Needful Things - Stephen King [65]
A week or so after that, Nettle had shown up at the market (unlike Wilma, Nettle seemed to be the sort of person who had to turn things over in her mind for awhile brood on them, evenbefore she was able to act). She stood in line at Wilma's register, although she didn't have a single solitary item. When her turn came, she had said in a squeaky, breathless little voice: "You stop making trouble for me and my Raider, Wilma jerzyck. He's a good little doggy, and you just better stop making trouble."
Wilma, always ready for a fight, had not been in the least disconcerted at being confronted in the workplace. In fact, she rather liked it. "Lady, you don't know what trouble is. But if you can't get your damn dog to shut up, you will."
The Cobb woman had been as pale as milk, but she drew herself up, clutching her purse so tightly that the tendons on her scrawny forearms showed all the way from her wrists to her elbows. She said: "I'm warning you," then hurried out.
"Oh-oh, I think I just peed my panties!" Wilma had called boisterously after her (a taste of battle always put her in good spirits), but Nettle never turned-only hurried on her way a little faster.
After that, the dog had quieted down. This had rather disappointed Wilma, because it had been a boring spring. Pete was showing no signs of rebellion, and Wilma had been feeling an endof-winter dullness that the new green in the trees and grass couldn't seem to touch. What she really needed to add color and spice to her life was a good feud. For awhile it had seemed that crazy Nettle Cobb would fill the bill admirably, but with the dog minding its manners, it seemed to Wilma that she would have to look elsewhere for diversion.
Then one night in May the dog had started barking again. The mutt had only gone on for awhile, but Wilma hurried to the telephone and called Nettle anyway-she had marked the number in the book just in case such an occasion offered.
She did not waste time on the niceties but got right to the point.
"This is Wilma jerzyck, dear. I called to tell you that if you don't shut that dog up, I'll shut him up myself."
"He's already stopped!" Nettle had cried. "I brought him in as soon as I got home and heard him! You just leave me and Raider alone!
I warned you! If you don't, you'll be sorry!"
"Just remember what I said," Wilma told her. "I've had enough.
The next time he starts up that ruckus, I won't bother complaining to the cops. I'll come over and cut his goddam throat."
She had hung up before Nettle could reply. The cardinal rule governing engagements with the enemy (relatives, neighbors, spouses) was that the aggressor must have the last word.
The dog hadn't popped off since then. Well, maybe it had, but Wilma hadn't noticed it if so; it had never been that bothersome in the first place, not really, and besides, Wilma had inaugurated a more productive wrangle with the woman who ran the beauty parlor in Castle View. Wilma had almost forgotten Nettle and Raider.
But maybe Nettle hadn't forgotten her. Wilma had seen Nettle just yesterday, in the new shop. And if looks could kill, Wilma thought, I would have been laid out dead on the floor right there.
Standing here now by her muddied, ruined sheets, she remembered the look of fear and defiance that had come over the nutty bitch's face, the way her lip had curled back, showing her teeth for a second.
Wilma was very familiar with the look of hate, and she had seen it on Nettle Cobb's face yesterday.
I warned you you'll he sorry.
"Wilma, come on inside," Pete said. He put a tentative hand on her shoulder.
She shrugged it off briskly. "Leave me alone."
Pete withdrew a step. He looked like he wanted to wring his hands but didn't