Gerald's Game(25)

And speaking of smells, what's that other one? Ruth asked. Now the mental voice was harsh and eager... the voice of a prospector who has finally stumbled onto a vein of ore he has long suspected but has never been able to find. That mineral smell, like salt andold pennies-

We don't talk about that, I said!

She lay on the coverlet, her muscles tense beneath her cold skin, both her captivity and her husband's death forgotten-at least for the time being-in the face of this new threat. She could feel Ruth, or some cut-off part of her for which Ruth spoke, debating whether or not to pursue the matter. When it decided not to (not directly, at least), both Jessie and Goodwife Burlingame breathed a sigh of relief.

All right-let's talk about Nora instead, Ruth said. Nora, your therapist? Nora, your counsellor? The one you started to go seearound the time you stopped painting because some of the paintingswere scaring you? Which was also the time, coincidentally or not,when Gerald's sexual interest in you seemed to evaporate and youstarted sniffing the collars of his shirts for perfume? You rememberNora, don't you?

Nora Callighan was a prying bitch! the Goodwife snarled.

"No," Jessie muttered. "She was well-intentioned, I don't doubt that a bit, she just always wanted to go one step too far. Ask one question too many."

You said you liked her a lot. Didn't I hear you say that?

"I want to stop thinking," Jessie said. Her voice was wavery and uncertain. "I especially want to stop hearing voices, and talking back to them, too. It's nuts."

Well, you better listen just the same, Ruth said grimly, because youcan't run away from this the way you ran away from Noratheway you ran away from me, for that matter.

I never ran away from you, Ruth! Shocked denial, and not very convincing. She had done just that, of course. Had simply packed her bags and moved out of the cheesy but cheerful dorm suite she and Ruth shared. She hadn't done it because Ruth had started asking her too many of the wrong questions-questions about Jessie's childhood, questions about Dark Score Lake, questions about what might have happened there during the summer just after Jessie started to menstruate. No, only a bad friend would have moved out for such reasons. Jessie hadn't moved out because Ruth started asking questions; she moved out because Ruth wouldn't stop asking them when Jessie asked her to do so. That, in Jessie s opinion, made Ruth a bad friend. Ruth had seen the lines Jessie had drawn in the dust... and had then deliberately stepped over them anyway. As Nora Callighan had done, years later.

Besides, the idea of running away under these conditions was pretty ludicrous, wasn't it? She was, after all, handcuffed to the bed.

Don't insult my intelligence, cutie-Pie, Ruth said. Your mind isn'thandcuffed to the bed, and we both know it. You can still ran if youwant to, but my advice-my strong advice-is don't you do it, becauseI'm the only chance you've got. If you just lie there pretending thisis abad dream you got from sleeping on your left side, you're going to die inhandcuffs. Is that what you want? Is that your prize for living yourwhole life in handcuffs, ever since-

"I will not think about that!" Jessie screamed at the empty room.

For a moment Ruth was silent, but before Jessie could do more than begin to hope that she'd gone away, Ruth was back... and back at her, worrying her like a terrier worrying a rag.

Come on, Jess-you'd probably like to believe you're crazy ratherthan dig around in that old grave, but you're really not, you know.I'm you, the Goodwife's you...we're all you, as a matter of fact.I have a pretty good idea of what happened that day at Dark Scorewhen the rest of the family was gone, and the thing I'm really curiousabout doesn't have a lot to do with the events per se. What I'mreally curious about is this: is there apart of you-one I don't knowabout-that wants to he sharing space with Gerald in that dog'sguts come this time tomorrow? I only ask because that doesn't soundlike loyalty to me; it sounds like lunacy.

Tears were trickling down her cheeks again, but she didn't know if she was crying because of the possibility-finally articulated-that she actually could die here or because for the first time in at least four years she had come close to thinking about that other summer place, the one on Dark Score Lake, and about what happened there on the day when the sun went out.

Once upon a time she had almost spilled that secret at a women's consciousness group... back in the early seventies that had been, and of course attending that meeting had been her roomie's idea, but Jessie had gone along willingly, at least to begin with; it had seemed harmless enough, just another act in the amazing tie-dyed carnival that was college back then. For Jessie, those first two years of college-particularly with someone like Ruth Neary to tour her through the games, rides, and exhibits-had been for the most part quite wonderful, a time when fearlessness seemed usual and achievement inevitable. Those were the days when no dorm room was complete without a Peter Max poster and if you were tired of the Beatles-not that anybody was-you could slap on a little Hot Tuna or MC5. It had all been a little too bright to be real, like things seen through a fever which is not quite high enough to be life-threatening. In fact, those first two years had been a blast.

The blast had ended with that first meeting of a women's consciousness group. In there, Jessie had discovered a ghastly gray world which seemed simultaneously to preview the adult future that lay ahead for her in the eighties and to whisper of gloomy childhood secrets that had been buried alive in the sixties... but did not lie quiet there. There had been twenty women in the living room of the cottage attached to the Neuworth Interdenominational Chapel, some perched on the old sofa, others peering out of the shadows thrown by the wings of the vast and lumpy parsonage chairs, most sitting cross-legged on the floor in a rough circle-twenty women between the ages of eighteen and fortysomething. They had joined hands and shared a moment of silence at the beginning of the session. When that was over, Jessie had been assaulted by ghastly stories of rape, of incest, of physical torture. If she lived to be a hundred she would never forget the calm, pretty blonde girl who had pulled up her sweater to show the old scars of cigarette burns on the underside of her br**sts.