The telephone base fell off the edge of the table and crashed with a single 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.
She thought of picking the telephone up with the claws which were now cradled on her chest, having to do it not by graspingtonight 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 bumped-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,
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 diminishing 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, passing 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 pushing out his sweaty blue tee-shirt (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 sixmonth suspension of his privilege to driv@that bastard Keeton, his co-bastards Fullerton and Samuels, and their co-bitch 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 drunkdriving 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 fuck 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 passed 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 shore, Hubert-Bobby always called him Hubert, which was not his fucking name, and you could bet that shit was going to change, too, and soon. Why shore, 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, al@nost an hour and a half early, actually, but what the hell, 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 ninethirty, guess further what? More of the same, by God!
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 fuck out. Hugh had been outraged.
It was true he had kicked the jukebox, but the goddam 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 fuckin 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 bitch. Then he thought of that fat bastard Keeton, handing him a pink slip for kicking up dickens 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 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 hell do you mean, 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 goddam 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 fuck 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 ass, buddy. In this world, nobody else does it for you.”
Hugh felt resentment, self-pity, and an odd, inchoate wretched foul liquid seeping ness well to the surface of his mind like some 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.