Part 26 (1/2)

8.

Now he was off to do what Mr. Gaunt had told him he must do. It had been simple enough to get away; he simply told his mother and father he didn't want to go to church that morning because he felt sick to his stomach (nor was this a lie). Once they were gone, he made his preparations.

It was hard to pedal his bike and even harder to keep it balanced, because of the Playmate picnic cooler in the bike basket. It was very heavy, and he was sweating and out of breath by the time he reached the Jerzyck house. There was no hesitation this time, no ringing the doorbell, no preplanned story. No one was here. Sandy Koufax/Leland Gaunt had told him in the dream that the Jerzycks would be staying late after the eleven o'clock Ma.s.s to discuss the upcoming Casino Nite festivities and would then be going to visit friends. Brian believed him. All he wanted now was to finish with this awful business just as fast as he could. And when it was done, he would go home, park his bike, and spend the rest of the day in bed.

He lifted the picnic cooler out of the bike basket, using both hands, and set it down on the gra.s.s. He was behind the hedge, where no one could see him. What he was about to do would be noisy, but Koufax/Gaunt had told him not to worry about that. He said most of the people on Willow Street were Catholics, and almost all of those not attending eleven o'clock Ma.s.s would have gone at eight and then left on their various Sunday day-trips. Brian didn't know if that was true or not. He only knew two things for sure: Mr. Gaunt knew best, and the deal wasn't done until Mr. Gaunt said said the deal was done. the deal was done.

And this was the deal.

Brian opened the Playmate cooler. There were about a dozen good-sized rocks inside. Wrapped around each and held with a rubber band or two was a sheet of paper from Brian's school notebook. Printed on each sheet in large letters was this simple message: Brian took one of these and walked up the lawn until he was less than ten feet from the Jerzycks' big living-room window-what had been called a ”picture window” back in the early sixties, when this house had been built. He wound up, hesitated for only a moment, and then let fly like Sandy Koufax facing the lead-off batter in the seventh game of the World Series. There was a huge and unmusical crash, followed by a thud as the rock hit the living-room carpet and rolled across the floor.

The sound had an odd effect on Brian. His fear left him, and his distaste for this further task-which could by no stretch of the imagination be dismissed as something so inconsequential as a Prank-also evaporated. The sound of breaking gla.s.s excited him... made him feel, in fact, the way he felt when he had his daydreams about Miss Ratcliffe. Those had been foolish, and he knew that now, but there was nothing foolish about this. this. This was This was real! real!

Besides, he found that he now wanted the Sandy Koufax card more than ever. He had discovered another large fact about possessions and the Peculiar Psychological state they induce: the more one has to go through because of something one owns, the more one wants to keep that thing.

Brian took two more rocks and walked over to the broken picture window. He looked inside and saw the rock he had thrown. It was lying in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. It looked very improbable there-like seeing a rubber boot on a church altar or a rose lying on the engine block of a tractor. One of the rubber bands holding the note to the rock had snapped, but the other was still okay. Brian's gaze s.h.i.+fted to the left and he found himself regarding the Jerzycks' Sony TV.

Brian wound up and threw. The rock hit the Sony dead-on. There was a hollow bang, a flash of light, and gla.s.s showered the carpet. The TV tottered on its stand but did not quite fall over. ”Stee-rike two!” two!” Brian muttered, then gave voice to a strange, strangled laugh. Brian muttered, then gave voice to a strange, strangled laugh.

He threw the other rock at a bunch of ceramic knickknacks standing on a table by the sofa, but missed. It hit the wall with a thump and gouged out a chunk of plaster.

Brian laid hold of the Playmate's handle and lugged it around to the side of the house. He broke two bedroom windows. In back, he pegged a loaf-sized rock through the window in the top half of the kitchen door, then threw several more through the hole. One of these shattered the Cuisinart standing on the counter. Another blasted through the gla.s.s front of the RadarRange and landed right inside the microwave. ”Stee-rike three! three! Siddown, bus.h.!.+” Brian cried, and then laughed so hard he almost wet his pants. Siddown, bus.h.!.+” Brian cried, and then laughed so hard he almost wet his pants.

When the throe had pa.s.sed, he finished his circuit of the house. The Playmate was lighter now; he found he could carry it with one hand. He used his last three rocks to break the bas.e.m.e.nt windows which showed among Wilma's fall flowers, then ripped up a few handfuls of the blooms for good measure. With that done, he closed the cooler, returned to his bicycle, put the Playmate into the basket, and mounted up for the ride home.

The Mislaburskis lived next door to the Jerzycks. As Brian pedaled out of the Jerzyck driveway, Mrs. Mislaburski opened her front door and came out on the stoop. She was dressed in a bright green wrapper. Her hair was bound up in a red doo-rag. She looked like an advertis.e.m.e.nt for Christmas in h.e.l.l.

”What's going on over there, boy?” she asked sharply.

”I don't know, exactly. I think Mr. and Mrs. Jerzyck must be having an argument,” Brian said, not stopping. ”I just came over to ask if they needed anyone to shovel their driveway this winter, but I decided to come back another time.”

Mrs. Mislaburski directed a brief, baleful glance at the Jerzyck house. Because of the hedges, only the second story was visible from where she stood. ”If I were you, I wouldn't come back at all,” she said. ”That woman reminds me of those little fish they have down in South America. The ones that eat the cows whole.”

”Piranha-fish,” Brian said.

”That's right. Those.”

Brian kept on pedaling. He was now drawing away from the woman in the green wrapper and red doo-rag. His heart was hustling right along, but it wasn't hammering or racing or anything like that. Part of him felt quite sure he was still dreaming. He didn't feel like himself at all-not like the Brian Rusk who got all A's and B's, the Brian Rusk who was a member of the Student Council and the Middle School Good Citizens' League, the Brian Rusk who got nothing but 1's in deportment.

”She'll kill somebody one of these days!” Mrs. Mislaburski called indignantly after Brian. ”You just mark my words!”

Under his breath Brian whispered: ”I wouldn't be a bit surprised.”

He did indeed spend the rest of the day in bed. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, this would have concerned Cora, perhaps enough to take Brian over to the Doc in the Box in Norway. Today, however, she hardly noticed that her son wasn't feeling well. This was because of the wonderful sungla.s.ses Mr. Gaunt had sold her-she was absolutely entranced with them.

Brian got up around six o'clock, about fifteen minutes before his Pa came in from a day spent fis.h.i.+ng on the lake with two friends. He got himself a Pepsi from the fridge and stood by the stove, drinking it. He felt quite a bit better.

He felt as if he might have finally fulfilled his part of the deal he had made with Mr. Gaunt.

He had also decided that Mr. Gaunt did indeed know best.

9.

Nettie Cobb, without the slightest premonition of the unpleasant surprise awaiting her at home, was in high good spirits as she walked down Main Street toward Needful Things. She had a strong intuition that, Sunday morning or not, the shop would be open, and she was not disappointed.

”Mrs. Cobb!” Leland Gaunt said as she came in. ”How very nice to see you!”

”It's nice to see you, too, Mr. Gaunt,” she said... and it was.

Mr. Gaunt came over, his hand out, but Nettie shrank from his touch. It was dreadful behavior, so impolite, but she simply couldn't help herself. And Mr. Gaunt seemed to understand, G.o.d bless him. He smiled and changed course, closing the door behind her instead. He flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED with the speed of a professional gambler palming an ace.

”Sit down, Mrs. Cobb! Please! Sit down!”

”Well, all right... but I just came to tell you that Polly... Polly is...” She felt strange, somehow. Not bad, exactly, but strange. Swimmy in the head. She sat down rather gracelessly in one of the plush chairs. Then Mr. Gaunt was standing before her, his eyes fixed on hers, and the world seemed to center upon him and grow still again.

”Polly isn't feeling so well, is she?” Mr. Gaunt asked.

”That's it,” Nettie agreed gratefully. ”It's her hands, you know. She has...”

”Arthritis, yes, terrible, such a shame, s.h.i.+t happens, life's a b.i.t.c.h and then you die, tough t.i.tty said the kitty. I know, Nettie.” Mr. Gaunt's eyes were growing again. ”But there's no need for me to call her... or call on on her, for that matter. Her hands are feeling better now.” her, for that matter. Her hands are feeling better now.”

”Are they?” Nettie asked distantly.

”You betcha! They still hurt, of course, which is good, but they don't hurt badly enough to keep her away, and that's better still-don't you agree, Nettie?”

”Yes,” Nettie said faintly, but she had no idea of what she was agreeing to.

”You,” Mr. Gaunt said in his softest, most cheerful voice, ”have got a big day ahead of you, Nettie.”

”I do?” It was news to her; she had been planning to spend the afternoon in her favorite living-room chair, knitting and watching TV with Raider at her feet.

”Yes. A very very big day. So I want you to just sit there and rest for a moment while I go get something. Will you do that?” big day. So I want you to just sit there and rest for a moment while I go get something. Will you do that?”

”Yes.”

”Good. And close your eyes, why don't you? Have a really good good rest, Nettie!” rest, Nettie!”

Nettie obediently closed her eyes. An unknown length of time later, Mr. Gaunt told her to open them again. She did, and felt a pang of disappointment. When people told you to close your eyes, sometimes they wanted to give you something nice. A present. She had hoped that, when she opened her eyes again, Mr. Gaunt might be holding another carnival gla.s.s lampshade, but all he had was a pad of paper. The sheets were small and pink. Each one was headed with the words TRAFFIC VIOLATION WARNING.

”Oh,” she said. ”I thought it might be carnival gla.s.s ”