The Regulators - Stephen King [5]
She doesn't know that water isn't enough, Gary thinks, reaching into his canvas bag for another rolled-up Shopper. Her husband might've, but —
He suddenly realizes that Mrs Wyler (he guesses that widows are still called Mrs) is standing inside the screen door, and something about seeing her there, hardly more than a silhouette, startles him badly. He wobbles on his bike for a moment, and when he throws the rolled-up paper his usually accurate aim is way off. The Shopper lands atop one of the shrubs flanking the front steps. He hates doing that, hates it, it's like some stupid comedy show where the paperboy is always throwing the Daily Bugle on to the roof or into the rosebushes — har-har, paperboys with bad aim, wotta scream — and on a different day (or at a different house) he might have gone back to rectify the error . . . maybe even put the paper in the lady's hand himself with a smile and a nod and a have a nice day. Not today, though. There's something here he doesn't like. Something about the way she's standing inside the screen door, shoulders slumped and hands dangling, like a kid's toy with the batteries pulled. And that's maybe not all that's out of kilter, either. He can't see her well enough to be sure, but he thinks maybe Mrs Wyler is naked from the waist up, that she's standing there in her front hall wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. Standing there and staring at him.
If so, it's not sexy. It's creepy.
The kid that stays with her, her nephew, that little weasel's creepy, too. Seth Garland or Garin or something like that. He never talks, not even if you talk to him — hey, how you doin, you like it around here, you think the Indians'll make it to the Series again — just looks at you with his mud-colored eyes. Looks at you the way Gary feels Mrs Wyler, who is usually nice, is looking at him now. Like step into my parlor said the spider to the fly, like that. Her husband died last year (right around the time the Hobarts had that trouble and moved away, now that he thinks of it), and people say it wasn't an accident. People say that Herb Wyler, who collected stamps and had once given Gary an old air rifle, committed suicide.
Gooseflesh — somehow twice as scary on a day as hot as this one — ripples up his back and he banks back across the street after another cursory look into the rearview mirror. The red van is still up there near the corner of Bear and Poplar (some spiffy rig, the boy thinks), and this time there is a vehicle coming down the street, as well, a blue Acura Gary recognizes at once. It's Mr Jackson, the block's other teacher. Not high school in his case, however; Mr Jackson is actually Professor Jackson, or maybe it's just Assistant Professor Jackson. He teaches at Ohio State, go you Buckeyes. The Jacksons live at 244, one up from the old Hobart place. It's the nicest house on the block, a roomy Cape Cod with a high hedge on the downhill side and a high cedar stake fence on the uphill side, between them and the old veterinarian's place.
'Yo, Gary!' Peter Jackson says, pulling up beside him. He's wearing faded jeans and a tee-shirt with a big yellow smile-face on it. HAVE A NICE DAY! Mr Smiley-Smile is saying. 'How's it going, bad boy?'
'Great, Mr Jackson,' Gary says, smiling. He thinks of adding Except that I think Mrs Wyler's standing in her door back there with her shirt off and then doesn't. 'Everything's super-cool.'
'Are you starting any games yet?'
'Only two so far, but that's okay. I got a couple of innings last night, and I'll probably get a couple more tonight. It's really all I hoped for. But it's Frankie Albertini's last year in Legion, you know.' He holds out a rolled copy of the Shopper.
'That's right,' Peter says, taking it. 'And next year it's Monsieur Gary Rip ton's turn to howl at shortstop.'
The boy laughs, tickled at the idea of standing out there at short in his Legion uniform and howling like a werewolf. 'You teaching summer school again this year?'
'Yep. Two classes.