sk.cujo-第8章

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…　and；　just　to　put　a　little　icing　on　the　cake；　here　was　Steve　Kemp。
'Well；　no　bullshit'　she　muttered；　grabbed　her　bag　of
groceries；　and　got　out；　a　pretty；　dark…haired　woman　of　twenty…nine；　tall；　gray…eyed。　She　somehow　managed　to　look　tolerably　fresh　in　spite　of　the　relentless　heat；　her　Tad…printed　blouse；　and　academy…gray　shorts　that　felt　pasted　to　her　hips　and　fanny。
She　went　up　the　steps　quickly　and　into　the　house　by　the　porch　door。　Steve　was　sitting　in　Vic's　living…room　chair。　He　was　drinking　one　of　Vic's　beers。　He　was　smoking　a　cigarette　…presumably　one　of　his　own。　The　TV　was　on；　and　the　agonies　of　General　Hospital　played　out　there；　in　living　color。
'Tlhe　princess　arrives；'　Steve　said　with　the　lopsided　grin　she　had　once　found　so　charming　and　interestingly　dangerous。　'I　thought　you　were　never　going　to　…'
'I　want　you　out　of　here；　you　son　of　a　bitch；'　she　said　tonelessly；　and　went　through　into　the　kitchen。　She　put　the　grocery　bag　down　on　the　counter　and　started　putting　things　away。　She　could　not　remember　when　she　had　last　been　so　angry；　so　furious　that　her　stomach　had　tied　itself　in　a　gripping；　groaning　knot。　One　of　the　endless　arguments　with　her　mother；　maybe。　One　of　the　real　horrorshows　before　she　had　gone　away　to　school。　When　Steve　came　up　behind　her　and　slipped　his　tanned　arms　around　her　bare　midriff；　she　acted　with　no　thought　at　all；　she　brought　her　elbow　back　into　his　lower　chest。　Her　temper　was　not　cooled　by　the　obvious　fact　that　he　had　anticipated　her。　He　played　a　lot　of　tennis；　and　her　elbow　felt　as　if　it　had　struck　a　stone　wall　coated　with　a　layer　of　hard　rubber。
She　turned　around　and　looked　into　his　grinning；　bearded　face。　She　stood　five…eleven　and　was　an　inch　taller　than　Vic　when　she　wore　heels；　but　Steve　was　nearly　six…five。
'Didn't　you　hear　me？　I　want　you　out　of　here！'
'Now；　what　for？'　he　asked。　'The　little　one　is　off　making　beaded　loincloths　or　shooting　apples　off　the　heads　of　counselors　with　his　little　bow　and　arrow　。。。　or　whatever　they　do　。。。　and　hubby　is　busting　heavies　at　the　office。。。　and　now　is　the　time　for　Castle　Rock's　prettiest　hausfrau　and　Castle　Rock's　resident　poet　and　tennis　bum　to　make　all　the　bells　of　sexual　congress　chime　in　lovely　harmony。'
'I　see　you　parked　out　in　the　driveway；'　Donna　said。　'Why　not　just　tape　a　big　sign　to　the　side　of　your　van？　I'M　FUCKING　DONNA　TRENTON；　or　something　witty　like　that？'
'I've　got　every　reason　to　park　in　the　driveway；'　Steve　said；　still　grinning。　'I've　got　that　dresser　in　the　back。　Stripped　clean。　Even　as　I　wish　you　were　yourself；　my　dear。'
'You　can　put　it　on　the　porch。　I'll　take　care　of　it。　While　you're　doing　that；　I'll　write　you　a　check。'
His　smile　faded　a　little。　For　the　first　time　since　she　had　e　in；　the　surface　charm　slipped　a　little　and　she　could　see　the　real　person　underneath。　It　was　a　person　she　didn't　like　at　all；　a　person　that　dismayed　her　when　she　thought　of　him　in　connection　with　herself。　She　had　lied　to　Vic；　gone　behind　his　back；　in　order　to　go　to　bed　with　Steve　Kemp。　She　wished　that　what　she　felt　now　could　be　something　as　simple　as　rediscovering　herself；　as　after　a　nasty　bout　of　fever。　Or　rediscovering　herself　as　Vic's　mate。　But　when　you　took　the　bark　off　it；　the　simple　fact　was　that　Steve　Kemp　…　publishing　poet；　itinerant　furniture　stripper　and　refinisher；　chair　caner；　fair　amateur　tennis　player；　excellent　afternoon　lover　…　was　a　turd。
'Be　serious；'　he　said。
'Yeah；　no　one　could　reject　handsome；　sensitive　Steven　Kemp；'　she　said。　iesgot　to　be　a　joke。　Only　it's　not。　So　what　you　do；　handsome；　sensitive　Steven　Kemp；　is　put　the　dresser　on　the　porch；　get　your　check；　and　blow。'
'Don't　talk　to　me　like　that；　Donna。'　His　hand　moved　to　her　breast　and　squeezed。　It　hurt。　She　began　to　feel　a　little　scared　as　well　as　angry。　＇But　hadn't　she　been　a　little　scared　all　along？　Hadn't　that　been　part　of　the　nasty；　scuzzy　little　thrill　of　W＇
She　slapped　his　hand　away。
'Don't　you　get　on　my　case；　Donna。'　He　wasn't　smiling　now。　'It's　too　goddam　hot。'
'Me？　On　your　case？　You　were　here　when　I　came　in。'　Being　frightened　of　him　had　made　her　angrier　than　ever。　He　wore　a　heavy　black　beard　that　climbed　high　on　his　cheekbones；　and　it　occurred　to　her　suddenly　that　although　she　had　seen　his　penis　close　up　…　had　had　it　in　her　mouth　…　she　had　never　really　seen　what　his　face　looked　like。
'What　you　mean；'　he　said；　'is　that　you　had　a　little　itch　and　now　it's　scratched；　so　fuck　off。　Right？　Who　gives　a　crap　about　how　I　feel？'
'You're　breathing　on　me；'　she　said；　and　pushed　him　away　to　take　the　milk　to　the　refrigerator。
He　was　not　expecting　it　this　time。　Her　shove　caught　him　off　balance；　and　he　actually　stumbled　back　a　step。　His　forehead　was　suddenly　divided　by　lines；　and　a　dark　flush　flared　high　on　his　cheekbones。　She　had　seen　him　look　this　way　on　the　tennis　courts　behind　the　Bridgton　Academy　buildings；　sometimes。　When　he　blew　an　easy　point。　She　had　watched　him　play　several　times　…　including　two　sets　during　which　he　had　mopped　up　her　panting；　puffing　husband　with　ease　…　and　on　the　few　occasions　she　had　seen　him　lose；　his　reaction　had　made　her　extremely　uneasy　about　what　she　had　gotten　into　with　him。　He　had　published　poems　in　over　two　dozen　little　magazines；　and　a　book；　Chasing　Sundown；　had　been　published　by　an　outfit　in　Baton　Rouge　called　The　Press　over　the　Garage。　He　had　graduated　from　Drew；　in　New　jersey；　he　held　strong　opinions　on　modem　art；　the　uping　nuclear　referendum　question　in　Maine；　the　films　of　Andy　Warhol；　and　he　took　a　double　fault　the　way　Tad　took　the　news　it　was　bedtime。
Now　he　came　after　her；　grabbed　her　shoulder；　and　spun　her　around　to　face　him。　The　carton　of　milk　fell　from　her　hand　and　split　open　on　the　floor。
'There；　look　at　that；'　Donna　said。　'Nice　going；　hotshot。'
'Listen；　I'm　not　going　to　be　pushed　around。　Do　you　…'
'You　get　out　of　here！'　she　screamed　into　his　face。　Her　spittle　sprayed　his　cheeks　and　his　forehead。　'What　do　I　have　to　do　to　convince　you？　Do　you　need　a　picture？　You're　not　wele　here！　Go　be　God's　gift　to　some　other　woman！'
'You　cheap；　cockteasing　little　bitch；'　he　said。　His　voice　was　sullen；　his　face　ugly。　He　didn't　let　go　of　her　arm。
'And　take　the　bureau　with　you。　Pitch　it　in　the　dump。
She　pulled　free　of　him　and　got　the　washrag　from　its　place；　hung　over　the　sink　faucet。　Her　hands　were　trembling；　her　stomach　was　upset；　and　she　was　starting　to　get　a　headache。　She　thought　that　soon　she　would　vomit。
She　got　down　on　her　hands　and　knees　and　began　wiping　up　the　spilt　milk。
'Yeah；　you　think　you're　something；'　he　said。　'When　did　your　crotch　turn　to　gold？　You　loved　it。　You　screamed　for　more。'
'You've　got　the　right　tense；　anyway；　champ；'　she　said；　not　looking　up。　Her　hair　hung　in　her　face　and　she　liked　it　that　way　Just　fine。　She　didn't　want　him　to　see　how　pale　and　sick　her　face　was。　She　felt　as　if　someone　had　pushed　her　into　a　nightmare。　She　felt　that　if　she　looked　at　herself　in　a　mirror　at　this　moment　she　would　see　an　ugly；　capering　witch。　'Get　out；　Steve。　I'm　not　going　to　tell　you　again。'
'And　what　if　I　don't？　You　going　to　call　Sheriff　Bannerman？　Sure。　just　say；　〃Hi；　there　George；　this　is　Mr。　Businessman's　wife；　and　the　guy　I've　been　screwing　on　the　side　won't　leave。　Would　you　please　e　on　up　here　and　roust　him？〃　That　what　you're　going　to　say？'
The　fright　went　deep　now。　Before　marrying　Vic；　she　had　been　a　librarian　in　the　Westchester　school　system；　and　her　own　private　nightmare　had　always　been　telling　the　kids　for　the　third　time　…　in　her　loudest　speaking　voice　…　to　quiet　down　at　once；　please。　When　she　did　that；　they　always　had　…　enough　for　her　to　get　through　the　period；　at　least　…　but　what　if　they　wouldn't？　That　was　her　nightmare。　What　if　they　absolutely　wouldn't？　What　did　that　leave？　The　question　scared　her。　It　scared　her　that　such　a　question　should　ever　have　to　be　asked；　even　to　oneself；　in　the　dark　of　night。　She　had　been　afraid　to　use　her　loudest　voice；　and　had　done　so　only　when　it　became　absolutely　necessary。　Because　that　was　where　civilization　came　to　an　abrupt；　screeching　halt。　That　was　the　place　where　the　tar　turned　to　dirt。　If　they　wouldn't　listen　when　you　used　your　very　loudest　voice；　a　scream　became　your　only　recourse。
This　was　the　same　sort　of　fear。　The　only　answer　to　the　man's　question；　of　course；　was　that　she　would　scream　if　he　came　near　her。　But　would　she？
'Go；'　she　said　in　a　lower　voice。　'Please。　It's　over。'
'What　if　I　decide　it　isn't？　What　if　I　decide　to　just　rape　you　there　on　the　floor　in　that　damned　spilt　milk？'
She　looked　up　at　him　through　the　tangle　of　hair。　Her　face　was　still　pale；　and　her　eyes　were　too　big；　ringed　with　white　flesh。　'Then　you'll　have　a　fight　on　your　hands。　And　if　I　get　a　chance　to　tear　your　balls　off　or　put　one　of　your　eyes　out；　I　won't　hesitate。'
For　just　a　moment；　before　his　face　closed　up；　she　thought　he　looked　uncertain。　He　knew　she　was　quick；　in　pretty　good　shape。　He　could　beat　her　at　tennis；　but　she　…Made　him　sweat　to　do　it。　His　balls　and　his　eyes　were　probably　safe；　but　she　might　very　well　put　some　furrows　in　his　face。　It　was　a　question　of　how　far　he　wanted　to　go。　She　smelled　something　thick　and　unpleasant　in　the　air　of　her　kitchen；　some　whiff　of　the　jungle；　and　realized　with　dismay　that　it　was　a　mixture　of　her　fear　and　his　rage。　It　was　ing　out　of　their　pores。
'I'll　take　the　bureau　back　to　my　shop；'　he　said。　'Why　don't　you　send　your　handsome　hubby　down　for　it；　Donna？　He　and　I　can　have　a　nice　talk。　About　stripping。'
He　left　then；　pulling　the　door　which　municated　between　the　living　room　and　the　porch　to　behind　him　almost　hard　enough　to　break　the　glass。　A　moment　later　the　engine　of　his　van　roared；　settled　into　a　ragged　idle；　and　then　dropped　to　a　working　pitch　as　he　threw　it　in　gear。　He　screeched　his　tires　as　he　left。
Donna　finished　wiping　the　milk　up　slowly；　rising　from　time　to　time　to　wring　out　her　rag　in　the　stainless　steel　sink。　She　watched　the　threads　of　milk　run　down　the　drain。　She　was　trembling　all　over；　partly　from　reaction；　partly　from　relief。　She　had　barely　heard　Steve's　implied　threat　to　tell　Vic。　She　could　only　think；　over　and　over　again；　about　the　chain　of　events　that　had　led　to　such　an　ugly　scene。
She　sincerely　believed　she　had　drifted　into　her　affair　with　Steve　Kemp　almost　inadvertently。　It　was　like　an　explosion　of　sewage　from　a　buried　pipe。　A　similar　sewer　pipe；　she　believed；　ran　beneath　the　neatly　tended　lawns　of　almost　every　marriage　in　America。
She　hadn't　wanted　to　e　to　Maine　and　had　been　appalled　when　Vic　had　sprung　the　idea　on　her。　In　spite　of　vacations　there　（and　the　vacations　themselves　might　have　reinforced　the　idea）；　she　had　thought　of　the　state　as　a　woodsy　wasteland；　a　place　where　the　snow　drifted　twenty　feet　high　in　the　winters　and　people　were　virtually　cut　off。　The　thought　of　taking　their　baby　into　such　an　environment　terrified　her。　She　had　pictured　…to　herself　and　aloud　to　Vic　…　sudden　snowstorms　blowing　up；　stranding　him　in　Portland　and　her　in　Castle　Rock。　She　thought　and　spoke　of　Tad　swallowing　pills　in　such　a　situation；　or　burning　himself　on　the　stove；　or　God　knew…　what。　And　maybe　part　of　her　resistance　had　been　a　stubborn　refusal　to　give　up　the　excitement　and　hurry　of　New　York。
Well；　face　it　…　the　worst　hadn't　been　any　of　those　things　The　worst　had　been　a　nagging　conviction　that　Ad　Worx　would　fail　and　they　would　have　to　go　crawling　back　with　their　tails　between　their　legs。