Needful Things - Stephen King [20]
Needful Things, she decided, was a curio shop. An upscale curio shop, she would have said after a single glance, but a closer examination of the items for sale suggested it was not that easily categorized.
The items which had been placed out when Brian stopped in the afternoon before-geode, Polaroid camera, picture of Elvis Presley, the few others-were still there, but perhaps four dozen more had been added. A small rug probably worth a small fortune hung on one of the off-white walls-it was Turkish, and old. There was a collection of lead soldiers in one of the cases, possibly antiques, but Polly knew that all lead soldiers, even those cast in Hong Kong a week ago last Monday, have an antiquey look.
The goods were wildly varied. Between the picture of Elvis, which looked to her like the sort of thing that would retail on any carnival midway in America for $4.99, and a singularly uninteresting American eagle weathervane, was a carnival glass lampshade which was certainly worth eight hundred dollars and might be worth as much as five thousand. A battered and charmless teapot stood flanked by a pair of gorgeous poupies, and she could not even begin to guess what those beautiful French dollies with their rouged cheeks and gartered gams might be worth.
There was a selection of baseball and tobacco cards, a fan of pulp magazines from the thirties (Weird Tales, Astounding Tales, Thrilling Wonder Stories), a table-radio from the fifties which was that disgusting shade of pale pink which the people of that time had seemed to approve of when it came to appliances, if not to politics.
Most-although not all-of the items had small plaques standing in front of them: TRI-CRYSTAL GEODE, ARIZONA, read one.
CUSTOM SOCKET-WRENCH KIT, read another. The one in front of the splinterwhich had so amazed Brian announced itwas PETRIFIED WOOD FROM THE HOLY LAND. The plaques in front of the trading cards and the pulp magazines read: OTHERS AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST.
All the items, whether trash or treasure, had one thing in common, she observed: there were no price-tags on any of them.
4
Gaunt arrived back with two small plates-plain old Corning Ware, nothing fancy-a cake-knife, and a couple of forks. "Everything's helter-skelter up there," he confided, removing the top of the container and setting it aside (he turned it upside down so it would not imprint a ring of frosting on the top of the cabinet he was serving from). "I'll be looking for a house as soon as I get things set to rights here, but for the time being I'm going to live over the store.
Everything's in cardboard cartons. God, I hate cardboard cartons.
Who would you say-" "Not that big," Polly protested. "My goodness!"
"Okay," Gaunt said cheerfully, putting the thick slab of chocolate cake on one of the plates. "This one will be mine. Eat, Rowf, eat, I say! Like this for you?"
"Even thinner."
"I can't cut it any thinner than this," he said, and sliced off a narrow piece of cake. "It smells heavenly. Thank you again, Polly."
"You're more than welcome."
It did smell good, and she wasn't on a diet, but her initial refusal had been more than first-meeting politeness. The last three weeks had been a stretch of gorgeous Indian summer weather in Castle Rock, but on Monday the weather had turned cool, and her hands were miserable with the change. The pain would probably abate a little once her joints got used to the cooler temperatures (or so she prayed, and so it always had been, but she was not blind to the progressive nature of the disease), but since early this morning it had been very bad.
When it was like this, she was never sure what she would or would not be able to do with her traitor hands, and her initial refusal had been out of worry and potential embarrassment.
Now she stripped off her gloves, flexed her right hand experimentally. A spear of hungry pain bolted up her forearm to the elbow. She flexed again, her lips compressed in anticipation. The pain came, but it wasn't as intense this time. She relaxed a little.
It was going to be all right. Not