Needful Things - Stephen King [81]
He took the potatoes out. The microwave beeped a moment later.
"I've got to go, Nettle-" "That's okay!" Alan yelled. "I've got this under control! I'm a policeman, lady!"
"-but you call me if you need anything. You're sure you're okay, now? And you'd tell me if you weren't, Nettle, right?
Okay What? No, just asking You too Goodnight, Nettle."
When she came out, he had set the chicken on the table and was busy turning one of the potatoes inside-out on her plate.
"Alan, you sweetheart! You didn't need to do that!"
"All part of the service, pretty lady." Another thing he understood was that, when Polly's hands were bad, life became a series of small, hellacious combats for her; the ordinary events of an ordinary life transformed themselves into a series of gruelling obstacles to be surmounted, and the penalty for failure was embarrassment as well as pain. Loading the dishwasher. Stacking kindling in the fireplace. Manipulating a knife and fork to get a hot potato out of its jacket.
"Sit down," he said. "Let's cluck."
She burst out laughing and then hugged him. She squeezed his back with her inner forearms instead of her hands, the relentless observer inside noted. But a less dispassionate part of him took notice of the way her trim body pressed against his, and the sweet smell of the shampoo she used.
"You are the dearest man," she said quietly.
He kissed her, gently at first, then with more force. His hands slid down from the small of her back to the swell of her buttocks.
The fabric of her old jeans was as smooth and soft as moleskin under his hands.
"Down, big fella," she said at last. "Food now, snuggle later."
"Is that an invitation?" If her hands really weren't better, he thought, she would fudge.
But she said, "Gilt-edged, and Alan sat down satisfied.
Provisionally.
5
"Is Al coming home for the weekend?" Polly asked as they cleared away the supper things. Alan's surviving son attended Milton Academy, south of Boston.
"Huh-uh," Alan said, scraping plates.
Polly said, a little too casually: "I just thought, with no classes Monday because of Columbus Day-" "He's going to Dorf's place on Cape Cod," Alan said. "Dorf is Carl Dorfman, his roomie. Al called last Tuesday and asked if he could go down for the three-day weekend.
I said okay, fine."
She touched him on the arm and he turned to look at her. "How much of this is my fault, Alan?"
"How much of what's your fault?" he asked, honestly surprised.
"You know what I'm talking about; you're a good father, and you're not stupid. How many times has Al been home since school started again?"
Suddenly Alan understood what she was driving at, and he grinned at her, relieved. "Only once," he said, "and that was because he needed to talk to jimmy Catlin, his old computer-hacking buddy from junior high. Some of his choicest programs wouldn't run on the new Commodore 64 I got him for his birthday."
"You see? That's my point, Alan. He sees me as trying to step into his mother's place too soon, and-" "Oh, jeer," Alan said. "How long have you been brooding over the idea that Al sees you as the Wicked Stepmother?"
Her brows drew together in a frown. "I hope you'll pardon me if I don't find the idea as funny as you apparently do."
He took her gently by the upper arms and kissed the corner of her mouth. "I don't find it funny at all. There are times-I was just thinking about this-when I feel a little strange, being with you. It seems too soon. It isn't, but sometimes it seems that way. Do you know what I mean?"
She nodded. Her frown smoothed out a little but did not disappear. "Of course I do. Characters in movies and TV shows always get to spend a little more time pining dramatically, don't they?"
"You put your finger on it. In the movies you get a lot of pining and precious little grief. Because grief is too real. Grief is..
." He let go of her arms, slowly picked up a dish and began to wipe it dry. "Grief is brutal" "Yes."
"So sometimes I feel a little guilty, yeah." He was sourly amused by the defensiveness he heard lurking in his voice.