Needful Things Part 6

"Mr. Leland Gaunt, from Akron, Ohio," Polly said, and now Alan could actually hear the hint of a smile in her voice. "He's going to be quite the heartthrob in Castle Rock's smart set this year-that's my prediction, anyway."

"What did you you make of him?" make of him?"

When she spoke again, the smile in her voice came through even more clearly. "Well, Alan, let me be honest-you're my darling, and I hope I'm yours, but-"

"You are," he said. His headache was lifting a little. He doubted if it was Norris Ridgewick's aspirin working this small miracle.

"-but he made my my heart go pitty-pat, too. And you should have seen Rosalie and Nettie when they came back..." heart go pitty-pat, too. And you should have seen Rosalie and Nettie when they came back..."

"Nettie?" He took his feet off the desk and sat up. "Nettie's scared of her own shadow!"

"Yes. But since Rosalie persuaded her to go down with her-you know the poor old dear won't go anywhere alone-I asked Nettie what she she thought of Mr. Gaunt after I got home this afternoon. Alan, her poor old muddy eyes just lit up. 'He's got carnival gla.s.s!' she said. 'Beautiful carnival gla.s.s! He even invited me to come back tomorrow and look at some more!' I think it's the most she's said to me all at once in about four years. So I said, 'Wasn't that kind of him, Nettie?' And she said, 'Yes, and do you know what?' I asked her what, of course, and Nettie said, thought of Mr. Gaunt after I got home this afternoon. Alan, her poor old muddy eyes just lit up. 'He's got carnival gla.s.s!' she said. 'Beautiful carnival gla.s.s! He even invited me to come back tomorrow and look at some more!' I think it's the most she's said to me all at once in about four years. So I said, 'Wasn't that kind of him, Nettie?' And she said, 'Yes, and do you know what?' I asked her what, of course, and Nettie said, 'And I just might go!' 'And I just might go!' " "

Alan laughed loud and heartily. "If Nettie's willing to go see him without a duenna duenna, I ought ought to check him out. The guy must really be a charmer." to check him out. The guy must really be a charmer."

"Well, it's funny-he's not handsome, at least not in a movie-star way, but he's got the most gorgeous gorgeous hazel eyes. They light up his whole face." hazel eyes. They light up his whole face."

"Watch it, lady," Alan growled. "My jealous muscle is starting to twitch."

She laughed a little. "I don't think you have to worry. There's one other thing, though."

"What's that?"

"Rosalie said Wilma Jersyck came in while Nettie was there."

"Did anything happen? Were words pa.s.sed?"

"No. Nettie glared at the Jerzyck woman, and she she kind of curled her lip at Nettie-that's how Rosalie put it-and then Nettie scurried out. Has Wilma Jerzyck called you about Nettie's dog lately?" kind of curled her lip at Nettie-that's how Rosalie put it-and then Nettie scurried out. Has Wilma Jerzyck called you about Nettie's dog lately?"

"No," Alan said. "No reason to. I've cruised past Nettie's house after ten half a dozen nights over the last six weeks or so. The dog doesn't bark anymore. It was just the kind of thing puppies do, Polly. It's grown up a little, and it has a good mistress. Nettie may be short a little furniture on the top floor, but she's done her duty by that dog-what does she call it?"

"Raider."

"Well, Wilma Jerzyck will just have to find something else to b.i.t.c.h about, because Raider is squared away. She will, though. Ladies like Wilma always do. It was never the dog, anyway, not really; Wilma was the only person in the whole neighborhood who complained. It was Nettie. People like Wilma have noses for weakness. And there's a lot to smell on Nettie Cobb."

"Yes." Polly sounded sad and thoughtful. "You know that Wilma Jerzyck called her up one night and told her that if Nettie didn't shut the dog up, she'd come over and cut his throat?"

"Well," Alan said evenly, "I know that Nettie told you so. But I also know that Wilma frightened Nettie very badly, and that Nettie has had... problems. I'm not saying Wilma Jerzyck isn't capable of making a call like that, because she is. But it might might have only been in Nettie's mind." have only been in Nettie's mind."

That Nettie had had problems was understating by quite a little bit, but there was no need to say more; they both knew what they were talking about. After years of h.e.l.l, married to a brute who abused her in every way a man can abuse a woman, Nettie Cobb had put a meat-fork in her husband's throat as he slept. She had spent five years in Juniper Hill, a mental inst.i.tution near Augusta. She had come to work for Polly as part of a work-release program. As far as Alan was concerned, she could not possibly have fallen in with better company, and Nettie's steadily improving state of mind confirmed his opinion. Two years ago, Nettie had moved into her own little place on Ford Street, six blocks from downtown.

"Nettie's got problems, all right," Polly said, "but her reaction to Mr. Gaunt was nothing short of amazing. It really was awfully sweet."

"I have to see this guy for myself," Alan said.

"Tell me what you think. And check out those hazel eyes."

"I doubt if they'll cause the same reaction in me they seem to have caused in you," Alan said dryly.

She laughed again, but this time he thought it sounded slightly forced.

"Try to get some sleep," he said.

"I will. Thanks for calling, Alan."

"Welcome." He paused. "I love you, pretty lady."

"Thank you, Alan-I love you, too. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He racked the telephone, twisted the gooseneck of the desk lamp so it threw a spot of light on the wall, put his feet up on his desk, and brought his hands together in front of his chest, as if praying. He extended his index fingers. On the wall, a shadowrabbit poked up its ears. Alan slipped his thumbs between his extended fingers, and the shadow-rabbit wiggled its nose. Alan made the rabbit hop across the makes.h.i.+ft spotlight. What lumbered back was an elephant, wagging its trunk. Alan's hands moved with a dextrous, eerie ease. He barely noticed the animals he was creating; this was an old habit with him, his way of looking at the tip of his nose and saying "Om."

He was thinking about Polly; Polly and her poor hands. What to do about Polly?

If it had been just a matter of money, he would have had her checked into a room at the Mayo Clinic by tomorrow afternoon-signed, sealed, and delivered. He would have done it even if it meant wrapping her in a straitjacket and shooting her full of sedative to get her out of there.

But it wasn't wasn't just a matter of money. Ultrasound as a treatment for degenerative arthritis was in its infancy. It might eventually turn out to be as effective as the Salk vaccine, or as bogus as the science of phrenology. Either way, it didn't make sense right now. The chances were a thousand to one that it was a dry hole. It was not the loss of money he dreaded, but Polly's dashed hopes. just a matter of money. Ultrasound as a treatment for degenerative arthritis was in its infancy. It might eventually turn out to be as effective as the Salk vaccine, or as bogus as the science of phrenology. Either way, it didn't make sense right now. The chances were a thousand to one that it was a dry hole. It was not the loss of money he dreaded, but Polly's dashed hopes.

A crow-as limber and lifelike as a crow in a Disney animated cartoon-flapped slowly across his framed Albany Police Academy graduation certificate. Its wings lengthened and it became a prehistoric pterodactyl, triangular head c.o.c.ked as it cruised toward the filing cabinets in the corner and out of the spotlight.

The door opened. The doleful ba.s.set-hound face of Norris Ridgewick poked through. "I did it, Alan," he said, sounding like a man confessing to the murder of several small children.

"Good, Norris," Alan said. "You're not going to get hit with the s.h.i.+t on this, either. I promise."

Norris looked at him for a moment longer with his moist eyes, then nodded doubtfully. He glanced at the wall. "Do Buster, Alan."

Alan grinned, shook his head, and reached for the lamp.

"Come on," Norris coaxed. "I ticketed his d.a.m.n car-I deserve it. Do Buster, Alan. Please Please. That wipes me out."

Alan glanced over Norris's shoulder, saw no one, and curled one hand against the other. On the wall, a stout shadow-man stalked across the spotlight, belly swinging. He paused once to hitch up his shadow-pants in the back and then stalked on, head turning truculently from side to side.

Norris's laughter was high and happy-the laughter of a child. For one moment Alan was reminded forcibly of Todd, and then he shoved that away. There had been enough of that for one night, please G.o.d.

"Jeez, that slays slays me," Norris said, still laughing. "You were born too late, Alan-you coulda had a career on me," Norris said, still laughing. "You were born too late, Alan-you coulda had a career on The Ed Sullivan Show. The Ed Sullivan Show."

"Go on," Alan said. "Get out of here."

Still laughing, Norris pulled the door closed.

Alan made Norris-skinny and a little self-important-walk across the wall, then snapped off the lamp and took a battered notebook from his back pocket. He thumbed through it until he found a blank page, and wrote Needful Things Needful Things. Below that he jotted: Leland Gaunt, Cleveland, Ohio Leland Gaunt, Cleveland, Ohio. Was that right? No. He scratched out Cleveland Cleveland and wrote and wrote Akron Akron. Maybe I really am losing my mind, he thought. On a third line he printed: Check it out Check it out.

He put his notebook back in his pocket, thought about going home, and turned on the lamp again instead. Soon the shadow-parade was marching across the wall once more: lions and tigers and bears, oh my. Like Sandburg's fog, the depression crept back on small feline feet. The voice began speaking about Annie and Todd again. After awhile, Alan Pangborn began to listen to it. He, did it against his will... but with growing absorption.

4.

Polly was lying on her bed, and when she finished talking with Alan, she turned over on her left side to hang up the telephone. It fell out of her hand and crashed to the floor instead. The Princess phone's base slid slowly across the nighttable, obviously meaning to join its other half She reached for it and her hand struck the edge of the table instead. A monstrous bolt of pain broke through the thin web the painkiller had stretched over her nerves and raced all the way up to her shoulder. She had to bite down on her lips to stifle a cry.

The telephone base fell off the edge of the table and crashed with a single cling! cling! of the bell inside. She could hear the steady idiot buzz of the open line drifting up. It sounded like a hive of insects being broadcast via shortwave. of the bell inside. She could hear the steady idiot buzz of the open line drifting up. It sounded like a hive of insects being broadcast via shortwave.

She thought of picking the telephone up with the claws which were now cradled on her chest, having to do it not by grasping-tonight her fingers would not bend at all-but by pressing, like a woman playing the accordion, and suddenly it was too much, even something as simple as picking up a telephone which had fallen on the floor was too much, and she began to cry.

The pain was fully awake again, awake and raving, turning her hands-especially the one she had b.u.mped-into fever-pits. She lay on her bed, looking up at the ceiling through her blurry eyes, and wept.

Oh I would give anything to be free of this, she thought. I would give anything, anything, anything at all. I would give anything, anything, anything at all.

5.

By ten o'clock on an autumn weeknight, Castle Rock's Main Street was as tightly locked up as a Chubb safe. The streetlamps threw circles of white light on the sidewalk and the fronts of the business buildings in diminis.h.i.+ng perspective, making downtown look like a deserted stage-set. Soon, you might think, a lone figure dressed in tails and a top-hat-Fred Astaire, or maybe Gene Kelly-would appear and dance his way from one of those spots to the next, singing about how lonely a fellow could be when his best girl had given him the air and all the bars were closed. Then, from the other end of Main Street, another figure would appear-Ginger Rogers or maybe Cyd Charisse-dressed in an evening gown. She would dance toward Fred (or Gene), singing about how lonely a gal could be when her best guy had stood her up. They would see each other, pause artistically, and then dance together in front of the bank or maybe You Sew and Sew.

Instead, Hugh Priest hove into view.

He did not look like either Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, there was no girl at the far end of Main Street advancing toward a romantic chance meeting with him, and he most definitely did not dance. He did drink, however, and he had been drinking steadily in The Mellow Tiger since four that afternoon. At this point in the festivities just walking was a trick, and never mind any fancy dance-steps. He walked slowly, pa.s.sing through one pool of light after another, his shadow running tall across the fronts of the barber shop, the Western Auto, the video-rental shop. He was weaving slightly, his reddish eyes fixed stolidly in front of him, his large belly pus.h.i.+ng out his sweaty blue tee-s.h.i.+rt (on the front was a drawing of a huge mosquito above the words MAINE STATE BIRD) in a long, sloping curve.

The Castle Rock Public Works pick-up truck he had been driving was still sitting at the rear of the Tiger's dirt parking lot. Hugh Priest was the not-so-proud possessor of several D.U.I driving violations, and following the last one-which had resulted in a six-month suspension of his privilege to drive-that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Keeton, his co-b.a.s.t.a.r.ds Fullerton and Samuels, and their co-b.i.t.c.h Williams had made it clear that they had reached the end of their patience with him. The next D.U.I would probably result in the permanent loss of his license, and would certainly result in the loss of his job.

This did not cause Hugh to stop drinking-no power on earth could do that-but it did cause him to form a firm resolution: no more drinking and driving. He was fifty-one years old, and that was a little late in life to be changing jobs, especially with a long drunk-driving rap-sheet following him around like a tin can tied to a dog's tail.

That was why he was walking home tonight, and one f.u.c.k of a long walk it was, and there was a certain Public Works employee named Bobby Dugas who was going to have some tall explaining to do tomorrow, unless he wanted to go home with a few less teeth than he had come to work with.

As Hugh pa.s.sed Nan's Luncheonette, a light drizzle began to mist down. This did not improve his temper.

He had asked Bobby, who had to drive right past Hugh's place on his way home every night, if he was going to drop down to the Tiger that evening for a few brewskis. Bobby Dugas had said, Why sh.o.r.e, Hubert-Bobby always called him Hubert, which was not his f.u.c.king name, and you could bet that s.h.i.+t was going to change, too, and soon. Why sh.o.r.e, Hubert, I'll prob'ly be down around seven, same as always. Why sh.o.r.e, Hubert, I'll prob'ly be down around seven, same as always.

So Hugh, confident of a ride if he got a little too pixillated to drive, had pulled into the Tiger at just about five minutes of four (he'd knocked off a little early, almost an hour and a half early, actually, but what the h.e.l.l, Deke Bradford hadn't been around), and had waded right in. And come seven o'clock, guess what? No Bobby Dugas! Golly-gosh-wow! Come eight and nine and nine-thirty, guess further further what? More of the same, by G.o.d! what? More of the same, by G.o.d!

At twenty to ten, Henry Beaufort, bartender and owner of The Mellow Tiger, had invited Hugh to put an egg in his shoe and beat it, to make like a tree and leave, to imitate an amoeba and split-in other words, to get the f.u.c.k out. Hugh had been outraged. It was true he had kicked the jukebox, but the G.o.ddam Rodney Crowell record had been skipping again.

"What was I supposed to do, just sit here and listen to it?" he demanded of Henry. "You oughtta take that record off, that's all. Guy sounds like he's havin a f.u.c.kin pepileptic fit."

"You haven't had enough, I can see that," Henry said, "but you've had all you're going to get here. You'll have to get the rest out of your own refrigerator."

"What if I say no?" Hugh demanded.

"Then I call Sheriff Pangborn," Henry said evenly.

The other patrons of the Tiger-there weren't many this late on a weeknight-were watching this exchange with interest. Men were careful to be polite around Hugh Priest, especially when he was in his cups, but he was never going to win Castle Rock's Most Popular Fella contest.

"I wouldn't like to," Henry continued, "but I will do it, Hugh. I'm sick and tired of you kicking my Rock-Ola."

Hugh considered saying, Then I guess I'll just have to kick YOU a few times instead, you frog son of a b.i.t.c.h Then I guess I'll just have to kick YOU a few times instead, you frog son of a b.i.t.c.h. Then he thought of that fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d Keeton, handing him a pink slip for kicking up d.i.c.kens in the local tavern. Of course, if he really got fired the pink would come in the mail, it always did, pigs like Keeton never dirtied their hands (or risked a fat lip) by doing it in person, but it helped to think of that-it turned the dials down a little. And he did did have a couple of six-packs at home, one in the fridge and the other in the woodshed. have a couple of six-packs at home, one in the fridge and the other in the woodshed.

"Okay," he said. "I don't need this action, anyway. Gimme my keys." For he had turned them over to Henry, as a precaution, when he sat down at the bar six hours and eighteen beers ago.

"Nope." Henry wiped his hands on a piece of towel and stared at Hugh unflinchingly.

"Nope? What the h.e.l.l do you mean, What the h.e.l.l do you mean, nope? nope?"

"I mean you're too drunk to drive. I know it, and when you wake up tomorrow morning, you're going to know it, too."

"Listen," Hugh said patiently. "When I gave you the G.o.ddam keys, I thought I had a ride home. Bobby Dugas said he was coming down for a few beers. It's not my fault the numb f.u.c.k never showed."

Henry sighed. "I sympathize with that, but it's not my problem. I could get sued if you wiped someone out. I doubt if that means much to you, but it does to me. I got to cover my a.s.s, buddy. In this world, n.o.body else does it for you."

Hugh felt resentment, self-pity, and an odd, inchoate wretchedness well to the surface of his mind like some foul liquid seeping up from a long-buried canister of toxic waste. He looked from his keys, hanging behind the bar next to the plaque which read IF YOU DON'T LIKE OUR TOWN LOOK FOR A TIME-TABLE, back to Henry. He was alarmed to find he was on the verge of tears.

Henry glanced past him at the few other customers currently in attendance. "Hey! Any of you yo-yos headed up Castle Hill?"

Men looked down at their tables and said nothing. One or two cracked their knuckles. Charlie Fortin sauntered toward the men's room with elaborate slowness. No one answered.

"See?" Hugh said. "Come on, Henry, gimme my keys."

Henry had shaken his head with slow finality. "If you want to come in here and do some drinking another time, you want to take a hike."

"Okay, I will!" Hugh said. His voice was that of a pouty child on the verge of a temper tantrum. He crossed the floor with his head down and his hands balled into tight fists. He waited for someone to laugh. He almost hoped someone would. He would clean some house then, and f.u.c.k the job. But the place was silent except for Reba McEntire, who was whining something about Alabama.

"You can pick up your keys tomorrow!" Henry called after him.

Hugh said nothing. With a mighty effort he had restrained himself from putting one scuffed yellow workboot right through Henry Beaufort's d.a.m.ned old Rock-Ola as he went by. Then, with his head down, he had pa.s.sed out into darkness.

6.

Now the mist had become a proper drizzle, and Hugh guessed the drizzle would develop into a steady, drenching rain by the time he reached home. It was just his luck. He walked steadily onward, not weaving quite so much now (the air had had a sobering effect on him), eyes moving restlessly from side to side. His mind was troubled, and he wished someone would come along and give him some lip. Even a little lip would do tonight. He thought briefly of the kid who had stepped in front of his truck yesterday afternoon, and wished sulkily that he had knocked the brat all the way across the street. It wouldn't have been his fault, no way. In his day, kids had looked where they were going.

He pa.s.sed the vacant lot where the Emporium Galorium had stood before it burned down, You Sew and Sew, Castle Rock Hardware... and then he was pa.s.sing Needful Things. He glanced into the display window, looked back up Main Street (only a mile and a half to go, now, and maybe he would beat the rain before it really started to pelt down, after all), and then came to a sudden halt.

His feet had carried him past the new store, and he had to go back. There was a single light on above the window display, casting its soft glow down over the three items arranged there. The light also spilled out onto his face, and it worked a wondrous transformation there. Suddenly Hugh looked like a tired little boy up long past his bedtime, a little boy who has just seen what he wants for Christmas-what he must must have for Christmas, because all at once nothing else on G.o.d's green earth would do. The central object in the window was flanked by two fluted vases (Nettie Cobb's beloved carnival gla.s.s, although Hugh didn't know this and would not have cared if he did). have for Christmas, because all at once nothing else on G.o.d's green earth would do. The central object in the window was flanked by two fluted vases (Nettie Cobb's beloved carnival gla.s.s, although Hugh didn't know this and would not have cared if he did).

It was a fox-tail.