTREME CLOSE-UP as she looks out on the falling snow.
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He wandered away. People do, you know. They get lost. That’s what happened to Ralphie. He was lost in the white-out. He was lost in the storm.
DISSOLVE TO:
157 EXTERIOR: THE FERRY--MORNING.
It’s trudging its way across the reach to Machias. The cars are parked on the apron at the back, MIKE’S among them. MIKE himself stands alone at the rail, his face up, the ocean breeze blowing his hair back from his forehead. He looks almost at peace.
MIKE (voice-over)
Nine years ago, that was. I just gassed my car and left on the 11:10 ferry. I’ve never been back.
DISSOLVE TO:
158 INTERIOR: THE COUNSELOR’S OFFICE--MORNING.
MOLLY’S session is over. The clock on the wall reads 11:55. She stands at the COUNSELOR’S
desk, writing a check. The COUNSELOR looks at her with a troubled expression, knowing that she has lost, and once again the island has won. The secret--whatever it is--has been kept.
Neither of them see MIKE’S little white car go by.
MIKE (voice-over)
I didn’t think about where I was going, at first--I just drove.
159 EXTERIOR: MIKE, THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD OF HIS CAR--SUNSET.
He’s wearing dark glasses against the BRIGHT ORANGE GLOW. Reflected in each lens is a SETTING SUN.
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MIKE (voice-over)
All I cared about was that I had to wear sunglasses every night when the sun went down. That every mile on the odometer was a mile further away from Little Tall.
160 EXTERIOR: THE AMERICAN DESERT--MIDDAY.
Two-lane blacktop runs through the middle of the frame. The white car enters, moving fast, and THE
CAMERA SWINGS TO FOLLOW.
MIKE (voice-over)
The divorce was no-fault. Moll got the bank accounts, the insurance, the store, the house, and a little piece of land we had in Vanceboro. I got the Toyota and the peace of mind, (pause) What was left of it.
161 EXTERIOR: THE GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE--TWILIGHT.
MIKE (voice-over)
I wound up here . . . back on the water again. Ironic I guess, huh? But it’s different, somehow, the Pacific. It doesn’t have that hard glow when the days start to run down toward winter, (pause) And it doesn’t have the same memories.
162 EXTERIOR: A SKYSCRAPER ON MONTGOMERY STREET, SAN FRANCISCO--DAY.
MIKE comes out--an older MIKE, with gray at his temples and lines on his face--but one who looks as if he’s made his peace with the world. Or found some. He wears a suit (casual, no tie) and carries a briefcase. He and the man with him walk to a sedan parked at the curb. It pulls out into traffic, swinging around a cable car. Over this, MIKE talks.
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MIKE (voice-over)
I went back to school, got a degree in law enforcement and another one in accountancy. Thought about going after a law degree . . . and then thought again. Started out keeping store on an island off the Maine coast and wound up a federal marshal. How do you like that?
163 EXTERIOR: MIKE, THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD--DAY.JL
His partner is driving. MIKE sits quietly in the shotgun seat, his eyes distant. It’s the look of a man visiting along memory lane.
MIKE (voice-over)
Sometimes the island seems very far away, and Andre Linoge just a bad dream I had. Sometimes . . . when I wake up late at night, trying not to scream ... it seems very close. And, as I said way back at the beginning, I keep in touch.
164 EXTERIOR: THE LITTLE TALL GRAVEYARD--DAY.
MOURNERS move between the gravestones toward a newly dug grave, bearing a coffin (we see this from the middle distance). Fall leaves rush past in RATTLING BURSTS OF COLOR.
MIKE (voice-over)
Melinda Hatcher died in October of 1990. The local paper said it was a heart attack; Ursula Godsoe sent me the clipping. I don’t know if there was more to it or not. Thirty-five’s young for your pump to quit, but it happens . . . ayuh. Shoah, deah.
165 EXTERIOR: THE LITTLE TALL METHODIST CHURCH--DAY.
It’s late spring. Cheerful flowers shout color along the walk leading from the front door. Faintly, we can hear the TRIUMPHAL ORGAN STRAINS of “The Wedding March.” The doors burst open. Out comes MOLLY, laughing and radiant in her wedding dress. There are still lines on her face, but her graying hair is hidden. Beside her, dressed in a morning coat and clasping her waist, is HATCH. He looks as happy as she does. Behind them, holding up MOLLY’S train with one hand and clutching a
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bouquet in the other, is PIPPA, now bigger and with beautiful long hair. Her days of getting her head stuck between the banister posts are pretty well behind her. People follow, FLINGING RICE. Among them, smiling like a proud papa, is REV. BOB RIGGINS.
MIKE (voice-over)
Molly and Hatch married in May of ‘93. Ursula sent me that clipping, too. From what I hear, they’ve been good for each other . . . and for Pippa. I’m glad. I wish the three of them every happiness. I mean that with all my heart.
166 INTERIOR: A CHEESY RENTED ROOM--NIGHT.
MIKE (voice-over)
Not everyone from Little Tail’s been so lucky.
THE CAMERA TRACKS ACROSS THE ROOM, past a rumpled, unmade bed that looks like it has seen its share of bad dreams. The bathroom door is ajar, and THE CAMERA PUSHES THROUGH.
MIKE (voice-over)
Jack and Angie Carver divorced about two months after Hatch and Molly got married. Jack fought for custody of Buster--it was pretty bitter, I guess--and lost. He moved off-island, to Lewiston, rented a room, and killed himself there one night in the late summer of 1994.
The bathroom window is OPEN. Through it, FAINTLY, we can hear the SOUND of a bar band lashing its way through “Hang On Sloopy.” JACK CARVER is lying in a dry bathtub with a plastic bag pulled down over his head. THE CAMERA MOVES IN RELENTLESSLY . . . until we can see the paisley eye patch over one eye.
MIKE (voice-over)
He left what little he had to a fellow named Harmon Brodsky, who lost an eye in a barroom fight back in the eighties.
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167 EXTERIOR: LITTLE TALL ISLAND, FROM THE REACH--MORNING.
It’s still--except for the SLOW TOLL OF A BELL BUOY--and a little ghostly, misted in shades of gray. We can see that the town dock has been rebuilt, and there’s a fish warehouse there, as well . . . only it’s a different color from PETER’S, and the sign along the side reads BEALS FANCY FISH
instead of GODSOE FISH & LOBSTER.
Now, as THE CAMERA BEGINS TO PULL BACK, we also hear THE LAP OF WATER against the side of a boat. It comes into view--a small rowboat riding on the swell. During this:
MIKE (voice-over)
Robbie Beals rebuilt the old fish house on the town dock, and hired Kirk Freeman to work there. Kirk said Robbie’s wife Sandra came down there one early morning in the spring of 1996, dressed in her yellow slicker and red boots, and told him she wanted to go for a little row. Kirk made her put on a life-preserver ... he said he didn’t like the way she looked.
THE CAMERA reaches the boat and RISES, showing us the prow. Neatly folded there is a yellow fisherman’s slicker. A pair of red galoshes stand beside it, and placed around their toes like a collar is a Mae West.
MIKE (voice-over)
He said it was like she was dreaming with her eyes open . . . but what could he do? It was a mild morning, no wind, not much of a swell . . . and she was the boss’s wife. They found the boat, but they didn’t find Sandy. There was one strange thing . . .
CAMERA SLIPS ALONG the length of the boat. Written across the rear seat in either red paint or lipstick is a single word: “CROATON.”
MIKE (voice-over)
. . . but they didn’t know what to make of it. There were people on the island who maybe could have helped them a little there . . .
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168 INTERIOR: THE TOWN OFFICE, WITH URSULA--DAY.
A couple of STATE POLICEMEN are talking to her (we don’t need to hear them; this can be MOS
[without sound]), no doubt asking questions, and she is shaking her head politely. Sorry, officers . . . nope . . . can’t imagine . . . and so on.
MIKE (voice-over)
. . . but island folk can keep a secret. We kept our share back in 1989, and the people who live there keep them still. As for Sandra Beals, she’s presumed drowned, and her seven years are up in 2003. Robbie’11 no doubt have her declared officially dead as soon as ‘03 comes around on the calendar. Tough, I know, but . . .
169 EXTERIOR: LITTLE TALL ISLAND, FROM THE OCEAN--DAY
MIKE (voice-over)
(continues)
. . . this is a cash-and-carry world, pay as you go. Sometimes you only have to pay a little, but mostly it’s a lot. And once in a while it’s all you have. That’s a lesson I thought I learned nine years ago, on Little Tall, during the Storm of the Century . . .
SLOW DISSOLVE TO:
170 EXTERIOR: SAN FRANCISCO, STOCK SHOT--DAY.
MIKE (voice-over)
. . . but I was wrong. I only started learning during the big blow. I finished just last week.
171 EXTERIOR: A BUSY DOWNTOWN STREET--DAY.
Lots of folks are shopping. We MOVE IN on an upscale deli one or two storefronts up from the corner, and MIKE comes out. It’s his day off, and he’s dressed casually--light jacket, jeans, and a T-shirt. He’s
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got a couple of shopping bags in his arms, and he juggles them, trying to snag his keys out of his pants pocket as he angles toward the curb and his car.
Coming in the other direction, entering the frame with their backs to us, are a MAN and a TEENAGE
BOY. The MAN is dressed in a gray topcoat and homburg hat. He carries a cane with a silver wolf’s head. The BOY with him is wearing an Oakland As jacket and jeans. MIKE will pass them on the way to his car, but he takes no particular notice of them at first. He’s gotten his keys out; now he’s trying to peer at them over one of his bags just enough so he can see which one will unlock the door. Then, just as the MAN and TEENAGE BOY reach MIKE:
(sings)
“I’m a little teapot, short and stout. . . .”
BOY
(joining in)
“Here is my handle, here is my spout. . . .”
MIKE’S face fills with terrible recognition. The keys fall from his fingers and the shopping bags SAG in his arms as he turns and sees:
172 EXTERIOR: LINOGE AND THE BOY, FROM MIKE’S POINT OF VIEW (SLOW
MOTION)--DAY.
They are already passing MIKE, and there’s only time for a glimpse, even in SLOW MOTION. Yes, it’s LINOGE beneath the homburg, now looking not like a psychotic fisherman but like a ruthless businessman, and not thirty-five but sixty-five.
The BOY with him--smiling up at him and HARMONIZING PRETTILY on the well-loved old
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nonsense-jingle--is a handsome child of fourteen. His hair is MOLLY’S shade. His eyes are MIKE’S
shade. And lying across his nose, faint but still visible, is the fairy-saddle birthmark.
(echoing dreamlike voices)
“You can pick me up and pour me out. . . . I’m a little teapot, short and stout!”
During this, we lose our angle on their faces--which we have seen for only that heartbreakingly brief moment, anyway. Now they are only a pair of backs: a well-dressed man and the child of his late middle age, heading for the corner. And beyond the corner, for anywhere.