Misery (29 page)

   He put the pen down, looked at the paper, then slowly picked the pen up again and scrawled a few more lines.

Three necessary points.

1. How does Mrs E-H react to Mrs R's suspicions? She should be either murderous or puke-up scared. I prefer scared but think A.W. would like murderous, so OK murd.

2. How does Ian get into this?

3. Misery's amnesia?

Oh and here's one to grow on. Does Misery find out her mom lived with the possibility that not just one but
two
of her daughters had been buried alive rather than speak up?

Why not?

   'You could help me back into bed now if you wanted,' Paul said. 'If I sounded mad, I'm sorry. I was just excited.'

'That's all right, Paul.' She still sounded awed.

    Since then the work had driven on famously. Annie was right; the story was turning out to be a good deal more gruesome than the other
Misery
books — the first chapter had not been a fluke but a harbinger. But it was also more richly plotted than any
Misery
novel since the first, and the characters were more lively. The latter three
Misery
novels had been little more than straightforward adventure tales with a fair amount of piquantly described sex thrown in to please the ladies. This book, he began to understand, was a gothic novel, and thus was more dependent on plot than on situation. The challenges were constant. It was not just a question of Can You? to begin the book — for the first time in years, it was Can You? almost every day . . . and he was finding he
could.

Then the rain came and things changed.

From the eighth of April until the fourteenth they enjoyed an unbroken run of fine weather. The sun beamed down from a cloudless sky and temperatures sometimes rose into the mid-sixties. Brown patches began to a appear in the field behind Annie's neat red barn. Paul hid behind his work and tried not to think about his car, the discovery of which was already overdue. His work did not suffer, but his mood did; he felt more and more that he was living in a cloud chamber, breathing an atmosphere thick with uncoalesced electricity. Whenever the Camaro stole into his mind, he immediately called the Brain Police and had the thought led away in handcuffs and legirons. Trouble was, the nasty thing had a way of escaping and coming back time after time, in one form or another.

   One night he dreamed that Mr Rancho Grande returned to Annie's place. He got out of his wellkept Chevrolet Bel Air, holding part of the Camaro's bumper in one hand and its steering wheel in the other.
Do these belong to you?
he asked Annie in this dream.

Paul had awakened in a less-than-cheery frame of mind.

    Annie, on the other hand, had never been in better spirits than she was during that sunny earlyspring week. She cleaned; she cooked ambitious meals (although everything she cooked came out tasting strangely industrial, as if years of eating in hospital cafeterias had somehow corrupted any culinary talent she might once have had); each afternoon she bundled Paul up in a huge blue blanket, jammed a green hunting cap on his head, and rolled him out onto the back porch.

    On those occasions he would take Maugham along, but rarely read him — being outside again was too great an experience to allow much concentration on other things. Mostly he just sat, smelling sweet cool air instead of the bedroom's stale indoor smell, sly with sickroom undertones, listened to the drip of the icicles, and watched the cloud-shadows roll slowly and steadily across the melting field. That was somehow best of all.

   Annie sang in her on-pitch but queerly tuneless voice. She giggled like a child at the jokes on
M*A*S*H*
and
WKRP
, laughing especially hard at the jokes which were mildly off-color (which, in the case of
WKRP,
was most of them.). She filled in n s tirelessly as Paul finished Chapters 9 and 10.

    The morning of the fifteenth dawned windy and dull with clouds, and Annie changed. Perhaps, Paul thought, it was the falling barometer. It was as good an explanation as any.

   She did not show up with his medication until nine o'clock, and by then he needed it quite badly — so badly that he had been thinking of going to his stash. There was no breakfast. just the pills. When she came in she was still in her pink quilted housecoat. He noted with deepening misgivings that there were red marks like weals on her cheeks and arms. He also saw gooey splatters of food on the housecoat, and she had only managed to get on one of her slippers.
Thud-slush,
went Annie's feet as she approached him.
Thud-slush, thud-slush, thud-slush.
Her hair hung around her face. Her eyes were dull. i

    'Here.' She threw the pills at him. Her hands were also covered with mixed streaks of goo. Red stuff, brown stuff, sticky white stuff. Paul had no idea what it was. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. The pills hit his chest and bounced into his lap. She turned to go.
Thud-slush, thud-slush,
thud-slush.

'Annie?'

  She stopped, not turning around. She looked bigger that way, with her shoulders rounding the pink housecoat, her hair like some battered helmet. She looked like a Piltdown woman staring out of her cave.

  'Annie, are you all right?'

  'No,' she said indifferently, and turned around. She looked at him with that same dullard's expression as she pinched her lower lip between the thumb and first finger of her right hand. She pulled it out and then twisted it, pinching inward at the same time. Blood first welled between lip and then gushed down her chin. She turned and left without speaking a word, before his stunned mind could persuade itself that he had really seen her do that. She closed the door . . . and locked it. He heard her
thud-slushing
her way down the hall to the parlor. He heard the creak of her favorite chair as she sat down. Nothing else. No TV. No singing. No
click-clink
of silver on crockery. No, she was just sitting there. Just sitting there being not all right.

  Then there
was
a sound. It was not repeated, but it was utterly distinctive. It was a slap. A damned hard one. And since he was in here on one side of a locked door and she was out there on the other side of it, you didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that she'd slapped herself. Good and hard, from the sound. He saw her pulling her lip out, digging her short nails into its sensitive pink meat.

   He suddenly remembered a note on mental illness he had taken for the first
Misery
book, where much of the action had been set in London's Bedlam Hospital (Misery had been railroaded there by the madly jealous villainess).
When a manic-depressive personality begins to slide deeply into
a depressive period,
he had written,
one symptom he or she may exhibit is acts of self-punishment:
slapping, punching, pinching, burning one's self w/ cigarette butts, etc

He was suddenly very scared.

Paul remembered an essay by Edmund Wilson where Wilson had said, in typically grudging Wilson manner, that Wordsworth's criterion for the writing of good poetry — strong emotion recalled in a time of tranquility — would do well enough for most dramatic fiction as well. It was probably true. Paul had known writers who found it impossible to write after so much as a minor marital spat, and he himself usually found it impossible to write when upset. But there were times when a kind of reverse effect obtained — these were times when he had gone to the work not just because the work ought to be done but because it was a way to escape whatever was upsetting him. These were usually occasions when rectifying the source of the upset was beyond him.

   This was one of those occasions. When she still hadn't returned to put him in his chair by eleven that morning, he determined to get into it himself. Getting the typewriter off the mantel would be beyond him, but he could write longhand. He was sure he could hoist himself into the chair, knew it was probably a bad idea to let Annie
know
he could, but he needed his other fix, goddammit, and he could not write lying here in bed.

    He worked himself over to the edge of the bed, made sure the wheelchair brake was on, then grasped its arms and pulled himself slowly into the seat. Pulling his legs up onto the supports one at a time was the only part that hurt. He rolled himself over to the window and picked up his manuscript.

  The key rattled in the lock. Annie was looking in at him, her eyes burned black holes in her face. Her right cheek was swelling up, and it looked like she was going to have a hell of a shiner in the morning. There was red stuff around her mouth and on her chin. For a moment Paul thought it was more blood from her torn lip and then he saw the seeds in it. It was raspberry jam or raspberry filling, not blood. She looked at him. Paul looked back. Neither said anything for a time. Outside, the first drops of rain splatted against the window.

    'If you can get into that chair all by yourself, Paul,' she said at last, 'then I think you can fill in your own fucking n's.'

   She then closed the door and locked it again. Paul sat looking at it for a long time, almost as if there were something to see. He was too flabbergasted to do anything else.

He didn't see her again until late afternoon. After her visit, work was impossible. He made a couple of futile tries, wadded up the paper, and gave up. It was a bust. He rolled himself back across the room. In the process of getting out of the chair and into bed, one of his hands slipped and he came within an ace of falling. He brought his left leg down, and although it took his weight and saved him the fall, the pain was excruciating — it felt as if a dozen bolts had suddenly been driven into the bone. He screamed, scrabbled for the headboard, and pulled himself safely over onto the bed, his throbbing left leg trailing behind the rest of him.

  
That will bring her,
he thought incoherently.
She'll want to see if Sheldon really turned into
Luciano Pavarotti, or if it just sounds that way.

   But she didn't come and there was no way he could bear the rotted ache in his left leg. He rolled clumsily onto his stomach burrowed one arm deep under the mattress, and brought out one of the Novril sample cards. He dry-swallowed two, then drifted for awhile.

   When he came back he thought at first he must still be dreaming. It was just too surreal, like the night when she had rolled the barbecue pot in here. Annie was sitting on the side of his bed. She had set a water glass filled with Novril capsules on his bed-table. In her other hand she had a Victor rat—trap. There was a rat in it, too — a large one with mottled gray-brown fur. The trap had broken the rat's back. Its rear feet hung over the sides of the trap's board, twitching randomly. There were beads of blood in its whiskers.

  This was no dream. Just another day lost in the funhouse with Annie.

  Her breath smelled like a corpse decomposing in rotted food.

  'Annie?' He straightened up, eyes moving between her and the rat. Outside it was dusk — a strange blue dusk filled with rain. It sheeted against the window. Strong gusts of wind shook the house, making it creak.

    Whatever had been wrong with her this morning was worse tonight.
Much
worse. He realized he was seeing her with all her masks put aside — this was the real Annie, the inside Annie. The flesh of her face, which had previously seemed so fearsomely solid, now hung like lifeless dough. Her eyes were blanks. She had dressed, but her skirt was on inside out. There were more weals on her flesh, more food splattered on her clothes. When she moved, they exhaled too many different aromas for Paul to count. Nearly one whole arm of her cardigan sweater was soaked with a halfdried substance that smelled like gravy.

    She held up the trap. 'They come into the cellar when it rains.' The pinned rat squeaked feebly, and snapped at the air. Its black eyes, infinitely more lively than those of its captor, rolled. 'I put down traps. I have to. I smear the trip-plates with bacon grease. I always catch eight or nine. Sometimes I find others — '

   She blanked then. Blanked for nearly three minutes, holding the rat in the air, a perfect case of waxy catatonia. Paul stared at her, stared at the rat as it squeaked and struggled, and realized that he had actually believed that things could get no worse. Untrue. Un-fucking true.

    At last, as he had begun to think she had just sailed off into oblivion forever with no fuss or fanfare, she lowered the trap and went on as if she had never stopped speaking.

  ' — drowned in the corners. Poor things.'

  She looked down at the rat and a tear fell onto its matted fur.

  'Poor poor things.'

    She closed one of her strong hands around the rat and pulled back the spring with the other. It lashed in her hand, head twisting as it tried to bite her. Its squeals were thin and terrible. Paul pressed the heel of a palm against his wincing mouth.

    'How its heart beats! How it struggles to get away! As we do, Paul. As we do. We think we know so much, but we really don't know any more than a rat in a trap — a rat with a broken back that thinks it still wants to live.'

   The hand holding the rat became a fist. Her eyes never lost that blank, distant cast. Paul wanted to look away and could not. Tendons began to stand out on her inner arm. Blood ran from the rat's mouth in an abrupt thin stream. Paul heard its bones break, and then the thick pads of her fingers punched into its body, disappearing up to the first knuckle. Blood pattered on the floor. The creature's dulling eyes bulged.

    She tossed the body into the corner and wiped her hand indifferently on the sheet, leaving long red smears.

    'Now it's at peace.' She shrugged, then laughed. 'I'll get my gun, Paul, shall I? Maybe the next world is better. For rats and people both — not that there's much difference between the two.'