Dolores Claiborne - Stephen King [101]
I come out of the parlor into the hall, then climbed the stairs toward her, holdin that rollin pin by one of the wooden handles. When I got to where she lay, with her head pointed down and her legs twisted under her, I didn't mean to take no pause; I knew if I did that, I wouldn't be able to do it at all. There wasn't going to be any more talk. When I got to her, I meant to drop on one knee n brain her with that marble rollin pin just as hard as I could and as fast as I could. Maybe it'd look like somethin that'd happened to her when she fell and maybe it wouldn't, but I meant to do it either way.
When I knelt beside her, I saw there was no need; she'd done it on her own after all, like she done most things in her life. While I was in the kitchen gettin the rollin pin, or maybe while I was comin back through the parlor, she'd just closed her eyes n slipped off.
I sat down beside her, put the rollin pin on the stairs, picked up her hand n held it in my lap. There are some times in a person's life that don't have no real minutes in em, so you can't count em up. All I know is that I sat n visited with her awhile. I dunno if I said anything or not. I think I did-I think I thanked her for lettin go, for lettin me go, for not makin me have to go through all of it again-but maybe I only thought those things. I remember put-tin her hand against my cheek, then turnin it over and kissin the palm. I remember lookin at it and thinkin how pink n clean it was. The lines had mostly faded from it, and it looked like a baby's hand. I knew I ought to get up and telephone someone, tell em what happened, but I was weary-so weary. It seemed easier to just sit there n hold her hand.
Then the doorbell rang. If it hadn't, I would have set there quite awhile longer, I think. But you know how it is with bells-you feel you have to answer em, no matter what. I got up and went down the stairs one at a time, like a woman ten years older'n I am (the truth is, I felt ten years older), clingin to the bannister the whole way. I remember thinkin the world still felt as if it was made of glass, and I had to be damned careful not to slip on it n cut myself when I had to let go of the bannister n cross the entry to the door.
It was Sammy Marchant, with his mailman's hat cocked back on his head in that silly way he does-he prob'ly thinks wearin his hat that way makes him look like a rock star. He had the regular mail in one hand and one of those padded envelopes that come registered mail just about every week from New York-news of what was happenin with her financial affairs, accourse-in the other; It was a fella named Greenbush took care of her money, did I tell you that?
I did? All right-thanks. There's been so much globber I can hardly remember what I've told you and what I haven't.
Sometimes there were papers in those registered mail envelopes that had to be signed, and most times Vera could do that if I helped hold her arm steady, but there were a few times, when she was fogged out, that I signed her name on em myself.
There wasn't nothing to it, and never a single question later about any of the ones I did. In the last three or four years, her signature wa'ant nothin but a scrawl, anyway. So that's somethin else you c'n get me for, if you really want to: forgery. Sammy'd started holdin out the padded envelope as soon as the door opened-wantin me to sign for it, like I always did with the registered-but when he got a good look at me, his eyes widened n he took a step backward on the stoop. It was actually more of a jerk than a step-and considerin it was Sammy Marchant doin it, that seems like just the right word. Dolores! he says. Are you all right? There's blood on you!
It's not mine, I says, and my voice was as calm as it woulda been if he'd ast me what I was watchin on TV and I told him. It's Vera's.