Gerald's Game - Stephen King [56]
Inland — and that includes the Lakes District, where Sunset Trails has stood on the shore of Dark Score Lake since Tom Mahout's grandfather built the original cabin in 1923 — the woods and lakes and ponds and bogs lie sweltering under temperatures in the mid-nineties and humidity just below the saturation point, but here on the seacoast it's only eighty. The seabreeze is an extra bonus, rendering the humidity negligible and sweeping away the mosquitoes and sandflies. The lawn is filled with children, mostly Will's friends but girls who chum with Maddy and Jessie as well, and for once, mirabile dictu, they all seem to be getting along. There hasn't been a single argument, and around five o'clock, as Tom raises the first martini of the day to his lips, he glances at Jessie, who is standing nearby with their croquet mallet propped on her shoulder like a sentry's rifle (and who is clearly within earshot of what sounds like a casual husband-and-wife conversation but which may actually be a shrewd bank-shot compliment aimed at his daughter), then back at his wife. 'I guess it was actually a pretty good idea, after all,' he says.
Better than good, Jessie thinks. Absolutely great and totally monster, if you want to know the truth. Even that isn't what she really means, really thinks, but it would be dangerous to say the rest out loud; it would tempt the gods. What she really thinks is that the day is flawless — a sweet and perfect peach of a day. Even the song blasting out of Maddy's portable record player (which jessie's big sister has cheerfully carted out to the patio for this occasion, although it is ordinarily the Great Untouchable Icon) is okay. Jessie is never really going to like Marvin Gaye — no more than she is ever going to like that faint mineral smell which rises from the take on hot summer afternoons — but this song is okay. I'll be doggone if you ain't a pretty thing . . . bay-bee: silly, but not dangerous.
It is August 14th, 1965, a day that was, a day that still is in the mind of a dreaming woman handcuffed to a bed in a house on the shore of a lake forty miles south of Dark Score (but with the same mineral smell, that nasty, evocative smell, on hot, still summer days), and although the twelve-year-old girl she was doesn't see Will creeping up behind her as she bends over to address her croquet ball, turning her bottom into a target simply too tempting for a boy who has only lived one year for each inning in a baseball game to ignore, part of her mind knows he is there, and that this is the seam where the dream has been basted to the nightmare.
She lines up her shot, concentrating on the wicket six feet away. A hard shot but not an impossible one, and if she drives the ball through, she may well catch Caroline after all. That would be nice, because Caroline almost always wins at croquet. Then, just as she draws her mallet back, the music coming from-the record-player changes.
'Oww, listen everybody,' Marvin Gaye sings, sounding a lot more than just mock-threatening to Jessie this time, 'especially you girls . . . '
Chills of gooseflesh run up Jessie's tanned arms.
' . . . is it right to be left alone when the one you love is never home? . . . I love too hard, my friends sometimes say . . . '
Her fingers go numb and she loses any sense of the mallet in her hands. Her wrists are tingling, as if bound by
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unseen clamps, and her heart is suddenly full of dismay. It is the other song, the wrong song, the bad song.
' . . . but I believe . . . I believe . . . that a woman should be loved that way . . . '
She looks up at the little group of girls waiting for her to make her shot and sees that Caroline is gone. Standing there in her place is Nora Callighan. Her hair is in braids, there's