Gerald's Game - Stephen King [23]
Probably it had been the windows, which were too tall and oddly cut for drapes. They had never gotten around to replacing the clear glass with reflective sheets, although Gerald had continued to talk about doing that right up to . . . well . . .
Right up until today, Goody finished, and Jessie blessed her tact. And you're right — it probably was the windows, at least mostly. He wouldn't have liked Fred Laglan or Jamie Brooks driving in to ask on the spur of the moment if he wanted to play nine holes of golf and seeing him boffing Mrs Burlingame, who just happened to he attached to the bedposts with a pair of Kreig handcuffs. Word on something like that would probably get around, Fred and Jamie are good enough fellows, I guess —
A couple of middle-aged pukes, if you ask me, Ruth broke in sourly. — but they're only human, and a story like that would have been too good not to talk about. And there's something else, Jessie . . .
Jessie didn't let her finish. This wasn't a thought she wanted to hear articulated in the Goodwife's pleasant but hopelessly prissy voice.
It was possible that Gerald had never asked her to play the game down here because he had been afraid of some crazy joker oopping out of the deck. What joker? Well, she thought, let's just say that there might have been a part of Gerald that really did believe a woman was just a life-support system for a cunt . . . and that some other part of him, one I could call 'Gerald's better nature.' for want of a clearer term, knew it. That part could have been afraid that things might get out of control. After all, isn't that just what's happened?
It was a hard idea to argue with. If this didn't fit the definition of out of control, Jessie didn't know what did.
She felt a moment of wistful sadness and had to restrain an urge to look back toward the place where Gerald lay. She didn't know if she had grief in her for her late husband or not, but she did know that if it was there, this wasn't the time to deal with it. Still, it was nice to remember something good about the man with whom she had spent so many years, and the memory of the way he had sometimes fallen asleep beside her after sex was a good one. She hadn't liked the scarves and had come to loathe the handcuffs, but she had liked looking at him as he drifted off; had liked the way the lines smoothed out of his large pink face.
And, in a way, he was sleeping beside her again right now . . . wasn't he?
That idea chilled even the flesh of her upper thighs, where the narrowing patch of sun lay. She turned the thought aside — or at least tried to — and went back to studying the head of the bed.
The posts were set in slightly from the sides, leaving her arms spread but not uncomfortably so, particularly with the six inches or so of free play afforded by the handcuff chains. There were four horizontal boards running between the posts. These were also mahogany, and engraved with simple but pleasing wave-shapes. Gerald had once suggested that they have their initials carved in the center board — he knew of a man in Tashmore Glen who would be happy to drive over and do it, he said — but she had poured cold water on the idea. It seemed both ostentatious and strangely childish to her, like teenybop sweethearts carving hearts on their study-hall desks.
The bed-shelf was set above the topmost board, just high enough to ensure that no one sitting up suddenly would bump his or her head. It held Gerald's glass of water, a couple of paperbacks left over from the summer, and, on her end, a little strew of cosmetics. These were also left over from the summer gone by, and she supposed they were dried out by now. A real shame, too — nothing cheered up a handcuffed woman more reliably than a little Country Morning