Dolores Claiborne(73)

I climbed up to him, draggin my feet from one stair to the next. I ain't ever felt s'tired. Not even after I killed Joe did I feel as tired as I felt yest'y mornin.

'She's dead, all right,' he says, lookin around.

'Ayuh,' I says back. 'Told you she was.'

'I thought she couldn't walk,' he says. 'You always told me she couldn't walk, Dolores.'

'Well,' I says, 'I guess I was wrong.' I felt stupid sayin a thing like that with her layin there like she was, but what the hell else was there to say? In some ways it was easier talkin to John McAuliffe than to poor dumb Sammy Marchant, because I'd done pretty much what McAuliffe suspected I'd done. The trouble with bein innocent is you're more or less stuck with the truth.

'What's this?' he asks then, n pointed at the rollin pin. I'd left it sittin on the stair when the doorbell rang.

'What do you think it is?' I ast him right back. 'A birdcage?'

'Looks like a rollin pin,' he says.

'That's pretty good,' I says. It seemed like I was hearin my own voice comm from far away, as if it was in one place n the rest of me was someplace else. 'You may surprise em all n turn out to be college material after all, Sammy.'

'Yeah, but what's a rollin pin doin on the stairs?' he asked, and all at once I saw the way he was lookin at me. Sammy ain't a day over twenty-five, but his Dad was in the search-party that found Joe, and I all at once realized that Duke Marchant'd probably raised Sammy and all the rest of his not-too-brights on the notion that Dolores Claiborne St George had done away with her old man. You remember me sayin that when you're innocent you're more or less stuck with the truth? Well, when I seen the way Sammy was lookin at me, I all at once decided this might be a time when less'd be quite a bit safer'n more.

'I was in the kitchen gettin ready to make bread when she fell,' I said. Another thing about bein innocent any lies you do decide to tell are mostly unplanned lies; innocent folks don't spend hours workin out their stories, like I worked out mine about how I went up to Russian Meadow to watch the eclipse and never seen my husband again until I saw him in the Mercier Funeral Home. The minute that lie about makin bread was out of my mouth I knew it was apt to kick back on me, but if you'd seen the look in his eyes, Andy - dark n suspicious n scared, all at once - you might've lied, too.

He got to his feet, started to turn around, then stopped right where he was, lookin up. I followed his gaze. What I seen was my slip, crumpled up in a ball on the landin.

'I guess she took her slip off before she fell,' he said, lookin back at me again. 'Or jumped. Or whatever the hell it was she did. Do you think so, Dolores?'

'No,' I says, 'that's mine.'

'If you were makin bread in the kitchen,' he says, talkin real slow, 'then what's your underwear doin up on the landin?'

I couldn't think of a single thing to say. Sammy took one step back down the stairs n then another, movin as slow's he talked, holdin the bannister, never takin his eyes off me, and all at once I understood what he was doin: makin space between us. Doin it because he was afraid I might take it into my head to push him like he thought I'd pushed her. It was right then that I knew I'd be sittin here where I'm sittin before too much time passed, and tellin what I'm tellin. His eyes might as well have been speakin right out loud, sayin, 'You got away with it once, Dolores Claiborne, and considerin the kind of man my Dad says Joe St George was, maybe that was all right. But what did this woman ever do to you besides feed you n keep a roof over your head n pay you a decent livin wage?' And what his eyes said more'n anything else was that a woman who pushes once and gets away with it might push twice; that given the right situation, she will push twice. And if the push ain't enough to do what she set out to do, she won't have to think very hard before decidin to finish the job some other way. With a marble rollin pin, for instance.

'This is none of your affair, Sam Marchant,' I says. 'You better just go about your business. I have to call the island ambulance. Just make sure you pick up your mail before you go, or there's gonna be a lot of credit card companies chewin on your ass.'

'Mrs Donovan don't need an ambulance,' he says, goin down another two steps n keepin his eyes on me the whole time, 'and I'm not going anywhere just yet. I think instead of the ambulance, you better make your first call to Andy Bissette.'

Which, as you know, I did. Sammy Marchant stood right there n watched me do it. After I'd hung up the phone, he picked up the mail he'd spilled (takin a quick look over his shoulder every now n then, prob'ly to make sure I wasn't creepin up behind him with that rollin pin in my hand) and then just stood at the foot of the stairs, like a guard dog that's cornered a burglar. He didn't talk, and I didn't, neither. It crossed my mind that I could go through the dinin room and the kitchen to the back stairs n get my slip. But what good would that have done? He'd seen it, hadn't he? And the rollin pin was still settin there on the stairs, wa'ant it?

Pretty soon you came, Andy, along with Frank, and I went down to our nice new police station a little later n made a statement. That was just yest'y forenoon, so I guess there's no need to reheat that hash, is there? You know I didn't say anything about the slip, n when you ast me about the rollin pin, I said I wasn't really sure how it'd gotten there. It was all I could think to say, at least until someone come along n took the OUT OF ORDER sign offa my brains.