Needful Things by Stephen King
2nd Race: FILLY DELFIA
3rd Race: TAMMY'S WONDER
4th Race: I'M AMAZED
5th Race: BY GEORGE
6th Race: PUCKY BOY
7th Race: CASCO THUNDER
8th Race: DELIGHTFUL SON
9th Race: TIKO-TIKO
It was only five in the afternoon, but Danforth Keeton was already running the last race of the night. The horses rattled and swayed around the track. One of them led by six lengths, and crossed the finish line far ahead of the others.
Keeton snatched up the newspaper and studied the evening's Raceway card again. His face shone so brightly that he looked sanctified. "Malabar!" he whispered, and shook his fists in the air. The pencil caught in one of them darted and plunged like a runaway sewing needle. "It's Malabar! Thirty-to-one! Thirty-to-one at least! Malabar, by God!"
He scribbled on the sheet of paper, panting raggedly as he did so. Five minutes later the Winning Ticket game was locked in his study closet and Danforth Keeton was on his way to Lewiston in his Cadillac.
CHAPTER NINE
1
At quarter to ten on Sunday morning, Nettie Cobb drew on her coat and buttoned it swiftly. An expression of grim determination was stamped on her face. She was standing in her kitchen. Raider was sitting on the floor, looking up at her as if to ask if she really meant to go through with it this time.
"Yes, I really mean it," she told him.
Raider thumped his tail against the floor, as if to say he knew she could do it.
"I've made a nice lasagna for Polly, and I'm going to take it to her. My lampshade is locked up in the armoire, and I know it's locked, I don't need to keep coming back to check because I know it in my head. That crazy Polish woman isn't going to keep me prisoner in my own house. If I see her on the street, I'll give her what-for! I warned her!"
She had to go out. She had to, and she knew it. She hadn't left the house in two days, and she had come to realize that the longer she put it off, the harder it would become. The longer she sat in the living room with the shades pulled down, the harder it would get to ever raise them again. She could feel the old confused terror creeping into her thoughts.
So she had gotten up early this morning--at five o'clock!--and had made a nice lasagna for Polly, just the way she liked it, with plenty of spinach and mushrooms. The mushrooms were canned, because she hadn't dared go out to the market last night, but she thought it had turned out very well despite that. It was now sitting on the counter, the top of the pan covered with aluminum foil.
She picked it up and marched through the living room to the door. "You be a good boy, Raider. I'll be back in an hour. Unless Polly gives me coffee, and then it might be a little longer. But I'll be fine. I don't have a thing to worry about. I didn't do anything to that crazy Polish woman's sheets, and if she bothers me, I'll give her the very dickens."
Raider uttered a stem bark to show he understood and believed.
She opened the door, peeked out, saw nothing. Ford Street was as deserted as only a small-town street can be early on Sunday morning. In the distance, one church-bell was calling Rev. Rose's Baptists to worship and another was summoning Father Brigham's Catholics.
Gathering all her courage, Nettie stepped out into the Sunday sunshine, set the pan of lasagna down on the step, pulled the door closed, and locked it. Then she took her housekey and scratched it up her forearm, leaving a thin red mark. As she stooped to pick up the pan again she thought, Now when you get halfway down the block--maybe even sooner--you'll start thinking that you really didn't lock the door after all. But you did. You set the lasagna down to do it. And if you still can't believe it, just look at your arm and remember that you made that scratch with your very own housekey ... after you used it to lock the house. Remember that, Nettie, and you'll be just fine when the doubts start to creep in.
This was a wonderful thought, and using the key to scratch her arm had been a wonderful idea. The red mark was something concrete, and for the first time in the last two days (and mostly sleepless nights), Nettie really did feel better. She marched down to the sidewalk, her head high, her lips pressed together so tightly that they almost disappeared. When she reached the sidewalk, she looked both ways for the crazy Polish woman's little yellow car. If she saw it, she intended to walk right up to it and tell the crazy Polish woman to leave her alone. There wasn't a sign of it, though. The only vehicle in sight was an old orange truck parked up the street, and it was empty.
Good.
Nettie set sail for Polly Chalmers's house, and when the doubts assailed her, she remembered that the carnival glass lampshade was locked up, Raider was on guard, and the front door was locked. Especially that last. The front door was locked, and she only had to look at the fading red mark on her arm to prove it to herself.
So Nettie marched on with her head high, and when she reached the corner, she turned it without looking back.
2
When the nutty woman was out of sight, Hugh Priest sat up behind the wheel of the orange town truck he had drawn from the deserted motor pool at seven that morning (he had lain down on the seat as soon as he saw Crazy Nettie come out the door). He put the gearshift in neutral, and let the truck roll slowly and soundlessly down the slight grade to Nettie Cobb's house.
3
The doorbell woke Polly from a soupy state that wasn't really sleep but a kind of dream-haunted drug-daze. She sat up in bed and realized she was wearing her housecoat. When had she put it on? For a moment she couldn't remember, and that frightened her. Then it came. The pain she'd been expecting had arrived right on schedule, easily the worst arthritic pain of her entire life. It had awakened her at five. She had gone into the bathroom to urinate, then had discovered she couldn't even get a swatch of toilet paper off the roll to blot herself with. So she had taken a pill, put on her housecoat, and sat in the chair by the bedroom window to wait until it worked. At some point she must have gotten sleepy and gone back to bed.
Her hands felt like crude ceramic figures baked until they were on the verge of cracking. The pain was both hot and cold, set deep in her flesh like complex networks of poisoned wires. She held her hands up despairingly, scare-crow hands, awful, deformed hands, and downstairs the doorbell chimed again. She uttered a distracted little cry.
She went out onto the landing with her hands held out in front of her like the paws of a dog sitting up to beg a sweet. "Who is it?" she called down. Her voice was hoarse, gummy with sleep. Her tongue tasted like something which had been used to line a cat-box.
"It's Nettie!" The voice drifted back up. "Are you okay, Polly?"
Nettie. Good God, what was Nettie doing here before the crack of dawn on Sunday morning?
"I'm fine!" she called back. "I have to put something on! Use your key, dear!"
When she heard Nettie's key begin to rattle in the lock, Polly hurried back into her bedroom. She glanced at the clock on the table beside her bed and saw that dawn had cracked several hours before. Nor had she come back to put something on; her housecoat would do for Nettie just fine. But she needed a pill. She had never, never in her life, needed a pill as badly as she did now.
She didn't know how bad her condition really was until she tried to take one. The pitts--actually captets--were in a small glass dish on the mantel of the room's ornamental fireplace. She was able to get her hand into the dish all right, but found herself completely unable to grasp one of the caplets once it was there. Her fingers were like the pincers of some machine which had frozen solid for lack of oil.
She tried harder, concentrating all of her will on making her fingers close upon one of the gelatine capsules. She was rewarded with slight movement and a great burst of agony. That was all. She made a little muttering sound of pain and frustration.
"Polly?" From the foot of the stairs now, Nettie's voice was concerned. People in Castle Rock might consider Nettie vague, Polly thought, but when it came to the vicissitudes of Polly's infirmity, Nettie was not vague at all. She had
"Be right down, dear!" she called back, trying to sound bright and lively. And as she took her hand out of the glass dish and bent her head over it, she thought, Please, God. Don't let her come up now. Don't let her see me doing this.
She lowered her face into the dish like a dog about to drink from its bowl and stuck out her tongue. Pain, shame, horror, and most of all a dark depression, all maroons and grays, enfolded her. She pressed her tongue against one of the caplets until it stuck. She drew it into her mouth, now not a dog but an anteater ingesting a tasty morsel, and swallowed.
As the pill traced its tiny hard trail down her throat, she thought again: I would give anything to be free of this. Anything. Anything at all.
4
Hugh Priest rarely dreamed anymore; these days he did not go to sleep so much as fall unconscious. But he'd had a dream last night, a real lulu. The dream had told him everything he had to know, and everything he was supposed to do.
In it he had been sitting at his kitchen table, drinking a beer and watching a game-show called Sale of the Century. All the things they were giving away were things he had seen in that shop, Needful Things. And all of the contestants were bleeding from their ears and the corners of their eyes. They were laughing, but they looked terrified.
All at once a muffled voice began to call, "Hugh! Hugh! Let me out, Hugh!"
It was coming from the closet. He went over and opened it, ready to coldcock whoever was hiding inside. But there was no one; only the usual tangle of boots, scarves, coats, fishing tackle, and his two shotguns.
"Hugh!"
He looked up, because the voice was coming from the shelf.
It was the fox-tail. The fox-tail was talking. And Hugh recognized the voice at once. It was the voice of Leland Gaunt. He had taken the brush down, revelling again in its plushy softness, a texture that was a little like silk, a little like wool, and really like nothing at all but its own secret self.
"Thanks, Hugh," the fox-tail said. "It's really stuffy in here. And you left an old pipe on the shelf. It really stinks. Whew!"
"Did you want to go to another place?" Hugh had asked. He felt a little stupid talking to a fox-tail, even in a dream.
"No--I'm getting used to it. But I have to talk to you. You have to do something, remember? You promised."
"Crazy Nettie," he agreed. "I have to play a trick on Crazy Nettie."
"That's right," said the fox-tail, "and you have to do it as soon as you wake up. So listen."
Hugh had listened.
The fox-tail had told him no one would be home at Nettie's but the dog, but now that Hugh was actually here, he decided it would be wise to knock. He did so. From inside he heard claws come clicking rapidly across a wooden floor, but nothing else. He knocked again, just to be safe. There was a single stern bark from the other side of the door.
"Raider?" Hugh asked. The fox-tail had told him that was the dog's name. Hugh thought it was a pretty good name, even if the lady who thought it up was nuttier than a fruitcake.
The single bark came again, not quite so stern this time.
Hugh took a key-ring from the breast pocket of the plaid hunting jacket he wore and examined it. He'd had this ring for a long time, and could no longer even remember what some of the keys had gone to. But four of them were skeleton keys, easily identified by their long barrels, and these were the ones he wanted.
Hugh glanced around once, saw the street was as deserted as it had been when he first arrived, and began to try the keys one by one.
5
When Nettie saw Polly's white, puffy face and haggard eyes, her own fears, which had gnawed at her like sharp weasel's teeth as she walked over, were forgotten. She didn't even have to look at Polly's hands, still held out at waist level (it hurt dreadfully to let them hang down when it was like this), to know how things were with her.
The lasagna was thrust unceremoniously on a table by the foot of the stairs. If it had gone tumbling to the floor, Nettie wouldn't have given it a second glance. The nervous woman Castle Rock had grown used to seeing on its streets, the woman who looked as if she were skulking away from some nasty piece of mischief even if she was only on her way to the post office, was not here. This was a different Nettie; Polly Chalmers's Nettie.
"Come on," she said briskly. "Into the living room. I'll get the thermal gloves."
"Nettie, I'm all right," Polly said weakly. "I just took a pill, and I'm sure that in a few minutes--"
But Nettie had an arm around her and was walking her into the living room. "What did you do? Did you sleep on them, do you think?"
"No--that would have woken me. It's just ..." She laughed. It was a weak, bewildered sound. "It's just pain. I knew today was going to be bad, but I had no idea how bad. And the thermal gloves don't help."
"Sometimes they do. You know that sometimes they do. Now just sit there."
Nettie's tone brooked no refusal. She stood beside Polly until Polly sat in an overstuffed armchair. Then she went into the downstairs bathroom to get the thermal gloves. Polly had given up on them a year ago, but Nettie, it seemed, held for them a reverence that was almost superstitious. Nettie's version of chicken soup, Alan had once called them, and they had both laughed.
Polly sat with her hands resting on the arms of the chair like lumps of cast-off driftwood and looked longingly across the room at the couch where she and Alan had made love Friday night. Her hands hadn't hurt at all then, and that already seemed like a thousand years ago. It occurred to her that pleasure, no matter how deep, was a ghostly, ephemeral thing. Love might make the world go round, but she was convinced it was the cries of the badly wounded and deeply afflicted which spun the universe on the great glass pole of its axis.
Oh you stupid couch, she thought. Oh you stupid empty couch, what good are you to me now?
Nettie came back with the thermal gloves. They looked like quilted oven mitts connected by an insulated electric wire. A plug-in cord snaked out of the left glove's back. Polly had seen an ad for the gloves in Good Housekeeping, of all places. She had placed a call to The National Arthritis Foundation's 800 number and had ascertained that the gloves did indeed provide temporary relief in some cases. When she showed the ad to Dr. Van Allen, he added the coda which had been tiresomely familiar even two years ago: "Well, it can't hurt." .
"Nettie, I'm sure that in a few minutes--"
"--you'll feel better," Nettie finished. "Yes, of course you will. And maybe these will help. Hold up your hands, Polly."
Polly gave in and held up her hands. Nettie held the gloves by their ends, squeezed them open, and slipped them on with the delicacy of a bomb-squad expert covering packets of C-4 with a blast-blanket. Her touch was gentle, expert, and compassionate. Polly didn't believe the thermal gloves would do a thing ... but Nettie's obvious concern had already had its effect.
Nettie took the plug, got down on her knees, and slipped it into the baseboard socket near the chair. The gloves began to hum faintly, and the first tendrils of dry warmth caressed the skin of Polly's hands.
"You're too good to me," Polly said softly. "Do you know that?"
"I couldn't be," Nettie replied. "Not ever." Her voice was a trifle husky, and there was a bright, liquid shine in her eyes. "Polly, it's not my place to tell you your business, but I just can't keep quiet any longer. You have to do something about your poor hands. You have to. Things just can't go on this way."
"I know, dear. I know." Polly made a huge effort to climb over the wall of depression which had built itself up in her mind. "Why did you come over, Nettie? Surely it wasn't just to toast my hands."
Nettie brightened. "I made you a lasagna!"
"Did you? Oh, Nettie, you shouldn't have!"
"No? That's not what I think. I think you won't be up to cooking today, or tomorrow, either. I'll just put it in the refrigerator."
"Thank you. Thank you so much."
"I'm glad I did it. Doubly glad, now that I see you." She reached the hall doorway and looked back. A bar of sun fell across her face, and in that moment Polly might have seen how drawn and tired Nettie looked, if her own pain had not been so large. "Don't you move, now!"
Polly burst out laughing, surprising them both. "I can't! I'm trapped!"
In the kitchen, the refrigerator door opened and closed as Nettie put the lasagna away. Then she called, "Shall I put on the coffee? Would you like a cup? I could help you with it."
"Yes," Polly said, "that would be nice." The gloves were humming louder now; they were very warm. And either they were actually helping, or the pill was taking hold in a way the one at five o'clock hadn't. More probably it was a combination of the two, she thought. "But if you have to get back, Nettie--"
Nettie appeared in the doorway. She had taken her apron out of the pantry and put it on, and she held the old tin coffee pot in one hand. She wouldn't use the new digital Toshiba coffee-maker . . . and Polly had to admit that what came out of Nettie's tin pot was better.
"I've no place to go that's better than this," she said. "Besides, the house is all locked up and Raider's on guard."
"I'm sure," Polly said, smiling. She knew Raider very well. He weighed all of twenty pounds and rolled over to have his belly scratched when anyone--mailman, meter-reader, door-to-door salesman--came to the house.
"I think she'll leave me alone anyway," Nettie said. "I warned her. I haven't seen her around or heard from her, so I guess it finally sank in on her that I meant business."
"Warned who? About what?" Polly asked, but Nettie had already left the doorway, and Polly was indeed penned in her seat by the electric gloves. By the time Nettie reappeared with the coffee tray, the Percodan had begun to fog her in and she had forgotten all about Nettie's odd remark ... which was not surprising in any case, since Nettie made odd remarks quite often.