Gerald's Game - Stephen King [6]
(put out the sun)
cause her to explode. The truth, first encountered on that day, was this: there was a well inside her, the water in that well was poisoned, and when he goosed her, William had sent a bucket down there, one which had come up filled with scum and squirming gluck. She had hated him for that, and she supposed it was really her hate which had caused her to strike out. That deep stuff had scared her. Now, all these years later, she was discovering it still did . . . but it still infuriated her, as well.
You won't put out the sun, she thought, without the slightest idea of what this meant. Be damned if you will.
'I don't want to argue the fine points, Gerald. just get the keys to these fucking things and unlock me!'
And then he said something which so astounded her that at first she couldn't grasp it: 'What if I won't?'
What registered first was the change of his tone. He usually spoke in a bluff, gruff, hearty sort of voice — I'm in charge here, and it's a pretty lucky thing for all of us, isn't it? that tone proclaimed — but this was a low, purring voice with which she was not familiar. The gleam had returned to his eyes — that hot little gleam which had turned her on like a bank of floodlights once upon a time. She couldn't see it very well — his eyes were squinted down to puffy slits behind his gold-rimmed spectacles — but it was there. Yes indeed.
Then there was the strange case of Mr Happy. Mr Happy hadn't wilted a bit. Seemed, in fact, to be standing taller than at any time she could remember . . . although that was probably just her imagination.
Do you think so, toots? I don't.
She processed all this information before finally returning to the last thing he'd said — that amazing question. What if I won't? This time she got past the tone to the sense of the words, and as she came to fully understand them, she felt her rage and fear crank up a notch. Somewhere inside, the bucket was going down its shaft again for another slimy dip — a scumload of water filled with microbes almost as poisonous as swamp copperheads.
The kitchen door banged against its jamb and the dog began to bark in the woods again, sounding closer than ever now. It was a splintery, desperate sound. Listening to something like that for too long would undoubtedly give you a migraine.
'Listen, Gerald,' she heard her strong new voice saying. She was aware that this voice could have picked a better time to break its silence — she was, after all, out here on the deserted north shore of Kashwakamak Lake, handcuffed to the bedposts, and wearing only a skimpy pair of nylon panties — but she still found herself admiring it. Almost against her will she found herself admiring it. 'Are you listening yet? I know you don't do much of that these days when it's me doing the talking, but this time it's really important that you hear me. So . . . are you finally listening?'
He was kneeling on the bed, looking at her as if she were some previously undiscovered species of bug. His cheeks, in which complex networks of tiny scarlet threads squirmed (she thought of them as Gerald's liquor-brands), were flushed almost purple. A similar swath crossed his forehead. Its color was so dark, its shape so definite, that it looked like a birthmark. 'Yes,' he said, and in his new purring voice the word came out yey-usss. 'I'm listening, Jessie. I most certainly am.'
'Good. Then you'll walk over to the bureau and get those keys. You'll unlock this one' — she rattled her right wrist against the headboard — 'and then you'll unlock this one.' She rattled the left wrist in similar fashion. 'If you do this right away, we can have a little normal, painless, mutual-orgasm sex before returning to our normal, painless lives in Portland.'
Pointless, she thought. You left that one out, Normal, painless, pointless lives in Portland. Perhaps that was so, or perhaps it was just a little overdramatization