I was lookin right at it n still I couldn’t believe it. He jammed his fingers in between two of the big rocks stickin out of the side and yanked himself up until he could get one of his feet wedged in between two more. He rested there a minute, and then I seen one of his hands go gropin up n over his head again. It looked like a fat white bug. He found another rock to hold onto, set his grip, and brought his other hand up to join it. Then he pulled himself up again. When he stopped to rest the next time, he turned his bloody face up into the beam of my light, and I saw little bits of moss from the rock he was holdin onto crumble down onto his cheeks n shoulders.
He was still grinnin.
Can I have another drink, Andy? No, not the Beam—no more of that tonight. Just water’ll do me fine from here on out.
Thanks. Thanks very much.
Anyway, he was feelin around for his next hold when his feet slipped n he fell. There was a muddy squelchin sound when he landed on his ass. He screamed n grabbed at his chest like they do on TV when they’re supposed to be havin heart-attacks, and then his head fell forward on his chest.
I couldn’t stand any more. I stumbled my way outta the blackberry creepers n ran back to the house. I went into the bathroom n puked my guts. Then I went into the bedroom n laid down. I was shakin all over, and I kep thinkin, What if he still ain’t dead? What if he stays alive all night, what if he stays alive for days, drinkin the seep comin out from between the rocks or up through the mud? What if he keeps screamin for help until one of the Carons or Langills or Jolanders hears him and calls Garrett Thibodeau? Or what if someone comes to the house tomorrow—one of his drinkin buddies, or someone wantin him to crew on their boat or fix an engine—and hears screams comin outta the blackberry patch? What then, Dolores?
There was another voice that answered all those questions. I suppose it belonged to the inside eye, but to me it sounded a lot more like Vera Donovan than it did Dolores Claiborne; it sounded bright n dry n kiss-my-back-cheeks-if-you-don‘t-like-it. “Of course he’s dead,” that voice said, “and even if he isn’t, he soon will be. He’ll die of shock and exposure and punctured lungs. There are probably people who wouldn’t believe a man could die of exposure on a July night, but they’d be people who’ve never spent a few hours thirty feet under the ground, sitting right on top of the dank island bedrock. I know none of that is pleasant to think of, Dolores, but at least it means you can quit your worrying. Sleep for awhile, and when you go back out there, you’ll see.”
I didn’t know if that voice was makin sense or not, but it seemed to be makin sense, and I did try to go to sleep. I couldn’t, though. Each time I’d drift a little, I’d think I could hear Joe stumblin his way up the side of the shed toward the back door, and every time the house creaked, I jumped.
At last I couldn’t stand it anymore. I took off my dress, put on a pair of jeans n a sweater (lockin the barn door after the hoss has been stolen, I guess you’d say), and grabbed the flashlight off the bathroom floor from beside the commode, where I’d dropped it when I knelt down to vomit. Then I went back out.
It was darker’n ever. I don’t know if there was any kind of moon that night, but it wouldn’t’ve mattered even if there was, because the clouds had rolled back in again. The closer I got to the blackberry tangle behind the shed, the heavier my feet got. By the time I could see the wellcap again in the flashlight beam, it seemed like I couldn’t hardly lift em at all.
I did, though—I made myself walk right up to it. I stood there listenin for almost five minutes and there wasn’t a sound but the crickets and the wind rattlin through the blackberry bushes and an owl hooty-hooin someplace… prob‘ly the exact same one I’d heard before. Oh, and far off to the east I could hear the waves strikin the headland, only that’s a sound you get so used to on the island you don’t hardly hear it at all. I stood there with Joe’s flashlight in my hand, the beam aimed at the hole in the wellcap, feelin greasy, sticky sweat creepin down all over my body, stingin in the cuts n digs the blackberry thorns had made, and I told myself to kneel down and look in the well. After all, wa’ant that what I’d come out there to do?
It was, but once I was actually out there, I couldn’t do it. All I could do was tremble n make a high moanin sound in my throat. My heart wasn’t really beatin, either, but only flutterin in my chest like a humminbird’s wings.
And then a white hand all streaked with dirt n blood n moss snaked right outta that well n grabbed my ankle.
I dropped the flashlight. It fell in the bushes right at the edge of the well, which was lucky for me; if it’d fallen into the well, I‘d’ve been in deep shit indeed. But I wasn’t thinkin about the flashlight or my good luck, because the shit I was in right then was plenty deep enough, and the only thing I was thinkin about was the hand on my ankle, the hand that was draggin me toward the hole. That, and a line from the Bible. It clanged in my head like a big iron belclass="underline" I have digged a pit for mine enemies, and am fallen into it myself.
I screamed n tried to pull away, but Joe had me so tight it felt like his hand’d been dipped in cement. My eyes had adjusted to the dark enough so I could see him even with the flashlight beam shinin off in the wrong direction. He’d almost managed to climb outta the well, after all. God knows how many times he musta fallen back, but in the end he got almost to the top. I think he prob’ly would’ve made it all the way out if I hadn’t come back when I did.
His head was no more’n two feet below what was left of the board cap. He was still grinnin. His lower plate was stuck out of his mouth a little—I can still see that as clear as I see you sittin acrost from me right now, Andy—and it looked like a hoss’s teeth when it grins at you. Some of em looked black with the blood that was on em.
“Duh-lorrrr-isss,” he panted, and kep pullin me. I screamed n fell down on my backside n went slidin toward that damned hole in the ground. I could hear the blackberry thorns tickin n snickin as my jeans went slidin past em and over em. “Duh-lorrr-issss you biiiitch,” he says, but by then it was more like he was singin to me. I remember thinkin, “Pretty soon he’ll start in on ‘Moonlight Cocktail.’ ”
I grabbed at the bushes n got my hands full of stickers n fresh blood. I kicked at his head with the foot he didn’t have ahold of, but it was just a little too low to hit; I parted his hair with the heel of my sneaker a couple of times, but that was just about all.
“Come on Duh-lorrrr-issss,” he said, like he wanted to take me out for an ice cream soda or maybe dancin to the country n western over at Fudgy’s.
My ass fetched up against one of the boards still left on the side of the well, and I knew if I didn’t do somethin right away, we was gonna go tumblin down together, and there we’d stay, prob’ly wrapped in each other’s arms. And when we was found, there’d be people—ninnies like Yvette Anderson, for the most part—who’d say it just went to show how much we loved each other.
That did it. I found a little extra strength and give one last tug backwards. He almost held on, but then his hand slipped off. My sneaker musta hit him in the face. He screamed, his hand beat at the end of my foot a couple of times, and then it was gone for good. I waited to hear him go tumblin to the bottom, but he didn’t. The son of a bitch never gave up; if he’d lived the same way he died, I don’t know that we’d ever’ve had any problems, him n me.
I got up on my knees n saw him go swayin backwards over the hole… but somehow he held on. He looked up at me, shook a bloody clump of hair outta his eyes, and grinned. Then his hand come up outta the well again n grabbed onto the ground.