She follows Pleasant Road down the winding hill, the street well lit and cheery with yard after yard of twinkling Christmas lights, until it runs into Route 117. The road grows darker here, just the occasional pole lamp casting dim globes of sickly yellow light onto the ground below, and she picks up her pace, heading for the old covered bridge that stretches across the Bowie Stream.
Running is usually just as much an act of meditation for Gwendy as it is a form of exercise. On those rare bad weather days when she’s forced to work out on the treadmill or StairMaster at the YMCA, she often listens to music on her Sony Walkman—usually something upbeat and peppy like Britney Spears or the Backstreet Boys; a fact Ryan never fails to give her grief about—but during her outside jaunts, she almost always prefers to run in silence. Just her and her innermost thoughts, the familiar sounds of the city or the countryside, and the rhythmic slap of her shoes punishing the asphalt.
Tonight she’s thinking about her husband.
Of course, she’s worried about him and anxious he won’t make it home in time for Christmas, but she knows those concerns are out of her control and even a little bit selfish. Ryan has a job to do, a sometimes dangerous job he loves with all his heart, and she supports that passion unconditionally—as he does hers. It’s part of what makes them work so well together. On a daily basis, they may prefer the simplicity of each other’s company—a walk in the woods, a game of gin rummy at the kitchen table, a late night double-feature at the drive-in—to crowded black tie events and fancy art openings, but when work calls they each know the drill. True passion is almost always accompanied by sacrifice.
So why all the angst this time? Gwendy wonders, as she approaches the old bridge. It’s not like this is their first rodeo. Ryan’s gone away on dozens of other assignments since they’ve been together.
A steady stream of likely answers trickles through her mind as she runs: it’s because of the holidays; it’s because her mother is still recovering from a life-altering illness; it’s because the button box is back in her life and she doesn’t have a clue what to do with it.
Gwendy considers the question a little longer, then checks off All Of The Above and picks up her stride, focusing on the road ahead.
The streetlight attached to the covered bridge’s outer planking is dark, most likely having served as target practice for some bored townie with a .22 rifle. The entrance looms ahead like a dark, hungry mouth, but Gwendy doesn’t break pace. She glides into the heart of the pitch-dark tunnel, rapid footsteps echoing around her, reminding her, just as they did when she was a little girl, of the old fairy tale about the evil troll living under the bridge.
It’s just a story, she tells herself, pumping her arms. Nothing’s going to reach out and grab you. Nothing’s going to leap down from the rafters and—
She’s a few yards away from reaching the exit when she hears a noise in the darkness behind her. A furtive scratching like claws scrambling across pavement. A finger of dread tickles the length of her spine. She doesn’t want to turn and look, but she can’t help herself. A pair of close-set eyes, unblinking and coal-red, watches her from deep within the shadows. Gwendy feels her legs begin to falter and wills them to keep moving, her breath coming fast and ragged. By the time she looks away, she’s clear of the bridge and back under the stars on Route 117.
Probably just a stupid raccoon, Gwendy thinks, sidestepping around a pothole in the road. Pulling cool air deeply into her lungs, she keeps running, a little faster now, and doesn’t look back.
33
WITH ALL OF HER Christmas shopping completed and the bulk of her work correspondence caught up, Gwendy spends the Monday and Tuesday before Christmas settling into an almost scandalously lazy routine. For her, anyway.
On Monday morning, she sleeps in (waking almost ninety minutes later than her usual 6:00 AM, having forced herself not to set her alarm the night before) and remains in bed until nearly noon, catching up on news programs and movies on cable. After a luxuriously long bubble bath, she makes a light lunch and retires to the sunroom, where she stretches out on the loveseat and alternates between staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows and daydreaming, and reading the new Ridley Pearson thriller deep into the afternoon. Once the December sun begins its inevitable slide toward the horizon, she marks her page, leaves the thick paperback on an end table, and goes upstairs to change clothes. Then she grabs her keys and heads to her parents’ house for dinner.
After nearly three months of being waited on in her own kitchen, Mrs. Peterson is finally feeling strong enough to cook again. Under the watchful eye of her husband, Mrs. Peterson prepares and serves a steaming hot casserole of beef stroganoff and a Christmas tree-shaped platter stacked with homemade rolls. The food is delicious, and Mrs. Peterson is so openly and endearingly pleased with herself, her smiles bring tears to her husband’s eyes.
After dinner, Gwendy and her father shoo Mrs. Peterson into the den while they clear the table and wash the dishes. Then they join her in watching A Christmas Carol on television and crack open a new jigsaw puzzle.
At a few minutes before nine, Gwendy bids her folks goodnight and drives back to the condo. She considers going for a run, but decides against it, working the three-digit combination on the safe instead, and taking out the button box.
It keeps her company at the foot of the bed while she changes into a nightgown and brushes her teeth. She finds herself talking to it more and more now, just as she did when she was younger. The box doesn’t answer, of course, but she’s almost certain that it listens—and watches. Before she puts it away for the night, she sits on the edge of the mattress, places the box in her lap, and pulls the lever by the red button. The narrow shelf slides out and on it is a tiny chocolate monkey. She admires the fine detail, and then slowly lifts it to her nose and inhales. Her eyes flutter closed. When she opens them again, she gets up and walks at a deliberate pace to the bathroom where she flushes the chocolate down the toilet. Unlike last time, there is no panic and there are no tears. “See?” she says to the box as she reenters the bedroom, “I’m in control here. Not you.” And then she returns the button box to the safe and goes to sleep.
Tuesday is more or less a repeat performance of the day before, and there are moments when Gwendy can’t help but think of scenes from Groundhog Day, that silly movie Ryan likes so much.
She starts the day by again sleeping in and lounging in bed for most of the morning. Then she takes a long bath, finishes the Pearson novel shortly after lunch, and devours the first four chapters of a new John Grisham.
She’s not in much of a holiday mood, but she forces herself to haul out the artificial tree and boxes of ornaments from the crawlspace. She sets up the tree in the corner of the family room and hangs last year’s wreath on the front door. When dusk descends upon Castle Rock, she goes upstairs to change and heads to her parents’ for another dose of Mom’s home cooking. Lasagna and salad are on the menu tonight, and Gwendy eats two generous servings of each. After dinner, she and her father once again take care of the dishes, and then join Mrs. Peterson in the den. Tonight’s feature is White Christmas, and when the movie’s over and the credits are rolling, Mr. Peterson shocks both his wife and daughter by rolling up his pant legs, doing his best Bing Crosby imitation, and performing the “Sisters” routine in its entirety. Mrs. Peterson, hardly believing her eyes, collapses onto the sofa laughing so hard she ends up having a coughing fit, prompting her husband to hightail it into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. She takes a big drink, starts hiccupping, and lets out a tremendous belch—and the three of them burst out in delirious laughter all over again. The party breaks up a short time later, and Gwendy heads home, snow flurries dancing in the beams of her car’s headlights.