Christine - Stephen King [195]
She stood by the sofa, looking at me across the room. I was struck again by the simplicity of her good looks her lovely girl's figure outlined in dark blue pants and a sweater of light, powdery blue, an outfit that made me think about skiing. Her hair was tied in a loose pigtail and lay over her left shoulder. Her eyes were the colour of her sweater, maybe a little darker. A cornfed American beauty, you would have said, except for the high cheekbones, which seemed a little arrogant, bespeaking some older, more exotic heritage - maybe some fifteen or twenty generations back there was a Viking in the woodpile.
Or maybe that isn't what I was thinking at all.
She saw me looking at her too long and blushed. I looked away.
'Dennis, are you worried about him?'
'Worried? Scared might be a better word.
'What do you know about that car? What has he told you?'
'Not much,' I said. 'Look, would you like something to drink? There's some stuff in the fridge I felt for my crutches.
'Sit still,' she said. 'I would like something, but I'll get it. What about you?'
'I'll take a ginger ale, if there's one left.'
She went into the kitchen and I watched her shadow on the wall, moving lightly, like a dancer. There was a momentary added weight in my stomach, almost like a sickness. There's a name for that sort of sickness. I think it's called failing in love with your best friend's girl.
'You've got an automatic ice-maker.' Her voice floated back. 'We've got one too. I love it.'
'Sometimes it goes crazy and sprays ice-cubes all over the floor,' I said. 'It's like Jimmy Cagney in White Heat. "Take that, you dirty rats." It drives my mother crazy.' I was babbling.
She laughed. Ice-cubes clinked in glasses. Shortly she came back with two glasses of ice and two cans of Canada Dry.
'Thanks,' I said, taking mine.
'No, thank you,' she said, and now her blue eyes were dark and sober. 'Thanks for being around. If I had to deal with this alone, I think I'd I don't know.'
'Come on,' I said. 'It's not that bad.'
'Isn't it? Do you know about Darnell?' I nodded.
'And that other one? Don Vandenberg.'
So she had made the connection too.
I nodded again. 'I saw it. Leigh, what is it about Christine that bothers you?'
For a long time I didn't know if she was going to answer. If she would be able to answer. I could see her struggling with it, looking down at her glass, held in both hands.
At last in a very low voice, she said, 'I think she tried to kill me.'
I don't know what I had expected, but it wasn't that. 'What do you mean?'
She talked, first hesitantly, then more rapidly, until it was pouring out of her. It is a story you have already heard, so I won't repeat it here; suffice to say that I tried to tell it pretty much as she told it to me. She hadn't been kidding about being scared. It was in the pallor of her face, the little hitches and gulps of her voice, the way her hands constantly caressed her upper arms, as if she was too cold in spite of the sweater. And the more she talked, the more scared I got.
She finished by telling me how, as consciousness dwindled, the dashboard lights had seemed to turn into watching eyes. She laughed nervously at this last, as if trying to take the curse off an obvious absurdity, but I didn't laugh back. I was remembering George LeBay's dry voice as we sat in cheap patio chairs in front of the Rainbow Motel, his voice telling me the story of Roland, Veronica, and Rita. I was remembering those things and my mind was making unspeakable connections. Lights were going on. I didn't like what they were revealing. My heart started to thud heavily in my chest, and I couldn't have joined in her laughter if my life had depended on it.
She told me about the ultimatum she had given him - her or the car. She told me about Arnie's furious reaction. That had been the last time she went out with him.
'Then he got arrested,' she said, 'and I started to think think about what had happened to Buddy