Pet Sematary - Stephen King [77]
She touched his neck gently. Louis, she said. It was both of them together. Please try to see. Please. They love the children, and they dont see them much. And theyre getting old. Louis, youd hardly recognize my father. Really.
Id recognize him, Louis muttered.
Please, honey. Try to see. Try to be kind. It doesnt hurt you. He looked at her for a long time. It does though, he said finally. Maybe it shouldnt, but it does.
She opened her mouth to reply, and then Ellie called out from her room: Daddy! Mommy! Somebody!
Rachel started to get up, and Louis pulled her back down. Stay with Gage. Ill go. He thought he knew what the trouble was. But he had put the cat out, damn it; after Ellie had gone to bed, he had caught it in the kitchen sniffing around its dish and had put it out. He didnt want the cat sleeping with her. Not anymore. Odd thoughts of disease, mingled with memories of Uncle Carls funeral parlor, had come to him when he thought of Church sleeping on Ellies bed.
Shes going to know that somethings wrong and Church was better before.
He had put the cat out, but when be went in, Ellie was sitting up in bed, more asleep than awake, and Church was spread out on the counterpane, a batlike shadow. The cats eyes were open and stupidly gleaming in the light from the hail.
Daddy, put him out, Ellie almost groaned. He stinks so bad.
Shhh, Ellie, go to sleep, Louis said, astounded by the calmness of his own voice. It made him think of the morning after his sleepwalking incident, the day after Pascow had died. Getting to the infirmary and ducking into the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror, convinced that he must look like hell. But he had looked pretty much all right. It was enough to make you
wonder how many people were going around with dreadful secrets bottled up inside.
Its not a secret, goddammit! Its just the cat!
But Ellie was right. It stank to high heaven.
He took the cat out of her room and carried it downstairs, trying to breathe through his mouth. There were worse smells; shit was worse, if you wanted to be perfectly blunt. A month ago theyd had a go-round with the septic tank, and as Jud had said when he came over to watch Puffer and Sons pump the tank, That aint Chanel Number Five, is it, Louis? The smell of a gangrenous wound-what old Doctor Bracermunn at med school had called hot flesh-was worse too. Even the smell which came from the Civics catalytic converter when it had been idling in the garage for a while was worse.
But this smell was pretty damn bad. And how had the cat gotten in, anyway? He had put it out earlier, sweeping it out with the broom while all three of them-his people-were upstairs. This was the first time he had actually held the cat since the day it had come back, almost a week ago. It lay hotly in his arms, like a quiescent disease, and Louis wondered, What bolthole did you find, you bastard?
He thought suddenly of his dream that other night-Pascow simply passing through the door between the kitchen and the garage.
Maybe there was no bolthole. Maybe it had just passed through the door, like a ghost.
Bag that, he whispered aloud, and his voice was slightly hoarse.
Louis became suddenly sure that the cat would begin to struggle in his arms, that it would scratch him. But Church lay totally still, radiating that stupid heat and that dirty stink, looking at Louiss face as if it could read the thoughts going on behind Louiss eyes.
He opened the door and tossed the cat out into the garage, maybe a little too hard. Go on, he said. Kill another mouse or something.
Church landed awkwardly, its hindquarters bunching beneath it and momentarily collapsing. It seemed to shoot Louis a look of green, ugly hate. Then it strolled drunkenly off and was gone.
Christ, Jud, he thought, but I wish youd kept your mouth shut. He went to the sink and washed his hands and forearms vigorously, as if scrubbing for an operation. You do it because it gets hold of you you make up reasons they seem like good reasons but mostly you do it because once youve been up there, its your