Dreamcatcher by Stephen King Read Free Book Online

solid.
    Wait a few years, Mr. Defuniak, he thinks. I’m only thirty-seven and already some of my wires are getting loose.
    â€œMaybe you deserve another chance,” Jonesy says.
    Slowly and deliberately, he begins to crumple Defuniak’s mid-term, which is suspiciously perfect, A-plus work, into a ball.
    â€œMaybe what happened is you were sick the day of the mid-term, and you never took it at all.”
    â€œI was sick,” David Defuniak says eagerly. “I think I had the flu.”
    â€œThen maybe I ought to give you a take-home essay instead of the multiple-choice test to which your colleagues have been subjected. If you want it. To make up for the test you missed. Would you want that?”
    â€œYeah,” the kid says, wiping his eyes madly with a large swatch of tissues. At least he hasn’t gone through all that small-time cheapshit stuff about howJonesy can’t prove it, can’t prove a thing, he’d take it to the Student Affairs Council, he’d call a protest, blah-blah-blah-de-blah. He’s crying instead, which is uncomfortable to witness but probably a good sign—nineteen is young, but too many of them have lost most of their consciences by the time they get there. Defuniak has pretty much owned up, which suggests there might still be a man in there, waiting to come out. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
    â€œAnd you understand that if anything like this ever happens again—”
    â€œIt won’t,” the kid says fervently. “It won’t, Professor Jones.”
    Although Jonesy is only an associate professor, he doesn’t bother to correct him. Someday, after all, he will be Professor Jones. He better be; he and his wife have a houseful of kids, and if there aren’t at least a few salary-bumps in his future, life is apt to be a pretty tough scramble. They’ve had some tough scrambles already.
    â€œI hope not,” he says. “Give me three thousand words on the short-term results of the Norman Conquest, David, all right? Cite sources but no need of footnotes. Keep it informal, but present a cogent thesis. I want it by next Monday. Understood?”
    â€œYes. Yes, sir.”
    â€œThen why don’t you go on and get started.” He points at Defuniak’s tatty footwear. “And the next time you think of buying beer, buy some new sneakers instead. I wouldn’t want you to catch the flu again.”
    Defuniak goes to the door, then turns. He is anxiousto be gone before Mr. Jones changes his mind, but he is also nineteen. And curious. “How did you know? You weren’t even there that day. Some grad student proctored the test.”
    â€œI knew, and that’s enough,” Jonesy says with some asperity. “Go on, son. Write a good paper. Hold onto your scholarship. I’m from Maine myself—Derry—and I know Pittsfield. It’s a better place to be from than to go back to.”
    â€œYou got that right,” Defuniak says fervently. “Thank you. Thank you for giving me another chance.”
    â€œClose the door on your way out.”
    Defuniak—who will spend his sneaker-money not on beer but on a get-well bouquet for Jonesy—goes out, obediently closing the door behind him. Jonesy swings around and looks out the window again. The sunshine is untrustworthy but enticing. And because the Defuniak thing went better than he had expected, he thinks he wants to get out in that sunlight before more March clouds—and maybe snow—come rolling in. He has planned to eat in his office, but a new plan occurs to him. It is absolutely the worst plan of his life, but of course Jonesy doesn’t know that. The plan is to grab his briefcase, pick up a copy of the Boston Phoenix, and walk across the river to Cambridge. He’ll sit on a bench and eat his egg salad sandwich in the sun.
    He gets up to put Defuniak’s file in the cabinet marked D–F. How did you know? the