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Authors: Stephen King

BOOK: The Dark Half
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Jerry Harkavay, who was the Associated Press's entire Waterville staff, had been the first to break the George Stark story wide after Thad's agent, Rick Cowley, gave it to Louise Booker at
Publishers Weekly
with Thad's approval. Neither Harkavay nor Booker had got the whole story—for one thing, Thad was adamant about not giving that smarmy little prick Frederick Clawson so much as a mention—but it was still good enough to rate a wider circulation than either the AP wire service or the book-publishing industry's trade magazine could give. Clawson, Thad had told Liz and Rick, was not the story—he was just the asshole who was forcing them to go public with the story.
In the course of that first interview, Jerry had asked him what sort of a fellow George Stark was. “George,” Thad had replied, “wasn't a very nice guy.” The quote had run at the top of Jerry's piece, and it had given the Myers woman the inspiration to actually commission a fake tombstone with that line on it. Weird world. Weird, weird world.
All of a sudden, Thad burst out laughing again.
2
There were two lines of white type on the black field below the picture of Thad and Liz in one of Castle Rock's finer boneyards.
THE DEAR DEPARTED WAS EXTREMELY CLOSE TO THESE TWO PEOPLE, read the first.
SO WHY ARE THEY LAUGHING? read the second.
“Because the world is one
strange
fucking place,” Thad Beaumont said, and snorted into one cupped hand.
Liz Beaumont wasn't the only one who felt vaguely uneasy about this odd little burst of publicity. He felt a little uneasy himself. All the same, be found it difficult to stop laughing. He'd quit for a few seconds and then a fresh spate of guffaws would burst out of him as his eye caught on that line—Not a Very Nice Guy—again. Trying to quit was like trying to plug the holes in a poorly constructed earthen dam; as soon as you got one leak stopped up, you saw a new one someplace else.
Thad suspected there was something not quite right about such helpless laughter—it was a form of hysteria. He knew that humor rarely if ever had anything to do with such fits. In fact, the cause was apt to be something quite the opposite of funny.
Something to be afraid of, maybe.
You're afraid of a goddam article in People magazine? Is that what you're thinking? Dumb. Afraid of being embarrassed, of having your colleagues in the English Department look at those pictures and think you've lost the poor cracked handful of marbles you had?
No. He had nothing to fear from his colleagues, not even the ones who had been there since dinosaurs walked the earth. He finally had tenure, and also enough money to face life as—flourish of trumpets, please!—a full-time writer if he so desired (he wasn't sure he did; he didn't care much for the bureaucratic and administrative aspects of university life, but the teaching part was just fine). Also no because he had passed beyond caring much about what his colleagues thought of him some years ago. He cared about what his
friends
thought, yes, and in some cases his friends, Liz's friends, and the friends they had in common happened to be colleagues, but he thought those people were also apt to think it was sort of a hoot.
If there was anything to be afraid of, it was—
Stop it,
his mind ordered in the dry, stern tone that had a way of causing even the most obstreperous of his undergrad English students to fall pale and silent.
Stop this foolishness right now.
No good. Effective as that voice might be when he used it on his students, it wielded no power over Thad himself.
He looked down again at that picture and this time his eye paid no attention to the faces of his wife and himself, mugging cheekily at each other like a couple of kids performing an initiation stunt.
GEORGE STARK
1975-1988
Not a Very Nice Guy
That
was what made him uneasy.
That tombstone. That name. Those dates. Most of all that sour epitaph, which made him bellow laughter but was not, for some reason, one bit funny
underneath
the laughter.
That name.
That epitaph.
“Doesn't matter,” Thad muttered. “Motherfucker's dead now. ”
But the uneasiness remained.
When Liz came back in with a freshly changed and dressed twin curled in each arm, Thad was bent over the story again.
“Did I murder him?”
Thaddeus Beaumont, once hailed as America's most promising novelist and a National Book Award nominee for
The Sudden Dancers
in 1972, repeats the question thoughtfully. He looks slightly bemused. “Murder,” he says again, softly, as if the word had never occurred to him . . . even though murder was almost all his “dark half,” as Beaumont calls George Stark,
did
think about.
Prom the wide-mouthed mason jar beside his old-fashioned Remington 32 typewriter, he draws a Berol Black Beauty pencil (all Stark would write with, according to Beaumont) and begins to gnaw lightly on it. From the look of the dozen or so other pencils in the mason jar, the gnawing is a habit.
“No,” he says at last, dropping the pencil back into the jar. “I didn't murder him.” He looks up and smiles. Beaumont is thirty-nine, but when he smiles in that open way, he might be mistaken for one of his own undergrads. “George died of natural causes. ”
Beaumont says George Stark was his wife's idea. Elizabeth Stephens Beaumont, a cool and lovely blonde, refuses to take sole credit. “All I did,” she says, “was suggest he write a novel under another name and see what happened to it. Thad was suffering from serious writer's block, and be needed a jump-start. And really” —she laughs—“George Stark was there all along. I'd seen signs of him in some of the unfinished stuff that Thad did from time to time. It was just a case of getting him to come out of the closet. ”
According to many of his contemporaries, Beaumont's problems went a little further than writer's block. At least two well-known writers (who refused to be quoted directly) say that they were worried about Beaumont's sanity during that crucial period between the first book and the second. One says he believes Beaumont may have attempted suicide following the publication of
The Sudden Dancers,
which earned more critical acclaim than royalties.
Asked if be ever considered suicide, Beaumont only shakes his head and says, “That's a stupid idea. The real problem wasn't popular acceptance; it was writer's block. And dead writers have a terminal case of that. ”
Meanwhile, Liz Beaumont kept “lobbying”—Beaumont's word—for the idea of a pseudonym. “She said I could kick up my heels for once, if I wanted to. Write any damn thing I pleased without
The New York Times Book Review
looking over my shoulder the whole time I wrote it. She said I could write a Western, a mystery, a science fiction story. Or I could write a crime novel. ”
Thad Beaumont grins.
“I think she put that one last on purpose. She knew I'd been fooling around with an idea for a crime novel, although I couldn't seem to get a handle on it.
“The idea of a pseudonym had this funny
draw
for me. It felt
free,
somehow—like a secret escape hatch, if you see what I mean.
“But there was something else, too. Something that's very hard to explain. ”
Beaumont stretches a hand out toward the neatly sharpened Berols in the mason jar, then withdraws it. He looks off toward the window-wall at the back of his study, which gives on a spring spectacular of greening trees.
“Thinking about writing under a pseudonym was like thinking about being invisible,” he finally says almost hesitantly. “The more I played with the idea, the more I felt that I would be . . . well . . . reinventing myself. ”
His hand steals out and this time succeeds in filching one of the pencils from the mason jar while his mind is otherwise engaged.
Thad turned the page and then looked up at the twins in their double high chair. Boy-girl twins were always fraternal . . . or brother-and-sisteral, if you didn't want to be a male chauvinist pig about it. Wendy and William were, however, about as identical as you could get without
being
identical.
William grinned at Thad around his bottle.
Wendy also grinned at him around
her
bottle, but she was sporting an accessory her brother didn't have—one single tooth near the front, which had come up with absolutely no teething pain, simply breaking through the surface of the gum as silently as a submarine's periscope sliding through the surface of the ocean.
Wendy took one chubby hand from her plastic bottle. Opened it, showing the clean pink palm. Closed it. Opened it. A Wendy-wave.
Without looking at her, William removed one of
his
hands from
his
bottle, opened it, dosed it, opened it. A William-wave.
Thad solemnly raised one of his own hands from the table, opened it, closed it, opened it.
The twins grinned around their bottles.
He looked down at the magazine again. Ah,
People,
he thouht—where would we be, what would we do, without you? This is American star-time, folks.
The writer had dragged out all the soiled linen there was to drag out, of course—most notably the four-year-long bad patch after
The Sudden Dancers
had failed to win the NBA—but that was to be expected, and he found himself not much bothered by the display. For one thing, it wasn't all that dirty, and for another, he had always felt it was easier to live with the truth than with a lie. In the long run, at least.
Which of course raised the question of whether or not
People
magazine and “the long run” had anything at all in common.
Oh well. Too late now.
The name of the guy who had written the piece was Mike—he remembered that much, but Mike what? Unless you were an earl tattling on royalty or a movie star tattling on other movie stars, when you wrote for
People
your byline came at the end of the piece. Thad had to leaf through four pages (two of them full-page ads) to find the name. Mike Donaldson. He and Mike had sat up late, just shooting the shit, and when Thad had asked the man if anyone would really care that he had written a few books under another name, Donaldson said something which had made Thad laugh hard. “Surveys show that most
People
readers have extremely narrow noses. That makes them hard to pick, so they pick as many other people's as they can. They'll want to know all about your friend George. ”
“He's no friend of mine,” Thad had responded, still laughing.
Now he asked Liz, who had gone to the stove, “You got it together, babe? You need some help?”
“I'm fine,” she said. “Just cooking up some goo for the kiddos. You haven't got enough of yourself yet?”
“Not yet,” Thad said shamelessly, and went back to the article.
“The hardest part was actually coming up with the name,” Beaumont continues, nipping lightly at the pencil. “But it was important. I
knew
it could work. I knew it could break the writer's block I was struggling with . . . if I had an identity. The
right
identity, one that was separate from mine. ”
How did he choose George Stark?
“Well, there's a crime writer named Donald E. Westlake,” Beaumont explains. “And under his real name, Westlake uses the crime novel to write these very funny social comedies about American life and American mores.
“But from the early sixties until the mid-seventies or so, he wrote a series of novels under the name of Richard Stark, and those books are very different. They're about a man named Parker who is a professional thief. He has no past, no future, and in the best books, no interests other than robbery.
“Anyway, for reasons you'd have to ask Westlake about, he eventually stopped writing novels about Parker, but I never forgot something Westlake said after the pen name was blown. He said
he
wrote books on sunny days and Stark took over on the rainy ones. I liked that, because those were rainy days for me, between 1973 and early 1975.
“In the best of those books, Parker is really more like a killer robot than a man. The robber robbed is a pretty consistent theme in them. And Parker goes through the bad guys—the
other
bad guys, I mean—
exactly
like a robot that's been programmed with one single goal. ‘I want my money, ' he says, and that's just about
all
he says. ‘I want my money, I want my money. ' Does that remind you of anyone?”
The interviewer nods. Beaumont is describing Alexis Machine, the main character of the first and last George Stark novels.
“If
Machine's Way
had finished up the way it started out, I would have shoved it in a drawer forever,” Beaumont says. “Publishing it would have been plagiarism. But about a quarter of the way through, it found its own rhythm, and everything just clicked into place. ”
The interviewer asks if Beaumont is saying that, after he had spent awhile working on the book, George Stark woke up and started to talk.
“Yes,” Beaumont says. “That's close enough. ”
Thad looked up, almost laughing again in spite of himself. The twins saw him smiling and grinned back around the pureed peas Liz was feeding them. What he had actually said, as he remembered, was:
“Christ,
that's melodramatic! You make it sound like the part of
Frankenstein
where the lightning finally strikes the rod on the highest castle battlement and juices up the monster!”
“I'm not going to be able to finish feeding them if you don't stop that,” Liz remarked. She had a very small dot of pureed peas on the tip of her nose, and Thad felt an absurd urge to kiss it off.

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