Pet Sematary(71)

We might have noticed more differences with a dog, Louis thought, but cats are such goddam independent animals anyway. Independent and odd. Fey even. It didn't surprise him that the old Egyptian queens and pharaohs had wanted their cats mummified and popped into their triangular tombs with them in order to serve as spirit guides in the next world. Cats were weird.

"How you doing with that Bat-Cycle, Chief?"

He held out the finished product. "Ta-dat"

Rachel pointed at the bag, which still had three or four plastic widgets in it.

"What are those?"

"Spares," Louis said, smiling guiltily.

"You better hope they're spares. The kid will break her rotten little neck."

"That comes later," Louis said maliciously. "When she's twelve and showing off on her new skateboard."

She groaned. "Come on, Doc, have a heart!"

Louis stood up, put his hands on the small of his back, and twisted his torso.

His spine crackled. "That's all the toys."

"And they're all together. Remember last year?" She giggled and Louis smiled.

Last year seemingly everything they'd gotten had to be assembled, and they'd been up until almost four o'clock Christmas morning, both of them finishing grouchy and out of sorts. And by midafternoon of Christmas, Ellie had decided the boxes were more fun than the toys.

"Gross-OUT!" Louis said, imitating Ellie.

"Well, come on to bed," Rachel said, "and I'll give you a present early."

"Woman," Louis said, drawing himself up to his full height, "that is mine by right."

"Don't you wish," she said and laughed through her hands. In that moment she looked amazingly like Ellie... and like Gage.

"Just a minute," he said. "There's one other thing I gotta do." He hurried into the front hail closet and brought back one of his boots. He removed the fire screen from in front of the dying fire.

"Louis, what are you-"

"You'll see."

On the left side of the hearth the fire was out and there was a thick bed of fluffy gray ashes. Louis stamped the boot into them, leaving a deep track. Then he tromped the boot down on the outer bricks, using it like a big rubber stamp.

"There," he said, after he had put the boot away in the closet again. "You like?"

Rachel was giggling again. "Louis, Ellie's going to go nuts."

During the last two weeks of school, Ellie had picked up a disquieting rumor around kindergarten, to wit, that Santa Claus was really parents. This idea had been reinforced by a rather skinny Santa at the Bangor Mall, whom Ellie had glimpsed in the Deering Ice Cream Parlor a few days ago. Santa had been sitting on a counter stool, his beard pulled to one side so he could eat a cheeseburger.

This had troubled Ellie mightily (it seemed to be the cheeseburger, somehow, even more than the false beard), in spite of Rachel's assurances that the department store and Salvation Army Santas were really "helpers," sent out by the real Santa, who was far too busy completing inventory and reading children's last-minute letters up north to be boogying around the world on public relations jaunts.

Louis replaced the fire screen carefully. Now there were two clear boot tracks in their fireplace, one in the ashes and one on the hearth. They both pointed toward the Christmas tree, as if Santa had hit bottom on one foot and immediately stepped out to leave the goodies assigned to the Creed household.

The illusion was perfect unless you happened to notice that they were both left feet... and Louis doubted if Ellie was that analytical.

"Louis Creed, I love you," Rachel said and kissed him.

"You married a winner, baby," Louis said, smiling sincerely. "Stick with me and I'll make you a star."

They started for the stairs. He pointed at the card table Ellie had set up in front of the TV. There were oatmeal cookies and two Ring-Dings on it. Also a can of Micheloeb. FOR YOU, SANNA, the note said in Ellie's large, sticklike printing. "You want a cookie or a Ring-Ding?"

"Ring-Ding," she said and ate half of it. Louis popped the tab on the beer.

"A beer this late is going to give me acid indigestion," he said.

"Crap," she said good-humoredly. "Come on, Doe."

Louis put down the can of beer and suddenly grasped the pocket of his robe as if he had forgotten something-although he had been aware of that small packet of weight all evening long.

"Here," he said. "For you. You can open it now. It's after midnight. Merry Christmas, babe."

She turned the little box, wrapped up in silver paper and tied with wide satiny-blue ribbon, in her hands. "Louis, what is it?"

He shrugged. "Soap. Shampoo sample. I forget, exactly."

She opened it on the stairs, saw the Tiffany box, and squealed. She pulled out the cotton batting and then just stood there, her mouth slightly agape.

"Well?" he asked anxiously. He had never bought her a real piece of jewelry before, and he was nervous. "Do you like it?"

She took it out, draped the fine gold chain over her tented fingers, and held the tiny sapphire up to the hail light. It twirled lazily, seeming to shoot off cool blue rays.

"Oh Louis, it's so damn beautiful-" He saw she was crying a little and felt both touched and alarmed.