Misery (52 page)

     P
e
rhaps
t
h
e
answ
e
r which cam
e
back was only
t
h
e
wis
t
ful call of his own mind, bu
t
h
e t
hough
t
no
t
-- i
t
was
t
oo cl
e
ar,
t
oo much h
e
r own voic
e
.

I h
e
ar . . . and I lov
e
you,
t
oo.

     G
e
offr
e
y clos
e
d
t
h
e
door and w
e
n
t
up
t
o
t
h
e
af
te
rd
e
ck. Ins
te
ad of
t
hrowing hims
e
lf ov
e
r
t
h
e
rail, as h
e
migh
t
hav
e
don
e
, h
e
li
t
his pip
e
and smok
e
d a bowl of
t
obacco slowly, wa
t
ching
t
h
e
sun go down b
e
hind
t
ha
t
dis
t
an
t
, disapp
e
aring cloud on horizon --
t
ha
t
cloud which was
t
h
e
coas
t
of Africa.

His swollen right hand had not wanted to fill in the missing letters, but he had forced it through the work nonetheless. If he wasn't able to work at least some of the stiffness out of it, he was not going to be able to carry through with this.

    When it was done, he put the pen aside. He regarded his work for a moment. He felt as he always did when he finished a book — queerly empty, let down, aware that for each little success he had paid a toll of absurdity.

    It was always the same, always the same — like toiling uphill through jungle and breaking out to a clearing at the top after months of hell only to discover nothing more rewarding than a view of a freeway — with a few gas stations and bowling alleys thrown in for good behavior, or something.

   Still, it was good to be done — always good to be done. Good to have produced, to have caused a thing to be. In a numb sort of way he understood and appreciated the bravery of the act, of making little lives that weren't, creating the appearance of motion and the illusion of warmth. He understood — now, finally — that he was a bit of a dullard at doing this trick, but it was the only one he knew, and if he always ended up doing it ineptly, he at least never failed to do it with love. He touched the pile of manuscript and smiled a little bit.

  His hand left the big pile of paper and stole to the single Marlboro she had put on the windowsill for him. Beside it was a ceramic ashtray with a paddlewheel excursion boat printed on the bottom encircled by the words, SOUVENIR OF HANNIBAL, MISSOURI — HOME OF AMERICA'S STORY TELLER!

   In the ashtray was a book of matches, but there was only one match in it — all she had allowed him. One, however, should be enough.

  He could hear her moving around upstairs. That was good. He would have plenty of time to make his few little preparations, plenty of warning if she decided to come down before he was quite ready for her.

  
Here comes the real trick, Annie. Lees see if I can do it. Let's see — can I?

   He bent over, ignoring the pain in his legs, and began to work the loose section of baseboard out with his fingers.

He called for her five minutes later, and listened to her heavy, somehow toneless tread on the stairs. He had expected to feel terrified when things got to this point, and was relieved to find he felt quite calm. The room was filled with the reek of lighter fluid. It dripped steadily from one side of the board which lay across the arms of the wheelchair. 'Paul, are you
really
done? she called down the length of hallway.

    Paul looked at the pile of paper sitting on the board beside the hateful Royal typewriter. Lighter fluid soaked the stack. 'Well,' he called back, 'I did the best I could, Annie.'

  'Wow! Oh, great! Gee, I can hardly believe it! After all this time! Just a minute! I'll get the champagne!'

  'Fine!'

  He heard her cross the kitchen linoleum, knowing where each squeak was going to come the instant before it did come.
I am hearing all these sounds for the last time,
he thought, and that brought a sense of wonder, and wonder broke the calm open like an egg. The fear was inside . . . but there was something else in there as well. He supposed it was the receding coast of Africa.

    The refrigerator door was opened, then banged shut. Here she came across the kitchen again; here she came.

    He had not smoked the cigarette, of course; it still lay on the windowsill. It had been the match he wanted. That one single match.

  
What if it doesn't light when you strike it?

  But it was far too late for such considerations.

   He reached over to the ashtray and picked up the matchbook. He tore out the single match. She was coming down the hallway now. Paul struck the match and, sure enough, it didn't light.

  
Easy! Easy does it!

  He struck it again. Nothing.

  
Easy
. . .
easy
. . .

    He scratched it along the rough dark-brown strip on the back of the book a third time and a pale-yellow flame bloomed at the end of the paper stick.

'I just hope this — '

  She stopped, the next word pulled back inside her she sucked in breath. Paul sat in his wheelchair behind a barricade of heaped paper and ancient Royal stenomongery. He had purposely turned the top sheet around so she could read this:

MISERY'S RETURN

By Paul Sheldon

Above this sopping pile of paper Paul's swollen right hand hovered, and held between the

thumb and first finger was a single burning match.

  She stood in the doorway, holding a bottle of champagne wrapped in a strip of towelling. Her mouth dropped open. She closed it with a snap.

  'Paul?' Cautiously. 'What are you doing?'

  'It's done,' he said. 'And it's good, Annie. You were right. The best of the
Misery
books, and

maybe the best thing I ever wrote, mongrel dog or not. Now I'm going to do a little trick with it.It's a good trick. I learned it from you.'

  
'Paul, no!'
she screamed. Her voice was full of agony and understanding. Her hands flew out, the bottle of champagne dropping from them unheeded. It hit the floor and exploded like a

torpedo. Curds of foam flew everywhere.
'No! No! PLEASE DON'T — '

  'Too bad you'll never read it,' Paul said, and smiled at her. It was his first real smile in months, radiant and genuine. 'False modesty aside, I've got to say it was better than good. It was
great
, Annie.'

  The match was guttering, printing its small heat on the tips of his fingers. He dropped it. For one terrible moment he thought it had gone out, and then pale-blue fire uncoiled across the title page with an audible sound —
foomp!
It ran down the sides, tasted the fluid that had pooled along the outer edge of the paper-pile, and shot up yellow.

  
'OH GOD NO!'
Annie shrieked.
'NOT MISERY! NOT MISERY! NOT HER! NO! NO!'

  Now her face had begun to shimmer on the far side of the flames. 'Want to make a wish, Annie?' he shouted at her. 'Want to make a
wish,
you fucking goblin?'

  
'OH MY GOD OH PAUL WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOING?'
She stumbled forward, arms outstretched. Now the pile of paper was not just burning; it was blazing. The gray side of the Royal had begun to turn black. Lighter fluid had pooled under it and now pale-blue tongues of flame shot up between the keys. Paul could feel his face baking, the skin tightening.

  
'NOT MISERY!'
she wailed.
'YOU CAN'T BURN MISERY, YOU COCKADOODIE BRAT, YOU
CAN'T BURN MISERY!'

    And then she did exactly what he had almost known she would do. She seized the burning pile of paper and wheeled about, meaning to run to the bathroom with it, perhaps, and douse it in the tub.

    When she turned Paul seized the Royal, unmindful of the blisters its hot right side was printing on his already swollen right hand. He lifted it over his head. Little blue firedrops still fell from its undercarriage. He paid them no more mind than he paid the flare of pain in his back as he strained something there. His face was an insane grimace of effort and concentration. He brought his arms forward and down, letting the typewriter fly out of his hands. It struck her squarely in the center of her wide solid back.

  
'HOO-OWWG!'
It was not a scream but a vast, startled grunt. Annie was driven forward onto the floor with the burning stack of paper under her.

  Small bluish fires like spirit-lanterns dotted the surface of the board which had served as his desk. Gasping, each breath smooth hot iron in his throat, Paul knocked it aside. He pushed himself up and tottered erect on his right foot.

    Annie was writhing and moaning. A lick of flame shot up through the gap between her left arm and the side of her body. She screamed. Paul could smell frying skin, burning fat.

  She rolled over, struggling to her knees. Most of the paper was on the floor now, either still burning or hissing to ruin in puddles of champagne, but Annie still held some, and it was still burning. Her cardigan sweater was burning, too. He saw green hooks of glass in her forearms. A larger shard poked out of her right cheek like the blade of a tomahawk.

  'I'm going to kill you, you lying cocksucker,' she said, and staggered toward him. She kneewalked three 'steps' toward him and then fell over the typewriter. She writhed and managed to turn over halfway. Then Paul fell on her. He felt the sharp angles of the typewriter beneath her even through her body. She screamed like a cat, writhed like a cat, and tried to claw out from under him like a cat.

  The flames were going out around them but he could still feel savage heat coming off the twisting, heaving mound beneath him and knew that at least some of her sweater and brassiere must be cooked onto her body. He felt no sympathy at all.

   She tried to buck him off. He held on, and now he was lying squarely on top of her like a man who means to commit rape, his face almost on hers; his right hand groped, knowing exactly what it was looking for.

  'Get off me!'

  He found a handful of hot, charry paper.

  
'Get off me!'

   He crumpled the paper, squeezing flames out between his fingers. He could smell her — cooked flesh, sweat, hate, madness.

  
GET OFF ME!'
she screamed, her mouth yawning wide, and he was suddenly looking into the dank red-lined pit of the goddess.
'GET OFF ME YOU COCKADOODIE BR — '

  He stuffed paper, white bond and black charred onionskin, into that gaping, screaming mouth. Saw the blazing eyes suddenly widen even more, now with surprise and horror and fresh pain.

    'Here's your book, Annie,' he panted, and his hand closed on more paper. This bunch was out, dripping wet, smelling sourly of spilt wine. She bucked and writhed under him. The salt-dome of his left knee whammed the floor and there was excruciating pain, but he stayed on top of her.
I'm
gonna rape you, all right, Annie. I'm gonna rape you because all I can do is the worst I can do. So
suck my book. Suck my book. Suck on it until you fucking CHOKE.
He crumpled the wet paper with a convulsive closing jerk of his fist and slammed it into her mouth, driving the half-charred first bunch farther down.

    'Here it is, Annie, how do you like it? It's a genuine first, it's the Annie Wilkes Edition, how do you like it? Eat it, Annie, suck on it, go on and
eat it,
be a Do-Bee and eat your book
all up.'

    He slammed in a third wad, a fourth. The fifth was still burning; he put it out with the already blistered heel of his right hand as he stuffed it in.

  Some weird muffled noise was coming out of her. She gave a tremendous jerk and this time Paul was thrown off. She struggled and flailed to her knees. Her hands clawed at her blackened throat, which had a hideously swelled look. Little was left of her sweater but the charred ring of the neck. The flesh of her belly and diaphragm bubbled with blisters. Champagne was dripping from the wad of paper ,which protruded from her mouth.