Pet Sematary (39 page)

Louis was feeling sick to his stomach. He had drunk too much beer too fast. Pretty soon it was all going to come up on him. The heavy, loaded feeling in his stomach told him it would be coming up soon.

“Well, there wasn't much else we could do. We got ready to go. Hannibal says, ‘Bill, God help you.'

“Bill says, ‘God never helped me. I helped myself.'

“That was when Timmy walked over to us. He even
walked
wrong, Louis. He walked like an old, old man. He'd put one foot high up and then bring it down and then kind of shuffle and then lift the other one. It was like watchin a crab walk. His hands dangled down by his legs. And when he got close enough, you could see red marks across his face on the slant, like pimples or little burns. I reckon that's where the Kraut machine gun got him. Must have damn near blowed his head off.

“And he stank of the grave. It was a black smell, like everything inside him was just lying there, spoiled. I saw Alan Purinton put a hand up to cover his nose and mouth. The
stench was just awful. You almost expected to see grave maggots squirming around in his hair—”

“Stop,” Louis said hoarsely. “I've heard enough.”

“You ain't,” Jud said. He spoke with haggard earnestness. “That's it, you
ain't.
And I can't even make it as bad as it was. Nobody could understand how bad it was unless they was there. He was
dead,
Louis. But he was alive too. And he . . . he . . . he
knew
things.”

“Knew things?” Louis sat forward.

“Ayuh. He looked at Alan for a long time, kind of grinning—you could see his teeth, anyway—and then he spoke in this low voice; you felt like you had to strain forward to hear it. It sounded like he had gravel down in his tubes. ‘Your wife is fucking that man she works with down at the drugstore, Purinton. What do you think of that? She screams when she comes. What do you think of that?'

“Alan, he kind of gasped, and you could see it had hit him. Alan's in a nursing home up in Gardener now, or was the last I heard—he must be pushing ninety. Back when all this happened, he was forty or so, and there had been some talk around about his second wife. She was his second cousin, and she had come to live with Alan and Alan's first wife, Lucy, just before the war. Well, Lucy died, and a year and a half later Alan up and married this girl. Laurine, her name was. She was no more than twenty-four when they married. And there
had
been some talk about her, you know. If you were a man, you might have called her ways sort of free and easy and let it go at that.
But the women thought she might be loose. And maybe Alan had had a few thoughts in that direction too because he says, ‘Shut up! Shut up or I'll knock you down, whatever you are!'

“ ‘Shush now, Timmy,' Bill says, and he looks worse than ever, you know, like maybe he's going to puke or faint dead away, or do both. ‘You shush, Timmy.'

“But Timmy didn't take no notice. He looks around at George Anderson and he says, ‘That grandson you set such a store by is just waiting for you to die, old man. The money is all he wants, the money he thinks you got socked away in your lockbox at the Bangor Eastern Bank. That's why he makes up to you, but behind your back he makes fun of you, him and his sister. Old wooden-leg, that's what they call you,' Timmy says, and Louis, his voice—it
changed.
It got mean. It sounded like the way that grandson of George's would have sounded if . . . you know, if the things Timmy was saying was true.

“ ‘Old wooden-leg,' Timmy says, ‘and won't they shit when they find out you're poor as a church mouse because you lost it all in 1938? Won't they shit, George? Won't they just
shit?'

“George, he backed away then, and his wooden leg buckled under him, and he fell back on Bill's porch and upsat his pitcher of beer, and he was as white as your undershirt, Louis.

“Bill, he gets him back on his feet somehow, and he's roarin at his boy, ‘Timmy, you stop it! You stop it!' But Timmy wouldn't. He said somethin bad about Hannibal, and then he said something bad about me too, and by then he
was . . . ravin, I'd say. Yeah, he was ravin, all right. Screamin. And we started to back away, and then we started to run, draggin George along the best we could by the arms because he'd gotten the straps and harnesses on the fake leg twisted somehow, and it was all off to one side with the shoe turned around backward and draggin on the grass.

“The last I seen of Timmy Baterman, he was on the back lawn by the clothesline, his face all red in the settin sun, those marks standin out on his face, his hair all crazy and dusty somehow . . . and he was laughin and screechin over and over again ‘Old wooden-leg! Old wooden-leg! And the cuckold! And the whoremaster! Goodbye, gentlemen! Goodbye! Goodbye!' and then he laughed, but it was screaming, really . . . something inside him . . . screaming . . . and screaming . . . and screaming.”

Jud stopped. His chest moved up and down rapidly.

“Jud,” Louis said. “The thing this Timmy Baterman told you . . . was it true?”

“It was true,” Jud muttered. “Christ! It was true. I used to go to a whorehouse in Bangor betimes. Nothing many a man hasn't done, although I s'pose there are plenty that walk the straight and narrow. I just would get the urge—the compulsion, maybe—to sink it into strange flesh now and then. Or pay some woman to do the things a man can't bring himself to ask his wife to do. Men keep their gardens too, Louis. It wasn't a terrible thing, what I done, and all of that has been behind me for the last eight or nine years, and Norma would not have left me if she had known. But something in
her would have died forever. Something dear and sweet.”

Jud's eyes were red and swollen and bleary.
The tears of the old are singularly unlovely,
Louis thought. But when Jud groped across the table for Louis's hand, Louis took it firmly.

“He told us only the bad,” he said after a moment. “Only the bad. God knows there is enough of that in any human being's life, isn't there? Two or three days later, Laurine Purinton left Ludlow for good, and folks in town who saw her before she got on the train said she was sprouting two shiners and had cotton stuffed up both bores of her pump. Alan, he would never talk about it. George died in 1950, and if he left anything to that grandson and granddaughter of his, I never heard about it. Hannibal got kicked out of office because of something that was just like what Timmy Baterman accused him of. I won't tell you exactly what it was—you don't need to know—but misappropriation of town funds for his own use comes close enough to cover it, I reckon. There was even talk of trying him on embezzlement charges, but it never came to much. Losing the post was enough punishment for him anyway; his whole life was playing the big cheese.

“But there was good in those men too. That's what I mean; that's what folks always find it so hard to remember. It was Hannibal got the fund started for the Eastern General Hospital, right before the war. Alan Puriton was one of the most generous, open-handed men I ever knew. And old George Anderson only wanted
to go on running the post office forever.

“It was only the bad
it
wanted to talk about though. It was only the bad
it
wanted us to remember because
it
was bad . . . and because
it
knew we meant danger for it. The Timmy Baterman that went off to fight the war was a nice, ordinary kid, Louis, maybe a little dull but goodhearted. The thing we saw that night, lookin up into that red sun . . . that was a monster. Maybe it was a zombie or a
dybbuk
or a demon. Maybe there's no name for such a thing as that, but the Micmacs would have known what it was, name or no.”

“What?” Louis said numbly.

“Something that had been touched by the Wendigo,” Jud said evenly. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, let it out, and looked at his watch.

“Welladay. The hour's late, Louis. I've talked nine times as much as I meant to.”

“I doubt that,” Louis said. “You've been very eloquent. Tell me how it came out.”

“There was a fire at the Baterman place two nights later,” Jud said. “The house burned flat. Alan Purinton said there was no doubt about the fire being set. Range oil had been splashed from one end of that little house to the other. You could smell the reek of it for three days after the fire was out.”

“So they both burned up.”

“Oh, ayuh, they burned. But they was dead beforehand. Timmy was shot twice in the chest with a pistol Bill Baterman kept
handy, an old Colt's. They found it in Bill's hand. What he'd done, or so it looked like, was to kill his boy, lay him on the bed, and then spill out that range oil. Then he sat down in his easy chair by the radio, flicked a match, and ate the barrel of that Colt .45.”

“Jesus,” Louis said.

“They were pretty well charred, but the county medical examiner said it looked to him like Timmy Baterman had been dead two or three weeks.”

Silence, ticking out.

Jud got up. “I wasn't exaggerating when I said I might have killed your boy, Louis, or had a hand in it. The Micmacs knew that place, but that doesn't necessarily mean they made it what it was. The Micmacs weren't always here. They came maybe from Canada, maybe from Russia, maybe from Asia way back in the beginning. They stayed here in Maine for a thousand years, or maybe it was two thousand—it's hard to tell, because they did not leave their mark deep on the land. And now they are gone again . . . same way we'll be gone, someday, although I guess our mark will go deeper, for better or worse. But the place will stay no matter who's here, Louis. It isn't as though someone owned it and could take its secret when they moved on. It's an evil, curdled place, and I had no business taking you up there to bury that cat. I know that now. It has a power you'll beware of if you know what's good for your family and what's good for you. I wasn't strong enough to fight it. You saved Norma's life, and I wanted to do something for you, and that place turned my good
wish to its own evil purpose. It has a power . . . and I think that power goes through phases, same as the moon. It's been full of power before, and I'm ascared it's coming around to full again. I'm ascared it used me to get at you through your son. Do you see, Louis, what I'm getting at?” His eyes pleaded with Louis.

“You're saying the place knew Gage was going to die, I think,” Louis said.

“No, I am saying the place might have
made
Gage die because I introduced you to the power in the place. I am saying I may have murdered your son with good intentions, Louis.”

“I don't believe it,” Louis said at last, shakily. Didn't; wouldn't.
Couldn't.

He held Jud's hand tightly. “We're burying Gage tomorrow. In Bangor. And in Bangor he will stay. I don't plan to go up there to the Pet Sematary or beyond it ever again.”

“Promise me!” Jud said harshly. “Promise.”

“I promise,” Louis said.

But in the back of his mind, contemplation remained—a dancing flicker of promise that would not quite go away.

But none of those things happened.

All of them—the droning Orinco truck, the fingers that just touched the back of Gage's jumper and then slid off, Rachel preparing to go to the viewing in her housecoat, Ellie carrying Gage's picture and putting his chair next to her bed, Steve Masterton's tears, the fight with Irwin Goldman, Jud Crandall's terrible story of Timmy Baterman—all of them existed only in Louis Creed's mind during the few seconds that passed while he raced his laughing son to the road. Behind him, Rachel screamed again—
Gage, come back, don't RUN!
—but Louis did not waste his breath. It was going to be close, very close, and yes,
one
of those things really happened: from somewhere up the road he could hear the drone of the oncoming truck and somewhere inside a memory circuit opened and he could hear Jud Crandall speaking to Rachel on that very first day in Ludlow:
You want to watch em around the road, Missus Creed. It's a bad road for kids and pets.

Now Gage was running down the gentle slope of lawn that merged with the soft shoulder of Route 15, his husky little legs pumping, and by all the rights of the world he should have fallen over sprawling but he just kept going and now the sound of the truck was very loud indeed, it was that low, snoring sound that Louis sometimes heard from his bed as he floated just beyond the rim of sleep.
Then it seemed a comforting sound, but now it terrified him.

Oh my dear God oh my dear Jesus let me catch him don't let him get into the road!

Louis put on a final burst of speed and leaped, throwing himself out straight and parallel to the ground like a football player about to make a tackle; he could see his shadow tracking along on the grass below him in the lowest periphery of his vision, and he thought of the kite, the Vulture, printing its shadow all the way across Mrs. Vinton's field, and just as Gage's forward motion carried him into the road, Louis's fingers brushed the back of his jacket . . . and then snagged it.

He yanked Gage backward and landed on the ground at the same instant, crashing his face into the rough gravel of the shoulder, giving himself a bloody nose. His balls signaled a much more serious flash of pain—
Ohhh, if I'd'a known I was gonna be playing football. I woulda worn my jock
—but both the pain in his nose and the driving agony in his testes were lost in the swelling relief of hearing Gage's wail of pain and outrage as his bottom landed on the shoulder and he fell over backward onto the edge of the lawn, thumping his head. A moment later his wails were drowned by the roar of the passing truck and the almost regal blat of its air horn.