Pet Sematary(99)

Louis smiled back. "Come on then."

Instead of trying to put the chair in bed with her, Ellie unfolded it by the head of the bed, and an absurd image came to Louis-here was the consulting room of the world's smallest psychiatrist.

She undressed, putting the picture of her and Gage on her pillow to do it. She put on her baby doll pajamas, picked up the picture, went into the bathroom, put it down to wash up, brush, floss, and to take her fluoride tablet. Then she picked it up again and got into bed with it.

Louis sat down beside her and said, "I want you to know, Ellie, that if we keep on loving each other, we can get through this."

Each word was like moving a handcar loaded with wet bales, and the total effort left Louis feeling exhausted.

"I'm going to wish really hard," Ellie said calmly, "and pray to God for Gage to come back."

"Ellie-"

"God can take it back if He wants to," Ellie said. "He can do anything He wants to."

"Ellie, God doesn't do things like that," Louis said uneasily, and in his mind's eye he saw Church squatting on the closed lid of the toilet, staring at him with those muddy eyes as Louis lay in the tub.

"He does so," she said. "In Sunday School the teacher told us about this guy Lazarus. He was dead, and Jesus brought him back to life. He said 'Lazarus, come forth,' and the teacher said if he'd just said 'Come forth,' probably everybody in that graveyard would have come out, and Jesus only wanted Lazarus."

An absurdity popped out of his mouth (but the day had sung and gibbered with absurdity): "That was a long time ago, Ellie."

"I'm going to keep things ready for him," she said. "I've got his picture, and I'm going to sit in his chair-"

"Ellie, you're too big for Gage's chair," Louis said, taking her hot, feverish hand. "You'll break it."

"God will help it not to break," Ellie said. Her voice was serene, but Louis observed the brown half-moons under her eyes. Looking at her made his heart ache so badly that he turned away from her. Maybe when Gage's chair broke, she would begin to understand what had happened a little better.

"I'm going to carry the picture and sit in his chair," she said. "I'm going to eat his breakfast too." Gage and Ellie had each had their own breakfast cereals; Gage's, Ellie had once claimed, tasted like dead boogers. If Cocoa Bears was the only cereal in the house, Ellie would sometimes eat a boiled egg... or nothing at all. "I'll eat lima beans even though I hate them, and I'll read all of Gage's picturebooks and I'll... I'll... you know... get things ready...

in case... " She was crying now. Louis did not try to comfort her but only brushed her hair back from her forehead. What she was talking about made a certain crazed sense.

Keeping the lines open. Keeping things current. Keeping Gage in the present, in the Hot One Hundred, refusing to let him recede; remember when Gage did this... or that... yeah, that was great... good old Gage, wotta kid.

When it started not to hurt, it started not 'to matter. She understood, perhaps, Louis thought, how easy it would be to let Gage be dead.

"Ellie, don't cry anymore," he said. "This isn't forever."

She cried forever... for fifteen minutes. She actually fell asleep before her tears stopped. But eventually she slept, and downstairs the clock struck ten in the quiet house.

Keep him alive, Ellie, if that's what you want, he thought and kissed her. The shrinks would probably say it's as unhealthy as hell, but I'm for it. Because I know the day will come-maybe as soon as this Friday-when you forget to carry the picture and I'll see it lying on your bed in this empty room while you ride your bike around the driveway or walk in the field behind the house or go over to Kathy McGown's house to make clothes with her Sew Perfect. Gage won't be with you, and that's when Gage drops off whatever Hot One Hundred there is that exists in little girls' hearts and starts to become Something That Happened in 1984. A blast from the past.

Louis left the room and stood for a moment at the head of the stairs, thinking-not seriously-about going to bed.

He knew what he needed and went downstairs to get it.

Louis Albert Creed set methodically about getting drunk. Downstairs in the cellar were five cases of Schlitz Light beer. Louis drank beer, Jud drank it, Steve Masterton drank it, Missy Dandridge would occasionally have a beer or two while watching the kids (kid, Louis reminded himself, going down the cellar stairs). Even Chariton, on the few occasions she had come over to the house, preferred a beer-as long as it was a light beer-to a glass of wine. So one day last winter Rachel had gone out and bought a staggering ten cases when Schlitz Light went on sale at the Brewer A amp; P. Stop you running down to Julio's in Orrington every time somebody drops in, she had said. And you're always quoting Robert Parker to me, love-any beer that's in the refrigerator after the stores close is good beer, right? So drink this and think about the dough you're saving. Last winter. When things had been okay. When things had been okay. It was funny, how quickly and easily your mind made that crucial division.

Louis brought up a case of beer and shoved the cans into the fridge. Then he took one can, closed the fridge door, and opened the beer. Church came oiling slowly and rustily out of the pantry at the sound of the refrigerator door and stared inquiringly up at Louis. The cat did not come too close; Louis had perhaps kicked it too many times.