Needful Things - Stephen King [62]
He filled a jelly-glass to the halfway mark, considered for a moment, then filled it all the way to the top. He took a swallow or two, felt the heat explode in his belly, and filled the glass again.
He started to feel a little better, a little more relaxed. He looked toward the closet and smiled. It was safe up there, and would be safer as soon as he got a good strong Kreig padlock at the Western Auto and put it on. Safe. It was good when you had something you really wanted and needed, but it was even better when that thing was safe. That was the best of all.
Then the smile faded a little.
Is that what you bought it for? To keep i't on a high shelf behind a locked door?
He drank again, slowly. All right, he thought, maybe that's not so good. But it's better than losing it to some light-fingered kid.
"After all," he said aloud, "it's not 1955 anymore. This is modern days."
He nodded for emphasis. Still, the thought lingered. What good was the fox-tail doing in there? What good for him, or anyone else?
But two or three drinks took care of that thought. Two or three drinks made putting the fox-tail back seem like the most reasonable, rational decision in the world. He decided to put off dinner; such a sensible decision deserved to be rewarded by another drink or two.
He filled the jelly-glass again, sat down in one of the kitchen chairs with its tubular steel legs, and lit a cigarette. And as he sat there, drinking and tapping curls of ash into one of the frozen dinner trays, he forgot about the fox-tail and started thinking about Nettle Cobb. Crazy Nettle. He was going to play a trick on Crazy Nettle.
Maybe next week, maybe the week after that but this week seemed most likely. Mr. Gaunt had told him he was a man who didn't like to waste time, and Hugh was willing to take his word for it.
He looked forward to it.
It would break up the monotony.
He drank, he smoked, and when he finally passed out on the filthy sheets of the narrow bed in the other room at quarter of ten, he did it with a smile on his face.
3
Wilma jerzyck's shift at Hemphill's Market ended when the store closed at seven. She pulled into her own driveway at seven-fifteen.
Soft light spilled out through the drawn drapes across the livingroom window. She went in and sniffed. She could smell macaroni and cheese. Good enough at least, so far.
Pete was sprawled on the couch with his shoes off, watching Wheel of Fortune. The Portland Press-Herald was in his lap.
"I read your note," he said, sitting up quickly and putting the paper aside. "I put in the casserole. It'll be ready by seven-thirty."
He looked at her with earnest and slightly anxious brown eyes.
Like a dog with a strong urge to please, Pete jerzyck had been house-trained early and quite well. He had his lapses, but it had been a long time since she'd come in and found him lying on the couch with his shoes on, a longer one since he'd dared to light up his pipe in the house, and it would be a snowy day in August when he took a piss without remembering to put the ring back down after he was through.
"Did you bring in the wash?"
An expression of mingled guilt and surprise troubled his round, open face. "Jeer! I was reading the newspaper and forgot. I'll go right out." He was already fumbling for his shoes.
"Never mind," she said, starting for the kitchen.
"Wilma, I'll get it!"
"Don't bother," she said sweetly. "I wouldn't want you to leave your paper or Vanna White just because I've been on my feet behind a cash register for the last six hours. Sit right there, Peter. En' yourself." JOY She didn't have to look around and check his reaction; after seven years of marriage, she honestly believed Peter Michael jerzyck held no more surprises for her. His expression would be a mixture of hurt and weak chagrin. He would stand there for a few moments after she had gone out, looking like a man who just came out of the crapper and can't quite remember if he's wiped himself, and then he would go to work setting the table and dishing up the casserole. He would ask her many