Christine - Stephen King [67]
'Yes,' I said. 'I guess they do.'
'So long, kid,' he said, sticking a fresh cigar in his mouth. 'Say hi to your dad for me.'
'I will.'
'And tell Cunningham to keep an eye out for that punk Repperton. I got an idea he might be the sort who'd hold a grudge.'
'Me too,' I said.
I walked out of the garage, pausing once to glance back but looking in from the glare, Christine was little more than a shadow among shadows. Bad pennies always turn up, Darnell said. It was a phrase that followed me home.
15 FOOTBALL WOES
Learn to work the saxophone,
I play just what I feel,
Drink Scotch whisky
All night long,
And die behind the wheel
- Steely Dan
School started, and nothing much happened for a week or two. Arnie didn't find out I'd been down to the garage, and I was glad. I don't think he would have taken kindly to the news. Darnell kept his mouth shut as he had promised (probably for his own reasons). I called Michael one afternoon after school when I knew Arnie would be down at the garage. I told him Arnie had done some stuff to the car, but it was nowhere near street-legal. I told him my impression was that Arnie was mostly farting around. Michael greeted this news with a mixture of relief and surprise, but that ended it for a while.
Arnie himself flickered in and out of my view, like something you see from the corner of your eye. He was around the halls, and we had three classes together, and he sometimes came over after school or on weekends. There were times when it really seemed as if nothing had changed. But he was at Darnell's a lot more than he was at my house, and on Friday nights he went out to Philly Plains - the stock-car track - with Darnell's half-bright handyman, Jimmy Sykcs. They ran out sportsters and charger-class racers, mostly Camaros and Mustangs with all their glass knocked out and roll bars installed. They took them out on Darnell's flatbed and came back with fresh junk for the automobile graveyard.
It was around that time that Arnie hurt his back. It wasn't a serious injury - or so he claimed - but my mother noticed that something was wrong with him almost right away. He came over one Sunday to watch the Phillies, who were pounding down the home-stretch to moderate glory that year, and happened to get up during the third inning to pour us each a glass of orange juice. My mother was sitting on the couch with my father, reading a book. She glanced up when Arnie came back in and said, 'You're limping, Arnie.'
I thought I saw a surprising, unexpected expression on Arnie's face for a second or two - a furtive, almost guilty look. I could have been wrong. If it was there, it was gone a second later.
'I guess I strained my back out at the Plains last night,' he said, giving me my orange juice. 'Jimmy Sykes stalled out the last of the clunks we were loading just when it was almost up on the bed of the truck. I could see it rolling back down and then the two of us goofing around for another two hours, trying to get it started again. So I gave it a shove. Guess I shouldn't have.'
It seemed like an elaborate explanation for a simple little limp, but I could have been wrong about that too.
'You have to be more careful of your back,' my mother said severely. 'The Lord - '
'Mom, could we watch the game now?' I asked.
' - only gives you one,' she finished.
'Yes, Mrs Guilder,' Arnie said dutifully.
Elaine wandered in. 'Is there any more juice, or did you two coneheads drink it all?'
'Come on, give me a break!' I yelled. There had been some sort of disputed play at second and I had missed the whole thing.
'Don't shout at your sister, Dennis,' my father muttered from the depths of The Hobbyist magazine he was reading.
'There's a lot left, Ellie,' Arnie told her.
'Sometimes, Arnie,' Elaine told him, 'you strike as almost human.' She flounced out to the kitchen.
'Almost human, Dennis!' Arnie whispered to me, apparently