“The Fury roared across the living room, knocking Will’s La-Z-Boy armchair onto its side, where it lay like a dead pony. The floor under Christine creaked uneasily and a part of Will’s mind screamed: Yes! Break! Break! Spill the goddam thing into the cellar! Let’s see it climb out of there! And this image was replaced with the image of a tiger in a pit that had been dug and them camouflaged by wily natives.
But the floor held—at least for the time being, it held.
Christine roared across the living room at him. Behind, she left a zig-zag pattern of snowy tyre prints on the rug. She slammed into the stairs. Will was thrown back against the wall. His aspirator fell out of his hand and tumbled end over end all the way to the bottom.
Christine reversed across the room, floorboards groaning underneath. Her rear end struck the Sony TV, and the picture tube imploded. She roared forward again and struck the side of the stairs again, shattering lath and gouging out plaster. Will could feel the entire structure grow wobbly under him. There was an awful sensation of lean. For a moment Christine was directly beneath him; he could look down into the oily gut of her engine compartment, could feel the heat of her V-8 mill. She reversed again, and Will scrambled up the stairs, heaving for air, clawing at the fat sausage of his throat, eyes bulging.
He reached the top an instant before Christine hit the wall again, turning the centre of the stairs into a jumbled wreck. A long splinter of wood fell into her engine. The fan chewed it up and spat out coarse-grained sawdust and smaller splinters. The entire house smelled of gas and exhaust. Will’s ears rang with the heavy thunder of that merciless engine.
She backed up again. Now her tyres had chewed ragged trenches in the carpet. Down the hall, Will thought. Attic. Attic’ll be safe. Yes, the at… oh God… oh God… oh my GOD—
The final pain came with sharp, spiking suddenness. It was as if his heart had been punctured with an icicle. His left arm locked with pain. Still there was no breath; his chest heaved uselessly. He staggered backward. One foot danced out over nothingness, and then he fell back down the stairs in two great bone-snapping barrel rolls, legs flying over his head, arms waving, blue bathrobe sailing and flapping.
He landed in a heap at the bottom and Christine pounced upon him: struck him, reversed, struck him again, snapped off the heavy newel post at the foot of the stairs like a twig, reversed, struck him again.
From beneath the floor came the increasing mutter of supports splintering and bowing. Christine paused in the middle of the room for a moment, as if listening. Two of her tyres were flat; a third had come half off the wheel. The left side of the car was punched inward, scraped clean of paint in great bald patches.
Suddenly her gearstick dropped into reverse. Her engine screamed, and she rocketed back across the room and out of the ragged hole in the side of Will Darnell’s house, her rear end dropping down several inches and into the snow. The tyres spun, found some purchase, and pulled her out. She backed limpingly toward the road, her engine chopping and missing now, blue smoke hazing the air around her, oil dripping and spraying.
At the road, she turned back toward Libertyville. The gearsticklever dropped into DRIVE, but at first the damaged transmission wouldn’t catch; when it did she rolled slowly away from the house. Behind her, from Will’s house, a broad bar of light shone out onto the churned up snow in a shape that was not at all like the neat rectangle of light thrown up by a window. The shape of the light on the snow was senseless and strange.
She moved slowly, lurching from side to side on her flats like a very old drunk making her way up an alley. Snow fell thickly, driven into slanting lines by the wind.
One of her headlights, shattered in her last destructive, trampling charge, flickered and came on.
One of the tyres began to reinflate, then the other.
The clouds of stinking oil-smoke began to diminish.
The engine’s chopping, uncertain note smoothed out.
The missing bonnet began to reappear, from the windscreen end down, looking weirdly like a scarf or cardigan being knitted by invisible needles; the raw metal drew itself out of nothing, gleamed steel-grey, and then darkened to red as if filling with blood.
The cracks in the windscreen began to run in reverse, leaving unflawed smoothness behind themselves.
The other headlights came on, one after the other; now she moved with swift surety through the stormy night, behind the cutting edge of her confident brights.
Her milometer spun smoothly backward.
Forty-five minutes later she sat in the darkness of the late Will Darnell’s Do-It-Yourself Garage, in stall twenty. The wind howled and moaned in the ranks of the wrecks out back, rusting hulks that perhaps held their own ghosts and their own baleful memories as powdery snow swirled across the ripped and tattered seats, their balding floor carpets.
Her engine ticked slowly, cooling.
Part III
CHRISTINE—TEENAGE DEATH-SONGS
43
LEIGH COMES TO VISIT
James Dean in that Mercury ’49,
Junior Johnson Bonner through the woods o’ Caroline
Even Burt Reynolds in that black Trans-Am,
All gonna meet down at the Cadillac Ranch.
About fifteen minutes before Leigh was due, I got my crutches under me and worked my way to the chair closest the door, so she’d be sure to hear me when I hollered for her to come in. Then I picked up my copy of Esquire again and turned back to an article reading “The Next Vietnam,” which was part of a school assignment. I still had no success reading it. I was nervous and scared, and part of it—a lot of it, I guess—was simple eagerness. I wanted to see her again.
The house was empty. Not too long after Leigh called that stormy Christmas Eve afternoon, I got my dad aside and asked him if he could maybe take Mom and Elaine someplace the afternoon of the twenty-sixth.
“Why not?” he agreed amiably enough.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Sure. But you owe me one, Dennis.”
“Dad!”
He winked solemnly. “I’ll scratch your back if you’ll scratch mine.”
“Nice guy,” I said.
“A real prince,” he agreed.
My dad, who is no slouch, asked me if it had to do with Arnie. “She’s his girl, isn’t she?”
“Well,” I said, not sure just what the situation was, and uncomfortable for reasons of my own, “she has been. I don’t know about now.”
“Problems?”
“I didn’t do such a hot job being his eyes, did I?”
“It’s hard to see from a hospital bed, Dennis. I’ll see you mother and Ellie are out Tuesday afternoon. Just be careful, okay?”
Since then, I’ve pondered exactly what he might have meant by that; he surely couldn’t have been worried about me trying to jump Leigh’s bones, with one upper leg still in plaster and a half-cast on my back. I think maybe he was just afraid that something had gotten terribly out of whack, with my old childhood friend suddenly a stranger, and a stranger who was out on bail at that.
I sure thought something was out of whack, and it scared the piss out of me. The Keystone doesn’t publish on Christmas, but all three Pittsburgh network-TV affiliates and both the independent channels had the story of what had happened to Will Darnell, along with bizarre and frightening pictures of his house. The side facing the road had been demolished. It was the only word which fit. That side of the house looked as if some mad Nazi had driven a Panzer tank through it. The story had been headlined this morning—FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED IN BIZARRE DEATH OF SUSPECTED CRIME FIGURE. That was bad enough, even without another picture of Will Darnell’s house with that big hole punched in the side. But you had to check page three to get the rest of it. The other item was smaller because Will Darnell had been a “suspected crime figure”, and Don Vandenberg had only been a dipshit dropout gas-jockey.