But there were no battles. There were only skirmishes of vague resolution. And EVIL did not wear one face but many, and all of them were vacuous and more often than not the chin was slicked with drool. In fact, he was being forced to the conclusion that there was no EVIL in the world at all but only evil—or perhaps (evil). At moments like this he suspected that Hitler had been nothing but a harried bureaucrat and Satan himself a mental defective with a rudimentary sense of humor—the kind that finds feeding firecrackers wrapped in bread to seagulls unutterably funny.

The great social, moral, and spiritual battles of the ages boiled down to Sandy McDougall slamming her snot-nosed kid in the corner and the kid would grow up and slam his own kid in the corner, world without end, hallelujah, chunky peanut butter. Hail Mary, full of grace, help me win this stock-car race.

It was more than dull. It was terrifying in its consequences for any meaningful definition of life, and perhaps of heaven. What there? An eternity of church bingo, amusement park rides, and celestial drag strips?

He looked over at the clock on the wall. It was six minutes past midnight and still no sign of Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers. Not even Mickey Rooney. But the E-Vap had had time to set. Now he would vacuum it up and Mrs Curless would not look at him with that expression of pity, and life would go on. Amen.

Chapter Seven

At the end of period three on Tuesday, Matt walked up to the office and Ben Mears was there waiting for him.

“Hi,” Matt said. “You’re early.”

Ben stood up and shook hands. “Family curse, I guess. Say, these kids aren’t going to eat me, are they?”

“Positive,” Matt said. “Come on.”

He was a little surprised. Ben had dressed in a nice-looking sport coat and a pair of gray double-knit slacks. Good shoes that looked as if they hadn’t been worn much. Matt had had other literary types into his classes and they were usually dressed in casual clothes or something downright weird. A year ago he had asked a rather well-known female poet who had done a reading at the University of Maine at Portland if she would come in the following day and talk to a class about poetry. She had shown up in pedal pushers and high heels. It seemed to be a subconscious way of saying: Look at me, I’ve beaten the system at its own game. I come and go like the wind.

His admiration for Ben went up a notch in comparison. After thirty-plus years of teaching, he believed that nobody beat the system or won the game, and only suckers ever thought they were ahead.

“It’s a nice building,” Ben said, looking around as they walked down the hall. “Helluva lot different from where I went to high school. Most of the windows in that place looked like loopholes.”

“First mistake,” Matt said. “You must never call it a building. It’s a ‘plant.’ Blackboards are ‘visual aids.’ And the kids are a ‘homogenous midteen coeducational student body.’”

“How wonderful for them,” Ben said, grinning.

“It is, isn’t it? Did you go to college, Ben?”

“I tried. Liberal arts. But everybody seemed to be playing an intellectual game of capture-the-flag—you too can find an ax and grind it, thus becoming known and loved. Also, I flunked out. When Conway’s Daughtersold, I was bucking cases of Coca-Cola onto delivery trucks.”

“Tell the kids that. They’ll be interested.”

“You like teaching?” Ben said.

“Sure I like it. It would have been a busted-axle forty years if I didn’t.”

The late bell rang, echoing loudly in the corridor, which was empty now except for one loitering student who was wandering slowly past a painted arrow under a sign which read “Wood Shop.”

“How’s drugs here?” Ben asked.

“All kinds. Like every school in America. Ours is booze more than anything else.”

“Not marijuana?”

“I don’t consider pot a problem and neither does the administration, when it speaks off the record with a few knocks of Jim Beam under its belt. I happen to know that our guidance counselor, who is one of the best in his line, isn’t averse to toking up and going to a movie. I’ve tried it myself. The effect is fine, but it gives me acid indigestion.”

“ Youhave?”

“Shhh,” Matt said. “Big Brother is listening everywhere. Besides, this is my room.”

“Oh boy.”

“Don’t be nervous,” Matt said, and led him in. “Good morning, folks,” he said to the twenty or so students, who were eying Ben closely. “This is Mr Ben Mears.”

TWO

At first Ben thought he had the wrong house.

When Matt Burke invited him for supper he was quite sure he had said the house was the small gray one after the red brick, but there was rock ’n’ roll music pouring from this one in a steady stream.

He used the tarnished brass knocker, got no answer, and rapped again. This time the music was turned down and a voice that was unmistakably Matt’s yelled, “It’s open! Come on in!”

He did, looking around curiously. The front door opened directly on a small living room furnished in Early American Junk Shop and dominated by an incredibly ancient Motorola TV. A KLH sound system with quad speakers was putting out the music.

Matt came out of the kitchen, outfitted in a red-and-white checked apron. The odor of spaghetti sauce wandered out after him.

“Sorry about the noise,” Matt said. “I’m a little deaf. I turn it up.”

“Good music.”

“I’ve been a rock fan ever since Buddy Holly. Lovely music. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” Ben said. “Thanks again for asking me. I’ve eaten out more since I came back to ’salem’s Lot than I have in the last five years, I guess.”

“It’s a friendly town. Hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. An antique man came by a couple of months ago and offered me two hundred dollars for my dining room table. I haven’t gotten around to getting another one.”

“I don’t mind. I’m a kitchen eater from a long line of kitchen eaters.”

The kitchen was astringently neat. On the small four-burner stove, a pot of spaghetti sauce simmered and a colander full of spaghetti stood steaming. A small drop-leaf table was set with a couple of mismatched plates and glasses which had animated cartoon figures dancing around the rims—jelly glasses, Ben thought with amusement. The last constraint of being with a stranger dropped away and he began to feel at home.

“There’s Bourbon, rye, and vodka in the cupboard over the sink,” Matt said, pointing. “There’s some mixers in the fridge. Nothing too fancy, I’m afraid.”

“Bourbon and tap water will do me.”

“Go to it. I’m going to serve this mess up.”

Mixing his drink, Ben said, “I liked your kids. They asked good questions. Tough, but good.”

“Like where do you get your ideas?” Matt asked, mimicking Ruthie Crockett’s sexy little-girl lisp.

“She’s quite a piece.”

“She is indeed. There’s a bottle of Lancers in the icebox behind the pineapple chunks. I got it special.”

“Say, you shouldn’t—”

“Oh come, Ben. We hardly see best-selling authors in the Lot every day.”

“That’s a little extravagant.”

Ben finished the rest of his drink, took a plate of spaghetti from Matt, ladled sauce over it, and twirled a forkful against his spoon. “Fantastic,” he said. “Mamma mia.”

“But of course,” Matt said.

Ben looked down at his plate, which had emptied with amazing rapidity. He wiped his mouth a little guiltily.

“More?”

“Half a plate, if it’s okay. It’s great spaghetti.”

Matt brought him a whole plate. “If we don’t eat it, my cat will. He’s a miserable animal. Weighs twenty pounds and waddles to his dish.”

“Lord, how did I miss him?”

Matt smiled. “He’s cruising. Is your new book a novel?”

“A fictionalized sort of thing,” Ben said. “To be honest, I’m writing it for money. Art is wonderful, but just once I’d like to pull a big number out of the hat.”