Needful Things Part 7

Suddenly it was 1955 again, he had just gotten his license, and he was driving to the Western Maine Schoolboy Champions.h.i.+p game-Castle Rock vs. Greenspark-in his dad's '53 Ford convertible. It was an unseasonably warm November day, warm enough to pull that old ragtop down and tack the tarp over it (if you were a bunch of hot-blooded kids ready, willing, and able to raise some h.e.l.l, that was), and there were six of them in the car. Peter Doyon had brought a flask of Log Cabin whiskey, Perry Como was on the radio, Hugh Priest was sitting behind the white wheel, and fluttering from the radio antenna had been a long, luxuriant fox-tail, just like the one he was now looking at in the window of this store.

He remembered looking up at that fluttering fox-tail and thinking that, when he owned a convertible of his own, he was going to have one just like that.

He remembered refusing the flask when it came around to him. He was driving, and you didn't drink while you were driving, because you were responsible for the lives of others. And he remembered one other thing, as well: the certainty that he was living the best hour of the best day of his life.

The memory surprised and hurt him in its clarity and total sensory recall-smoky aroma of burning leaves, November sun twinkling on guardrail reflectors, and now, looking at the fox-tail in the display window of Needful Things, it struck him that it had been the best day of his life, one of the last days before the booze had caught him firmly in its rubbery, pliant grip, turning him into a weird variation of King Midas: everything he had touched since then, it seemed, had turned to s.h.i.+t.

He suddenly thought: I could change I could change.

This idea had its own arresting clarity.

I could start over.

Were such things possible?

Yes, I think sometimes they are. I could buy that fox-tail and tie it on the antenna of my Buick.

They'd laugh, though. The guys'd laugh.

What guys? Henry Beaufort? That little p.i.s.sant Bobby Dugas? So what? f.u.c.k em. Buy that fox-tail, tie it to the antenna, and drive- Drive where?

Well, how about that Thursday-night A.A. meeting over in Greenspark for a start?

For a moment the possibility stunned and excited him, the way a long-term prisoner might be stunned and excited by the sight of the key left in the lock of his jail cell by a careless warder. For a moment he could actually see himself doing it, picking up a white chip, then a red chip, then a blue chip, getting sober day by day and month by month. No more Mellow Tiger. Too bad. But also no more paydays spent in terror that he would find a pink slip in his envelope along with his check, and that was not so too bad.

In that moment, as he stood looking at the fox-tail in the display window of Needful Things, Hugh could see a future. For the first time in years he could see a future, and that beautiful orange fox-brush with its white tip floated through it like a battle-flag.

Then reality crashed back in, and reality smelled like rain and damp, dirty clothes. There would be no fox-tail for him, no A.A. meetings, no chips, no future. He was fifty-one f.u.c.king years old fifty-one f.u.c.king years old, and fifty-one was too old for dreams of the future. At fifty-one you had to keep running just to escape the avalanche of your own past.

If it had been business hours, though, he would have taken a shot at it, anyway. d.a.m.ned if he wouldn't. He'd walk in there, just as big as billy-be-d.a.m.ned, and ask how much was that fox-tail in the window. But it was ten o'clock, Main Street was locked up as tight as an ice-queen's chast.i.ty belt, and when he woke up tomorrow morning, feeling as if someone had planted an icepick between his eyes, he would have forgotten all about that lovely fox-tail, with its vibrant russet color.

Still, he lingered a moment longer, trailing dirty, callused fingers over the gla.s.s like a kid looking into a toyshop window. A little smile had touched the corners of his mouth. It was a gentle smile, and it looked out of place on Hugh Priest's face. Then, somewhere up on Castle View, a car backed off several times, sounds as sharp as shotgun blasts on the rainy air, and Hugh was startled back to himself.

f.u.c.k it. What the h.e.l.l are you thinking of?

He turned away from the window and pointed his face toward home again-if you wanted to call the two-room shack with the tacked-on woodshed where he lived home. As he pa.s.sed under the canopy, he looked at the door... and stopped again.

The sign there, of course, read OPEN.

Like a man in a dream, Hugh put his hand out and tried the k.n.o.b. It turned freely under his hand. Overhead, a small silver bell tinkled. The sound seemed to come from an impossible distance away.

A man was standing in the middle of the shop. He was running a feather-duster over the top of a display case and humming. He turned toward Hugh when the bell rang. He didn't seem a bit surprised to see someone standing in his doorway at ten minutes past ten on a Wednesday night. The only thing that struck Hugh about the man in that confused moment was his eyes-they were as black as an Indian's.

"You forgot to turn your sign over, buddy," Hugh heard himself say.

"No, indeed," the man replied politely. "I don't sleep very well, I'm afraid, and some nights I take a fancy to open late. One never knows when a fellow such as yourself may stop by... and take a fancy to something. Would you like to come in and look around?"

Hugh Priest came in and closed the door behind him.

7.

"There's a fox-tail-" Hugh began, then had to stop, clear his throat, and start again. The words had come out in a husky, unintelligible mutter. "There's a fox-tail in the window."

"Yes," the proprietor said. "Beauty, isn't it?" He held the duster in front of him now, and his Indian-black eyes looked at Hugh with interest from above the bouquet of feathers which hid his lower face. Hugh couldn't see the guy's mouth, but he had an idea he was smiling. It usually made him uneasy when people-especially people he didn't know-smiled at him. It made him feel like he wanted to fight. Tonight, however, it didn't seem to bother him at all. Maybe because he was still half-shot.

"It is," Hugh agreed. "It is a beauty. My dad had a convertible with a fox-tail just like that tied to the antenna, back when I was a kid. There's a lot of people in this crummy little burg wouldn't believe I ever was was a kid, but I was. Same as everyone else." a kid, but I was. Same as everyone else."

"Of course." The man's eyes remained fixed on Hugh's, and the strangest thing was happening-they seemed to be growing. Hugh couldn't seem to pull his own eyes away from them. Too much direct eye-contact was another thing which usually made him feel like he wanted to fight. But this also seemed perfectly okay tonight.

"I used to think that fox-tail was just about the coolest thing in the world."

"Of course."

"Cool-that was the word we used back then. None of this rad rad s.h.i.+t. And s.h.i.+t. And gnarly gnarly-I don't have the slightest f.u.c.kin idea what that means, do you?"

But the proprietor of Needful Things was silent, simply standing there, watching Hugh Priest with his black Indian eyes over the foliage of his feather-duster.

"Anyway, I want to buy it. Will you sell it to me?"

"Of course," Leland Gaunt said for the third time.

Hugh felt relief and a sudden, sprawling happiness. He was suddenly sure everything was going to be all right-everything. This was utterly crazy; he owed money to just about everyone in Castle Rock and the surrounding three towns, he had been on the ragged edge of losing his job for the last six months, his Buick was running on a wing and a prayer-but it was also undeniable.

"How much?" he asked. He suddenly wondered if he would be able to afford such a fine brush, and felt a touch of panic. What if it was out of his reach? Worse, what if he scrounged up the money somehow tomorrow, or the day after that, only to find the guy had sold it?

"Well, that depends."

"Depends? Depends on what?"

"On how much you're willing to pay."

Like a man in a dream, Hugh pulled his battered Lord Burton out of his back pocket.

"Put that away, Hugh."

Did I tell him my name?

Hugh couldn't remember, but he put the wallet away.

"Turn out your pockets. Right here, on top of this case."

Hugh turned out his pockets. He put his pocket-knife, a roll of Certs, his Zippo lighter, and about a dollar-fifty in tobacco-sprinkled change on top of the case. The coins clicked on the gla.s.s.

The man bent forward and studied the pile. "That looks about right," he remarked, and brushed the feather-duster over the meager collection. When he removed it again, the knife, the lighter, and the Certs were still there. The coins were gone.

Hugh observed this with no surprise at all. He stood as silently as a toy with dead batteries while the tall man went to the display window and came back with the foxbrush. He laid it on top of the cabinet beside Hugh's shrunken pile of pocket paraphernalia.

Slowly, Hugh stretched out one hand and stroked the fur. It felt cold and rich; it crackled with silky static electricity. Stroking it was like stroking a clear autumn night.

"Nice?" the tall man asked.

"Nice," Hugh agreed distantly, and made to pick up the foxtail.

"Don't do that," the tall man said sharply, and Hugh's hand fell away at once. He looked at Gaunt with a hurt so deep it was grief. "We're not done d.i.c.kering yet."

"No," Hugh agreed. I'm hypnotized I'm hypnotized, he thought. d.a.m.ned if the guy hasn't hypnotized me d.a.m.ned if the guy hasn't hypnotized me. But it didn't matter. It was, in fact, sort of... nice.

He reached for his wallet again, moving as slowly as a man under water.

"Leave that alone, you a.s.s," Mr. Gaunt said impatiently, and laid his feather-duster aside.

Hugh's hand dropped to his side again.

"Why is is it that so many people think all the answers are in their wallets?" the man asked querulously. it that so many people think all the answers are in their wallets?" the man asked querulously.

"I don't know," Hugh said. He had never considered the idea before. "It does seem a little silly."

"Worse," Gaunt snapped. His voice had taken on the nagging, slightly uneven cadences of a man who is either very tired or very angry. He was tired; it had been a long, demanding day. Much had been accomplished, but the work was still just barely begun. "It's much worse. It's criminally stupid! stupid! Do you know something, Hugh? The world is full of needy people who don't understand that everything, Do you know something, Hugh? The world is full of needy people who don't understand that everything, everything everything, is for sale... if you're willing to pay the price. They give lip-service to the concept, that's all, and pride themselves on their healthy cynicism. Well, lip-service is bushwah! Absolute... bushwah! bushwah!"

"Bushwah," Hugh agreed mechanically.

"For the things people really really need, Hugh, the wallet is no answer. The fattest wallet in this town isn't worth the sweat from a working man's armpit. Absolute need, Hugh, the wallet is no answer. The fattest wallet in this town isn't worth the sweat from a working man's armpit. Absolute bushwah! bushwah! And souls! If I had a nickel, Hugh, for every time I ever heard someone say 'I'd sell my soul for thus-and-such,' I could buy the Empire State Building!" He leaned closer and now his lips stretched back from his uneven teeth in a huge unhealthy grin. "Tell me this, Hugh: what in the name of all the beasts crawling under the earth would I want with your soul?" And souls! If I had a nickel, Hugh, for every time I ever heard someone say 'I'd sell my soul for thus-and-such,' I could buy the Empire State Building!" He leaned closer and now his lips stretched back from his uneven teeth in a huge unhealthy grin. "Tell me this, Hugh: what in the name of all the beasts crawling under the earth would I want with your soul?"

"Probably nothing." His voice seemed far away. His voice seemed to be coming from the bottom of a deep, dark cave. "I don't think it's in very good shape these days."

Mr. Gaunt suddenly relaxed and straightened up. "Enough of these lies and half-truths. Hugh, do you know a woman named Nettie Cobb?"

"Crazy Nettie? Everyone in town knows Crazy Nettie. She killed her husband."

"So they say. Now listen to me, Hugh. Listen carefully. Then you can take your fox-tail and go home."

Hugh Priest listened carefully.

Outside it was raining harder, and the wind had begun to blow.

8.

"Brian!" Miss Ratcliffe said sharply. "Why, Brian Rusk! I wouldn't have believed it of you! Come up here! Right now!"

He was sitting in the back row of the bas.e.m.e.nt room where the speech therapy cla.s.ses were held, and he had done something wrong-terribly wrong, by the sound of Miss Ratcliffe's voice-but he didn't know what it was until he stood up. Then he saw that he was naked. A horrible wave of shame swept over him, but he felt excited, too. When he looked down at his p.e.n.i.s and saw it starting to stiffen, he felt both alarmed and thrilled.

"Come up here, I said!"

He advanced slowly to the front of the room while the others-Sally Meyers, Donny Frankel, Nome Martin, and poor old half-bright Slopey Dodd-goggled at him.

Miss Ratcliffe stood in front of her desk, hands on hips, eyes blazing, a gorgeous cloud of dark-auburn hair floating around her head.

"You're a bad boy, Brian-a very bad boy."

He nodded his head dumbly, but his p.e.n.i.s was raising ITS head, and so it seemed there was at least one part of him that did not mind being bad at all. That in fact RELISHED being bad.

She put a piece of chalk in his hand. He felt a small bolt of electricity when their hands touched. "Now," Miss Ratcliffe said severely, "You must write I WILL FINISH PAYING FOR MY SANDY KOUFAX CARD five hundred times on the blackboard."

"Yes, Miss Ratcliffe."

He began to write, standing on tiptoe to reach the top of the board, aware of warm air on his naked b.u.t.tocks. He had finished WILL FINISH PAYING when he felt Miss Ratcliffe's smooth, soft hand encircle his stiff p.e.n.i.s and begin to tug on it gently. For a moment he thought he would faint dead away, it felt so good.

"Keep writing," she said grimly from behind him, "and I'll keep on doing this."

"M-Miss Ruh-Ruh-Ratcliffe, what about my t-tongue exercises?" asked Slopey Dodd.

"Shut up or I'll run you over in the parking lot, Slopey," Miss Ratcliffe said. "I'll make you squeak, little buddy."

She went on pulling Brian's pudding while she spoke. He was moaning now. It was wrong, he knew that, but it felt good. It felt most sincerely awesome. It felt like what he needed. Just the thing.

Then he turned around and it wasn't Miss Ratcliffe standing at his shoulder but Wilma Jerzyck with her large round pallid face and her deep brown eyes, like two raisins pounded deep into a wad of dough.

"He'll take it back if you don't pay," Wilma said. "And that's not all, little buddy. He'll-"

9.

Brian Rusk woke up with such a jerk that he almost fell out of bed and onto the floor. His body was covered with sweat, his heart was pounding like a jackhammer, and his p.e.n.i.s was a small, hard branch inside his pajama trousers.

He sat up, s.h.i.+vering all over. His first impulse was to open his mouth and yell for his mother, as he had done when he was small and a nightmare had invaded his sleep. Then he realized that he wasn't wasn't small anymore, he was eleven... and it wasn't exactly the sort of dream you told your mother about, anyway, was it? small anymore, he was eleven... and it wasn't exactly the sort of dream you told your mother about, anyway, was it?

He lay back, eyes wide and staring into the dark. He glanced at the digital clock on the table next to the bed and saw it was four minutes past midnight. He could hear the sound of rain, hard now, pelting against his bedroom window, driven by huge, whooping gasps of wind. It sounded almost like sleet.

My card. My Sandy Koufax card is gone.

It wasn't. He knew it wasn't, but he also knew he would not be able to go back to sleep until he'd checked to make sure it was still there, in the looseleaf binder where he kept his growing collection of Topps cards from 1956. He had checked it before leaving for school yesterday, had done so again when he got home, and last night, after supper, he had broken off playing pa.s.s in the back yard with Stanley Dawson to check on it once more. He had told Stanley he had to go to the bathroom. He had peeked at it one final time before crawling into bed and turning out the light. He recognized that it had become a kind of obsession with him, but recognition did not put a stop to it.