Gerald's Game - Stephen King [95]
Jessie stopped pumping her arms and closed her eyes. There was a closed, stubborn look on her face. No more, she thought. I guess I can live with the voices of Ruth and the Goodwife if I have to . . . even with the assorted UFOs who chip in their two cents' worth every once in awhile . . . but I draw the line at doing a live interview with Bryant Gumbel while dressed in nothing but a pair of pee-stained panties. Even in my imagination I draw the line at that.
Just tell me one thing, Jessie, another voice said. No UFO here; it was the voice of Nora Callighan. One thing and we'll consider the subject closed, at least for now and probably forever, Okay?
Jessie was silent, waiting, wary.
When you finally lost your temper yesterday afternoon — when you finally kicked out — who were you kicking at? Was it Gerald?
'Of course it was Ger — ' she began, and then broke off as a single image, perfectly clear, filled her mind. It was the white string of drool which had been hanging from Gerald's chin, She saw it elongate, saw it fall to her midriff just above the navel. Only a little spit, that was all, no big deal after all the years and all the passionate kisses with their mouths open and their tongues duelling; she and Gerald had swapped a fair amount of lubrication, and the only price they'd ever paid was a few shared colds.
No big deal, that was, until yesterday, when he'd refused to let her go when she wanted, needed, to be let go. No big deal until she'd smelled that flat sad mineral smell, the one she associated with the well-water at Dark Score, and with the lake itself on hot summer days . . . days like July 20th, 1963, for instance.
She had seen spit; she had thought spunk.
No, that's not true, she thought, but she didn't need to summon Ruth to play devil's advocate this time; she knew it was true. It's his goddam spunk — that had been her exact thought, and after that she had ceased thinking altogether, at least for awhile. Instead of thinking she bad launched that reflexive countering movement, driving one foot into his stomach and the other into his balls. Not spit but spunk; not some new revulsion at Gerard's game but that old stinking horror suddenly surfacing like a seamonster.
Jessie glanced at the huddled, mutilated body of her husband. Tears pricked her eyes for a moment, and then the sensation passed. She had an idea that the Survival Department had decided tears were a luxury she could not afford, at least for the time being. Still, she was sorry — sorry Gerald was dead, yes, of course, but even sorrier she was here, in this situation.
Her eyes shifted to thin air a little above Gerald, and Jessie produced a shabby, pained smile.
'I guess that's all I've got to say right now, Bryant. Give my best to Willard and Katie, and by the way — would you mind unlocking these handcuffs before you go? I'd really appreciate it.'
Bryant didn't answer. Jessie wasn't all that surprised.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - T H R E E
If you're going to live through this experience, Jess, I suggest you stop rehashing the past and start deciding what you're going to do with the future . . . starting with the next ten minutes or so. I don't think that dying of thirst on this bed would he very pleasant, do you?
No, not very pleasant . . . and she thought that thirst would be far from the worst of it. Crucifixion had been in the back of her mind almost since she'd awakened, floating up and down like some nasty drowned thing which is just a little too waterlogged to come all the way to the surface. She had read an article about this charming old method of torture and execution for a college history class, and had been surprised to learn that the old nails-through-the-hands-and-feet trick was only the beginning. Like magazine subscriptions and pocket calculators, crucifixion was the gift that kept on giving.
The real hardships began with cramps and muscle-spasms. Jessie reluctantly recognized that the pains she had suffered