Gerald's Game - Stephen King [39]
'This isn't about thinking,' Jessie said shakily, and thought: So that's what Goodwife Burlingame sounds like out loud. 'It's about . . . well . . . escaping.'
And you may have to muzzle her, Ruth said. She's a valid part of you, Jessie — of us — and not really a bad person, but she's been left to run the whole show for far too long, and in a situation like this, her way dealing with the world is not much good. Do you want to argue the point?
Jessie didn't want to argue that point or any other. She was too tired. The light falling through the west window was growing steadily hotter and redder as sunset approached. The wind gusted, sending leaves rattling along the lakeside deck, which was empty now; all the deck furniture had been stacked in the living room. The pines soughed; the back door banged; the dog paused, then resumed its noisome smacking and ripping and chewing.
'I'm so thirsty,' she said mournfully.
Okay, then — that's where we ought to start.
She turned her head the other way until she felt the last warmth of the sun on the left side of her neck and the damp hair stuck to her cheek, and then she opened her eyes again. She found herself staring directly at Gerald's glass of water, and her throat immediately sent out a parched, imperative cry.
Let's begin this phase of operations by forgetting about the dog, Ruth said. The dog is just doing what it has to do to get along, and you've got to do the same.
'I don't know if I can forget it,' Jessie said.
I think you can, toots — I really do. If you could sweep what happened on the day the sun went out under the rug, I guess you can sweep anything under the rug.
For a moment she almost had it all, and understood she could have it all, if she really wanted to. The secret of that day had never been completely sunk in her subconscious, as such secrets were in the TV soap-operas and the movie melodramas; it had been buried in a shallow grave, at best. There had been some selective amnesia, but of a completely voluntary sort. If she wanted to remember what had happened on the day the sun had gone out, she thought she probably could.
As if this idea had been an invitation, her mind's eye suddenly saw a vision of heartbreaking clarity: a pane of glass held in a pair of barbecue tongs. A hand wearing an oven-mitt was turning it this way and that in the smoke of a small sod fire.
Jessie stiffened on the bed and willed the image away.
Let's get one thing straight, she thought. She supposed it was the Ruth-voice she was speaking to, but wasn't completely sure; she wasn't really sure of anything anymore. I don't want to remember. Got it? The events of that day have nothing to do with the events of this one, They're apples and oranges. it's easy enough to understand the connections — two lakes, two summer houses, two cases of
(secrets silence hurt harm)
sexual hanky-panky — but remembering what happened in i963 can't do a thing for me now except add to my general misery, So let's just drop that whole subject, okay? Let's forget Dark Score Lake.
'What do you say, Ruth?' she asked in a low voice, and her gaze shifted to the batik butterfly across the room. For just a moment there was another image — a little girl, somebody's sweet little Punkin, smelling the sweet aroma of aftershave and looking up into the sky through a piece of smoked glass — and then it was mercifully gone.
She looked at the butterfly for a few moments longer, wanting to make sure those old memories were going to stay gone, and then she looked back at Gerald's glass of water. Incredibly, there were still a few slivers of ice floating on top, although the darkening room continued to hold the heat of the afternoon sun and would for awhile longer.
Jessie let her gaze drift down the glass, let it embrace those chilly bubbles of condensation standing on it. She couldn't actually see the coaster