Needful Things - Stephen King [310]
That had been part of her attempt to break clean with every aspect of the old life which she fancied had hurt her so badly, never in her darkest nights allowing herself to dream that most of the wounds had been self-inflicted. In San Francisco there had been no Trisha or Patricia; only Polly. She had filled out all three of her A.D.C applications that way, and had signed her name that way-as Polly Chalmers, no middle initial.
If Alan really had written to the Child Welfare people in San Francisco, she supposed he might have given her name as Patricia, but wouldn't any resulting records search have come up blank? Yes, of course. Not even the addresses would correlate, because the one she'd printed in the space for ADDRESS OF LAST RESIDENCE all those years ago had been her parents' address, and that was on the other side of town.
Suppose Alan gave them both names? Polly and Patricia?
Suppose he had? She knew enough about the workings of government bureaucracies to believe it didn't matter what name or names Alan had given them; when writing to her, the letter would have come to the name and address they had on file. Polly had a friend in Oxford whose correspondence from the University of Maine still came addressed to her maiden name, although she had been married for twenty years.
But this envelope had come addressed to Patricia Chalmers, not Polly Chalmers. And who in Castle Rock had called her Patricia just today?
The same person who had known that Nettle Cobb was really Netitia Cobb. Her good friend Leland Gaunt.
All of that about the names is interestin, Aunt Evie said suddenly, but it ain't really the important thing. The important thing is the man-your man. He is your man, ain't he? Even now. You know he would never go behind your back like that letter said he done. Don't matter what name was on i't or how convincing it might sound you know that, don't you?
"Yes," she whispered. "I know him."
Had she really believed any of it? Or had she put her doubts about that absurd, unbelievable letter aside because she was afraidin terror, actually-that Alan would see the nasty truth of the azka and force her to make a choice between him and it?
"Oh no-that's too simple," she whispered. "You believed it, all right. Only for half a day, but you did believe it. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus, what have I done?"
She tossed the crumpled letter onto the floor with the revolted expression of a woman who has just realized she's holding a dead rat.
I didn't tell him what I was angry about,. didn't give him a chance to explain; Just just believed it. Why? In God's name, why?
She knew, of course. It had been the sudden, shameful fear that her lies about the cause of Kelton's death had been discovered, the misery of her years in San Francisco suspected, her culpability in the death of her baby being evaluated and all this by the one man in the world whose good opinion she wanted and needed.
But that wasn't all of it. That wasn't even most of it. Mostly it had been pride-wounded, outraged, throbbing, swollen, malignant pride. Pride, the coin without which her purse would be entirely empty. She had believed because she had been in a panic of shame, a shame which had been born of pride.
I have always so enjoyed ladies who take pride in themselves.
A terrible wave of pain broke in her hands; Polly moaned and held them against her breasts.
Not too late, Polly, Mr. Gaunt said softly. Not too late, even now, "Oh, fuck pride! Polly shrieked suddenly into the dark of her closed, stuffy bedroom, and ripped the azka from her neck. She held it high overhead in her clenched fist, the fine silver chain whipping wildly, and she felt the surface of the charm crack like the shell of an egg inside her hand. "FUCK PRIDE!"
Pain instantly clawed its way into her hands like some small and