Christine - Stephen King [143]
'Nothing, nothing's wrong, I had a fight with Arnie, that's all. Help me pick up my things, would you?'
They picked up Leigh's parcels and went in. The door shut behind them and the night belonged to the wind and to the swiftly falling snow. By morning there would be better than eight inches.
Arnie cruised until sometime after midnight, and later had no memory of it. The snow had filled the streets; they were deserted and ghostly. It was not a night for the great American motor-car. Nevertheless, Christine moved through the deepening storm with surefooted ease, even without snow tyres. Now and then the prehistoric shape of a snowplough loomed and was gone.
The radio played. It was WDIL all the way across the dial. The news came on. Eisenhower had predicted, at the AFL-CIO convention, a future of labour and management marching harmoniously into the future together. Dave Beck had denied that the Teamsters Union was a front for the rackets. Rock 'n roller Eddie Cochran had been killed in a car crash while en route to London's Heathrow Airport: three hours of emergency surgery had failed to save his life. The Russians were rattling their ICBMS. WDIL played the oldies all week long, but on the weekends they really got dedicated. Fifties newscasts, wow. That was
(never heard anything like that before)
a really neat idea. That was
(totally insane)
pretty neat.
The weather promised more snow.
Then music again: Bobby Darin singing 'Splish-Splash', Ernie K-Doe singing 'Mother-in-Law', the Kalin twins singing 'When'. The wipers beat time.
He looked to his right, and Roland D. LeBay was riding shotgun.
Roland D. LeBay sat there in his green pants and a faded shirt of Army twill, looking out of dark eyesockets. A beetle sat, preening, within one.
You have to make them pay, Roland D. LeBay said. You have to make the shitters pay, Cunningham. Every last fucking one of them.
'Yes,' Arnie whispered. Christine hummed through the night, cutting the snow with fresh, sure tracks. 'Yes, that's a fact.' And the wipers nodded back and forth.
35 NOW THIS BRIEF INTERLUDE
Drive that old Chrysler to Mexico, boy.
- Z. Z. Top
At Libertyville High, Coach Puffer bad given way to Coach Jones, and football had given way to basketball. But nothing really changed: the LHS cagers didn't do much better than the LHS gridiron warriors - the only bright spot was Lenny Barongg, a three-sport man whose major one was basketball. Lenny stubbornly went about having the great year he needed to get the athletic scholarship to Marquette that he lusted after.
Sandy Galton suddenly blew town. One day he was there, the next he was gone. His mother, a fortv-five-year old wino who didn't look a day over sixty, did not seem terribly concerned. Neither did his younger brother, who pushed more dope than any other kid in Gornick Junior High. A romantic rumour that he had cut out for Mexico made the rounds at Libertyville High. Another, less romantic, rumour also made the rounds: that Buddy Repperton had been on Sandy about something and he felt it would be safer to make himself scarce.
The Christmas break approached and the school's atmosphere grew restless and rather thundery, as it always did before a long vacation. The student body's overall grade average took its customary pre-Christmas dip. Book reports were turned in late and often bore a suspicious resemblance to jacket copy (after all, how many sophomore English students are apt to call The Catcher in the Rye 'this burning classic of postwar adolescence'?). Class projects were left half done or undone, the percentage of detention periods given for kissing and petting in the halls skyrocketed, and busts for marijuana went way up as the Libertyville High School students indulged in a little pre-Christmas cheer. So a good many of the students were up; teacher absenteeism was