“I know what you need,” the iconic first line of a Stephen King story by the same name. We are then treated to a journey of self-discovery of Elizabeth Rogan as she first falls into and then out of love with Ed Jackson Hamner, Junior. However, it would hardly be a horror tale if things weren’t a little more frightening, would it?
I am, by many estimations, a King junkie. I have read a great deal of his work and I gravitate toward his short stories. Which is probably a good thing since right now I’m doing a 31 Days of Short Stories challenge over on my Twitch.tv channel. Just recently, I reread “I Know What You Need,” which is in Night Shift, and found myself struck by the model of relationship it shows. When considered from a horror and habits standpoint, it offers us a different view of perfection in relationships.
King paints a picture, on the first page, of a young man who is obviously trying to get a girl who is out of his league. Ed is not handsome, he’s cute, according to Beth despite the fact that it’s a horrible word to inflict a guy with. It tells us right there, at the beginning Ed might be Mr. Nice Guy but he’s gonna finish last. However, that might be the part that’s the scariest. Ed is a nice guy. Italics for emphasis. When he and Beth are together, they are one being, Beth. He knows from the first, perhaps by guessing, perhaps by supernatural means that she prefers to be called Beth, not Liz or Lizzie as even her boyfriend of the time calls her. He comes across as the perfect guy; however, there are holes in his façade.
The first time it starts to show is when he realizes he’s given her too much information and now she’s asking questions. He shuts her down politely, but it’s obvious to the reader something isn’t quite right. Isn’t this a habit of an abuser? You don’t get to ask questions. You’re just supposed to be grateful and happy for their time and attention.
His connection to her darkens further when he pops up and seems to know exactly what she would like to eat. First it was the strawberry double-dip cone. Then there is the meal at the Grinder where she attempts to talk about why he calls her Beth. It occurs again after the death of her boyfriend. He orders for her without consulting her on two of these three occasions, though I suppose he did consult her a little about the ice cream. Yet he makes decisions for her when its convenient for him to do so and won’t get him into too much trouble. As if, which he does, he knows he’s manipulating her as the reader finds out later.
Secondly, there’s the almost toxic co-dependence he creates in Beth by being the perfect guy. He knows what she she needs, what she wants, what she craves, and how she wants it. He becomes a wish fulfilling machine. And it seems as if he wants nothing in return, except he wants everything; he wants her love. Which in spite of his best efforts, he cannot get.
Finally, there is the serpent turning. When he cannot have what he wants, he turns on you to make it appear as if you were in the wrong.
His face twisted. “That’s the thanks I get. I gave you everything you ever wanted. Things no other man could have. Admit it. I made you perfectly happy.”
Ed goes on to tell Beth how much he’s done for her as if killing someone she cared for and then forcing his love on her somehow entitled him to her love in return. At the end, when she walks away with his things, I always feel like cheering because there is another way that could have ended: the way so many relationships continue to live despite one side’s desire they die. We all know what I’m talking about, when the abused goes back to the abuser because they can’t see themselves as good enough for someone else. Beth admits to herself Ed made her feel good, but “was she so small that she actually needed so little?”.
God, I hope not. I hope that for everyone who’s in a relationship with an Ed.