That had been part of her attempt to break clean with every aspect of the old life which she fancied had hurt her so badly, never in her darkest nights allowing herself to dream that most of the wounds had been self-inflicted. In San Francisco there had been no Trisha or Patricia; only Polly. She had filled out all three of her A.D.C applications that way, and had signed her name that way-as Polly Chalmers, no middle initial.
If Alan really had written to the Child Welfare people in San Francisco, she supposed he might have given her name as Patricia, but wouldn’t any resulting records search have come up blank? Yes, of course. Not even the addresses would correlate, because the one she’d printed in the space for ADDRESS OF LAST RESIDENCE all those years ago had been her parents’ address, and that was on the other side of town.
Suppose Alan gave them both names? Polly and Patricia?
Suppose he had? She knew enough about the workings of government bureaucracies to believe it didn’t matter what name or names Alan had given them; when writing to her, the letter would have come to the name and address they had on file. Polly had a friend in Oxford whose correspondence from the University of Maine still came addressed to her maiden name, although she had been married for twenty years.
But this envelope had come addressed to Patricia Chalmers, not Polly Chalmers. And who in Castle Rock had called her Patricia just today?
The same person who had known that Nettle Cobb was really Netitia Cobb. Her good friend Leland Gaunt.
All of that about the names is interestin, Aunt Evie said suddenly, but it ain’t really the important thing. The important thing is the man-your man. He is your man, ain’t he? Even now. You know he would never go behind your back like that letter said he done. Don’t matter what name was on i’t or how convincing it might sound… you know that, don’t you?
“Yes,” she whispered. “I know him.”
Had she really believed any of it? Or had she put her doubts about that absurd, unbelievable letter aside because she was afraidin terror, actually-that Alan would see the nasty truth of the azka and force her to make a choice between him and it?
“Oh no-that’s too simple,” she whispered. “You believed it, all right. Only for half a day, but you did believe it. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus, what have I done?”
She tossed the crumpled letter onto the floor with the revolted expression of a woman who has just realized she’s holding a dead rat.
I didn’t tell him what I was angry about,. didn’t give him a chance to explain; Just… just believed it. Why? In God’s name, why?
She knew, of course. It had been the sudden, shameful fear that her lies about the cause of Kelton’s death had been discovered, the misery of her years in San Francisco suspected, her culpability in the death of her baby being evaluated… and all this by the one man in the world whose good opinion she wanted and needed.
But that wasn’t all of it. That wasn’t even most of it. Mostly it had been pride-wounded, outraged, throbbing, swollen, malignant pride. Pride, the coin without which her purse would be entirely empty. She had believed because she had been in a panic of shame, a shame which had been born of pride.
I have always so enjoyed ladies who take pride in themselves.
A terrible wave of pain broke in her hands; Polly moaned and held them against her breasts.
Not too late, Polly, Mr. Gaunt said softly. Not too late, even now, “Oh, fuck pride! Polly shrieked suddenly into the dark of her closed, stuffy bedroom, and ripped the azka from her neck. She held it high overhead in her clenched fist, the fine silver chain whipping wildly, and she felt the surface of the charm crack like the shell of an egg inside her hand. “FUCK PRIDE!”
Pain instantly clawed its way into her hands like some small and hungry animal… but she knew even then that the pain was not as great as she had feared; nowhere near as great as she had feared.
She knew it as surely as she knew that Alan had never written to Child Welfare in San Francisco, asking about her.
“FUCK PRIDE! FUCK IT! FUCK IT! FUCK IT!” she screamed, and threw the azka across the room.
It hit the wall, bounced to the floor, and split open. Lightning flashed, and she saw two hairy legs poke out through the crack.
The crack widened, and what crawled out was a small spider. It scuttered toward the bathroom. Lightning flashed again, printing its elongated, ovate shadow on the floor like an electric tattoo.
Polly leaped from her bed and chased after it. She had to kill it, and quickly… because even as she watched, the spider was swelling. It had been feeding on the poison it had sucked out of her body, and now that it was free of its containment, there was no telling how big it might grow.
She slapped the bathroom light-switch, and the fluorescent over the sink flickered into life. She saw the spider scurrying toward the tub. When it went through the door, it had been no bigger than a beetle. Now it was the size of a mouse.
As she came in, it turned and scurried toward her-that horrid clittering sound of its legs beating against the tiles-and she had time to think, It was between my breasts, it was lying AGAINST me, it was lying against me ALL THE time-its body was a bristly blackish-brown.
Tiny hairs stood out on its legs. Eyes as dull as fake rubies stared at her… and she saw that two fangs stuck out of its mouth like curved vampire teeth.
They were dripping some clear liquid. Where the droplets struck the tiles, they left small, smoking craters.
Polly screamed and grabbed the bathroom plunger which stood beside the toilet. Her hands screamed back at her, but she closed them around the plunger’s wooden handle just the same and struck the spider with it. It retreated, one of its legs now broken and hanging uselessly askew. Polly chased after it as it ran for the tub.
Hurt or not, it was still growing. Now it was the size of a rat.
Its bulging belly had dragged against the tiles, but it went up the shower-curtain with weird agility. Its legs made a sound against the plastic like tiny spats of water. The rings jingled on the steel bar running overhead.
Polly swung the plunger like a baseball bat, the heavy rubber cup whooshing through the air, and struck the horrid thing again.
The rubber cup covered a lot of area but was not, unfortunately, very effective when it connected. The shower-curtain billowed inward and the spider dropped off into the tub with a meaty plop.
In that instant the light went out.
Polly stood in the dark, the plunger in her hand, and listened to the spider scurrying. Then the lightning flashed again and she could see its humped, bristly back protruding over the lip of the tub. The thing which had come out of the thimble-sized azka was as big as a cat now-the thing which had been nourishing itself on her heart’s blood even as it abstracted the pain from her hands.
The envelope I left out at the old Camber place-what was that?
With the azka no longer around her neck, with the pain awake and yelling in her hands, she could no longer tell herself it had nothing to do with Alan.
The spider’s fangs clicked on the porcelain edge of the tub. It sounded like someone clicking a penny deliberately on a hard surface for attention. Its listless doll’s eyes now regarded her over the lip of the tub.
It’s too late, those eyes seemed to say. Too late for Alan, too late for you. Too late for everyone.
Polly launched herself at it.
“What did you make me do?” she screamed. “What did you make me do? Oh you monster, WHAT DID YOU MAKE ME DO?”
And the spider rose up on its rear legs, pawing obscenely at the shower-curtain for balance with its front ones, to meet her attack.
Ace Merrill began to respect the old dude a little when Keeton produced a key which opened the locked shed with the red diamond-shaped HIGH EXPLOSIVES signs on the door. He began to respect him a little more when he felt the chilly air, heard the steady low whoosh of the air conditioner, and saw the stacked crates.