Christine - Stephen King [164]
'Mr Guilder's in Physical Therapy right now, the female voice said. 'You could reach him at eight o'clock.'
Arnie thought of telling her it was important - very important - but suddenly he was overwhelmed with a need to get out of the phone booth. Claustrophobia was like a giant's hand pushing down on his chest. He could smell his own sweat. The smell was sour, bitter.
'Sir?'
'Yeah, okay, I'll call back,' Arnie said. He broke the connection and nearly burst out of the booth, leaving his change scattered on the ledge and the floor. A few people turned around to look at him, mildly interested, and then turned back to their food again.
'Pizza's ready,' the counterman said.
Arnie glanced up at the clock and saw he had been in the booth for almost twenty minutes. There was sweat all over his face. His armpits felt like a jungle. His legs were trembling - the muscles in his thighs felt as if they might simply give out and spill him onto the floor.
He paid for the pizza, nearly dropping his wallet as he tucked his three dollars in change back in.
'You okay?' the counterman asked. 'You look a little white around the gills.'
'I'm fine,' Arnie said. Now he felt as if he might vomit. He snatched the pizza in its white box with the word GINO'S emblazoned across the top and fled into the cold sharp clarity of the night. The last of the clouds had blown away, and the stars twinkled like chipped diamonds. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking first at the stars and then at Christine, parked across the street, waiting faithfully.
She would never argue or complain, Arnie thought. She would never demand. You could enter her anytime and rest on her plush upholstery, rest in her warmth. She would never deny. She - she -
She loved him.
Yes; he sensed that was true. Just as he sometimes sensed that LeBay would not have sold her to anyone else, not for two hundred and fifty, not for two thousand. She had been sitting there waiting for the right buyer. One who would
One who would love her for herself alone, that voice inside whispered.
'Yes. That was it; that was exactly it.
Arnie stood there with his pizza forgotten in his hands, white steam rising lazily from the grease-spotted box. He looked at Christine, and such a confusing whirl of emotions ran through him that there might have been a cyclone in his body, rearranging everything it did not simply destroy. Oh, he loved and loathed her, he hated her and cherished her, he needed her and needed to run from her, she was his and he was hers and
(I now pronounce you man and wife joined and sealed from this day forth for ever and ever, until death do you part)
But worst of all was the horror, the terrible numbing horror, the realization that that
(how did you hurt your back that night, Arnie? after Repperton - the late Clarence 'Buddy' Repperton - and his buddies trashed her? How did you hurt your back so that now you have to wear this stinking brace all the time? How did you hurt your back?)
The answer rose and Arnie began to run, trying to beat the realization, to get to Christine before he saw the whole thing plain and went mad.
He ran for Christine, running his tangled emotions and some terrible drawing realization a foot race; he ran to her the way a hype runs for his works when the shakes and the jitters get so bad he can no longer think of anything but relief; he ran the way that the damned run to their appointed doom; he ran as a bridegroom runs to the place where his bride stands waiting.
He ran because inside Christine none of these things mattered - not his mother, father, Leigh, Dennis, or what he had done to his back that night when everyone was gone, that night after he had taken his almost totally destroyed Plymouth from the airport and back to Darnell's, and after the place was empty he had put Christine's transmission in neutral and pushed her, pushed her until she began to roll on her flat tyres, pushed her until she was out the door and he could hear the wind of November keening sharply around the wrecks and the abandonded