Needful Things - Stephen King [233]
"She can't come to the phone," Mona told him, displaying all the warmth of a deep-freeze stuffed with Popsicles.
"Why not?" he had asked-almost whined. "Come on, Monagive!
"I don't know." Mona's tone had progressed from Popsicies in the deep-freeze to the verbal equivalent of liquid nitrogen. "All I know is that she's been staying with Irene Lutjens, she looks like she spent all last night crying, and she says she doesn't want to talk to you."
And this is all your fault, Mona's frozen tone said. I know that because you're a man and all men are dogshit-this is just another specific example illustrating the general case.
"Well I don't have the slightest idea what it's all about!"
Lester shouted. "Will you tell her that, at least? Tell her I don't know why she's mad at me! Tell her whatever it is, it must be a misunderstanding, because I don't get it!"
There was a long pause. When Mona spoke again, her voice had warmed up a little. Not much, but it was a lot better than liquid nitrogen. "All right, Lester. I'll tell her."
Now he raised his head, half-hoping Sally might be sitting in the passenger seat of the Mustang, ready to kiss and make up, but the car was empty. The only person close to it was soft-headed Slopey Dodd, goofing around on his skateboard.
Steve Edwards came up behind Lester and clapped him on the shoulder. "Les, boy! Want to come over to my place for a Coke?
A bunch of the guys said they'd drop by. We have to talk about this outrageous Catholic harassment. The big meeting's at the church tonight, don't forget, and it would be good if we Y.A.'s could present a united front when it comes to deciding what to do.
I mentioned the idea to Don Hemphill and he said yeah, great, go for it." He looked at Lester as if he expected a pat on the head.
"I can't this afternoon, Steve. Maybe another time."
"Hey, Les, don't you get it? There may not be another time!
The Pope's boys aren't fooling around anymore!"
"I can't come over," Les said. And if you're wise, his face said, you'll stop pushing it.
"Well, but why not?"
Because I have to find out what the heck I did to make my girl so angry, Lester thought. And I am going to find out, even if I have to shake it out of her.
Out loud he said, "I've got stuff to do, Steve. Important stuff.
Take my word for it."
"If this is about Sally, Les-" Lester's eyes flashed dangerously.
"You just shut up about Sally."
Steve, an inoffensive young man who had been set aflame by the strife over Casino Nite, was not yet burning brightly enough to overstep the line Lester Pratt had so clearly drawn. But neither was he quite ready to give up. Without Lester Pratt, a Young Adults'
Policy Meeting was a joke, no matter how many from the Y.A. group turned out. Pitching his voice more reasonably, he said:
"You know the anonymous card Bill got?"
"Yes," Lester said. Rev. Rose had found it on the floor of the parsonage front hallway: the already-notorious "Babtist Rat-Fuck" card.
The Reverend had passed it around at a hastily called Guys Only Y.A. meeting because, he said, it was impossible to credit unless you saw the vile thing for yourself. It was hard to fully understand, Rev.
Rose had added, the depths to which the Catholics would sink-uh in order to stifle righteous opposition to their Sataninspired night of gambling; perhaps actually seeing this vile spew of filth would help these "fine young men" comprehend what they were up against. "For do we not say that forewarned is-uh forearmed?" Rev. Rose had finished grandly. He then produced the card (it was inside a Baggie, as if those who handled it needed to be guarded from Infection) and handed it around.
As Lester finished reading it, he had been more than ready to ring a few sets of Catholic chimes, but now the entire affair seemed distant and somehow childish. Who really cared if the Catholics gambled for play money and gave away a few new tires and kitchen appliances? When it came down to a choice between the Catholics