Needful Things - Stephen King [66]
Maybe she forgot, too, Wilma thought. At least until she saw me yesterday, in that new store. Or maybe she's been planning something (i warned you) all along in that half-stewed head of hers, and seeing me finally set her off.
Somewhere in the last few moments she had become sure that Nettle was the one-who else had she crossed glances with in the last couple of days who might hold a grudge? There were other people in town who didn't like her, but this kind of trick-this kind of sneaking, cowardly trick-went with the way Nettle had looked at her yesterday. That sneer of mingled fear (you'll be sorry) and hate. She had looked like a dog herself, one brave enough to bite only when its victim's back is turned.
Yes, it had been Nettle Cobb, all right. The more Wilma thought about it, the surer she became. And the act was unforgivable. Not because the sheets were ruined. Not because it was a cowardly trick.
Not even because it was the act of someone with a cracked brain.
It was unforgivable because Wilma had been frightened.
Only for a second, true, that second when the slimy brown thing had flapped out of the darkness and into her face, caressing her coldly like some monster's hand but even one single second of fear was a second too much.
"Wilma?" Pete asked as she turned her flat face toward him. He did not like the expression the porch light showed him, all shiny white surfaces and black, dimpled shadows. He did not like that flat look in her eyes. "Honey? Are you all right?"
She strode past him, taking no notice of him at all. Pete scurried after her as she headed for the house and the telephone.
4
Nettle was sitting in her living room with Raider at her feet and her new carnival glass lampshade on her lap when the telephone rang.
It was twenty minutes of eight. She jumped and clutched the lampshade tighter, looking at the telephone with fear and distrust.
She had a momentary certainty-silly, of course, but she couldn't seem to rid herself of such feelings-that it would be Some Person in Authority, calling to tell her she must give the beautiful lampshade back, that it belonged to someone else, that such a lovely object could not possibly have accrued to Nettle's little store of possessions in any case, the very idea was ridiculous.
Raider looked up at her briefly, as if to ask if she was going to answer that or not, then put his muzzle back down on his paws.
Nettle set the lampshade carefully aside and picked up the telephone. It was probably just Polly, calling to ask if she'd pick up something for dinner at Hemphill's Market before she came to work tomorrow morning.
"Hello, Cobb residence," she said crisply. All her life she had been terrified of Some Person in Authority, and she had discovered that the best way to handle such a fear was to sound like a person in authority yourself. It didn't make the fear go away, but at least it held the fear in check.
"I know what you did, you crazy bitch!" a voice spat at her. It was as sudden and as gruesome as the stab of an icepick.
Nettle's breath caught as if on a thorn; an expression of trapped horror froze her face and her heart tried to cram its way up into her throat. Raider looked up at her again, questioningly.
"Who who "
"You know goddam well who," the voice said, and of course Nettle did. It was Wilma jerzyck. It was that evil, evil woman.
"He hasn't been barking!" Nettle's voice was high and thin and screamy, the voice of someone who has just inhaled the entire contents of a helium balloon. "He's all grown up and he's not barking! He's right here at my feet!"
"Did you have a good time throwing mud at my sheets, you numb cunt?" Wilma was furious. The woman was actually trying to pretend this was still about the dog.
"Sheets? What sheets? I I " Nettle looked toward the carnival glass lampshade and seemed to draw strength from it. "You leave me alone! You're the one that's crazy, not me!"
"I'm going to get you for this. Nobody comes into my yard and throws mud at my sheets while I'm gone. Nobody. NOBODY!
Understand? Is this getting