Needful Things - Stephen King [52]
It wasn't right. Cora had all sorts of nice Elvis things, had even seen Elvis in concert once. That had been at the Portland Civic Center, a year or so before The King was called to heaven to be with his beloved mother.
"That picture should be mine," she muttered, and, summoning all her courage, she knocked on the door. it was opened almost before she could lower her hand, and a narrow-shouldered man almost bowled her over on his way out.
"Excuse me," he muttered, not raising his head, and she barely had time to register the fact that it was Mr. Constantine, the pharmacist at LaVerdiere's Super Drug. He hurried across the street and then onto the Town Common, holding a small wrapped package in his hands, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
When she looked back, Mr. Gaunt was in the doorway, smiling at her with his cheery brown eyes.
"I don't have an appointment she said in a small voice.
Brian Rusk, who had grown used to hearing Myra pronouncing on things in a tone of total authority and assurance, would not have recognized that voice in a million years.
"You do now, dear lady," Mr. Gaunt said, smiling and standing aside. "Welcome back! Enter freely, and leave some of the happiness you bring!"
After one final quick look around that showed her no one she knew, Myra Evans scurried into Needful Things.
The door swung shut behind her.
A long-fingered hand, as white as the hand of a corpse, reached up in the gloom, found the ring-pull which hung down, and drew the shade.
9
Brian didn't realize he had been holding his breath until he let it out in a long, whistling sigh.
There was no one in the jerzyck back yard.
Wilma, undoubtedly encouraged by the improving weather, had hung out her wash before leaving for work or wherever she had gone. It flapped on three lines in the sunshine and freshening breeze. Brian went to the back door and peered in, shading the sides of his face with his hands to cut the glare. He was looking into a deserted kitchen.
He thought of knocking and decided it was just another way to keep from doing what he had come to do. No one was here. The best thing was to complete his business and then get the hell out.
He walked slowly down the steps and into the jerzyck back yard.
The clotheslines, with their freight of shirts, pants, underwear, sheets, and pillow-cases, were to the left. To the right was a small garden from which all the vegetables, with the exception of a few puny pumpkins, had been harvested. At the far end was a fence of pine boards. On the other side, Brian knew, was the Haverhills' place, only four houses down from his own.
The heavy rain of the night before had turned the garden into a swamp; most of the remaining pumpkins sat half-submerged in puddles.
Brian bent, picked up a handful of dark-brown garden muck in each hand, and then advanced on the clothesline with dribbles of brown water running between his fingers.
The clothesline closest to the garden was hung with sheets along its entire length. They were still damp, but drying quickly in the breeze. They made lazy flapping sounds. They were pure, pristine white.
Go on, Mr. Gaunt's voice whispered in his mind. Go for it, Brian-just like Sandy Koufax. Go for i't!
Brian drew his hands back over his shoulders, palms up to the sky.
He was not entirely surprised to find he had a hard-on again, as in his dream. He was glad he hadn't chickened out. This was going to be fun.
He brought his hands forward, hard. The mud slung off his palms in long brown swoops that spread into fans before striking the billowing sheets. It splattered across them in runny, ropy parabolas.
He went back to the garden, got two more handfuls, threw them at the sheets, went back, got more, and threw that, too. A kind of frenzy descended on him. He trundled busily back and forth, first getting the mud, then throwing it.
He might have gone on all afternoon