| go out there, it was just… over. He was dead.” He could have reminded her that she’d had Tad’s welfare in mind above her own the whole time. That the reason she hadn’t gone for the door was because of what would have happened to Tad if the dog had gotten to her before she could get inside. He could have told her that the siege had probably weakened the dog as much as it had Donna herself, and if she had tried Cujo with the baseball bat earlier on, the outcome might have been entirely different; as it was, the dog had almost killed her in the end. But he understood that these points had been brought to her attention again and again, by himself and by others, and that not all the logic in the world could blunt the pain of coming upon that mute pile of coloring books, or seeing the swing, empty and motionless at the bottom of its arc, in the back yard. Logic could not blunt her terrible sense of personal failure. Only time could do those things, and time would do an imperfect job. He said, “I couldn’t save him either.” “You—” “I was so sure it was Kemp. If I’d gone up there earlier, if I hadn’t fallen asleep, even if I hadn’t talked to Roger on the phone.” “No,” she said gently. “Don’t.” “I have to. I guess you do too. We’ll just have to get along. That’s what people do |
treasured. The gravy boat went. The big serving platter. The Sears radio /tape player went on the floor with a heavy crunch. Steve Kemp danced on it; he boogied on it. His penis, hard as stone, throbbed inside his pants. The vein in the center of his forehead throbbed in counterpoint. He discovered booze under the small chromium sink in the corner. He yanked out half- and three-quarters-full bottles by the armload and then flung them at the closed door of the kitchen closet one by one, throwing them overhand as hard as he could; the next day his right arm would be so stiff and sore he would barely be able to lift it to shoulder level. Soon the blue closet door was running with Gilbey’s gin, Jack Daniel’s, J & B whisky, sticky green crème de menthe, the amaretto that had been a Christmas present from Roger and Althea Breakstone. Glass twinkled benignly in the hot afternoon sunlight pouring through the windows over the sink. Steve tore into the laundry room, where he found boxes of bleach, Spic ’n Span, Downy fabric softener in a large blue plastic bottle, Lestoil, Top Job, and three kinds of powdered detergent. He ran back and forth through the kitchen like a lunatic New Year’s Eve celebrant, pouring these cleaning potions everywhere. He had just emptied the last carton—an economy-size box of Tide that had been almost full—when he saw the message scrawled on the noteminder in Donna’s unmistakable spiky handwriting |
