Gerald's Game - Stephen King [73]
As for Dick Sleefort, he apologized to me later, Tom. I don't remember if I ever told you that or not —
You did, but I don't remember him ever apologizing to me.
He was probably afraid you'd knock his block off, or at least try to, Sally replied, speaking again in that tone of voice Jessie found so peculiar — it seemed to be an uneasy mixture of happiness, good humor, and anger. Jessie wondered for just a moment if it was possible to sound that way and be completely sane, and then she squashed the thought quickly and completely. Also, I want to say one more thing about Adrienne Gilette before we leave the subject entirely . . .
Be my guest.
She told me — in 1959, this was, two whole summers later — that she went through the change that year. She never specifically mentioned Jessie and the cookie incident, but I think she was trying to apologize.
Oh. It was her father's coolest, most lawyerly 'Oh.' And did either of you ladies think to pass that information on to Jessie . . . and explain to her what it meant?
Silence from her mother. Jessie, who still had only the vaguest notion of what 'going through the change' meant, looked down and saw she had once again gripped the book tight enough to bend it and once again forced herself to relax her hands.
Or to apologize? His tone was gentle . . . caressing . . . deadly.
Stop cross-examining me! Sally burst out after another long, considering silence. This is your home, not Part Two of Superior Court, in case you hadn't noticed!
You brought the subject up, not me, he said. I just asked —
Oh, I get so tired of the way you twist everything around, Sally said. Jessie knew from her tone of voice that she was either crying or getting ready to. For the first time that she could remember, the sound of her mother's tears called up no sympathy in her own heart, no urge to run and comfort (probably bursting into tears herself in the process). Instead she felt a queer, stony satisfaction.
Sally, you're upset. Why don't we just —
You're damned tooting I am. Arguments with my husband have a way of doing that, isn't that strange? Isn't that just the weirdest thing you ever heard? And do you know what we're arguing about? I'll give you a hint, Tom — it's not Adrienne Gilette and it's not Dick Sleefort and it's not the eclipse tomorrow. We're arguing about Jessie, about our daughter, and what else is new?
She laughed through her tears. There was a dry hiss as she scratched a match and fit a cigarette.
Don't they say it's the squeaky wheel that always gets the grease? And that's our Jessie, isn't it? The squeaky wheel. Never quite satisfied with the arrangements until she gets a chance to put on the finishing touches. Never quite happy with someone else's plans. Never able to let well enough alone.
Jessie was appalled to hear something very close to hate in her mother's voice.
Sally —
Never mind, Tom. She wants to stay here with you? Fine. She wouldn't be pleasant to have along, anyway; all she'd do is pick fights with her sister and whine about having to watch out for Will. All she'd do is squeak, in other words.
Sally, Jessie hardly ever whines, and she's very good about —
Oh, you don't see her! Sally Mahout cried, and the spite in her voice made Jessie cringe back in her chair. I swear to God, sometimes you behave as if she were your girlfriend instead of your daughter!
This time the long pause belonged to her father, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and cold. That's a lousy, underhanded, unfair thing to say, he finally replied.
Jessie sat on the deck, looking at the evening star and feeling dismay deepening toward something like horror. She felt a sudden urge to cup her hand and catch the star again — this time to wish everything away, beginning with her request to her Daddy that he fix things so she could stay at Sunset Trails with him tomorrow.
Then the sound