Pet Sematary (35 page)

He saw his fingers. Louis saw his fingers. He saw his fingers lightly skating over the back of Gage's jacket. Then Gage's jacket had been gone. Then Gage had been gone.

He looked into his coffee cup and let his wife cry beside him, uncomforted.

After a moment—in terms of clock time probably quite short, but both then and in retrospect it seemed long—Steve put an arm around her and hugged her gently. His eyes on Louis's were reproachful and angry. Louis turned from them toward Jud, but Jud was looking down, as if in shame. There was no help there.

“I knew something like this would happen,” Irwin Goldman said. That was how the trouble started. “I knew it when she married you. ‘You'll have all the grief you can stand and more,' I said. And look at this. Look at this . . . this
mess.”

Louis looked slowly around at his father-in-law, who had appeared before him like some malign jack-in-the-box in a skullcap; and then, instinctively, he looked around at where Rachel had been, by the book on the stand—the afternoon shift was hers by default—but Rachel was gone.

The afternoon viewing had been less crowded, and after half an hour or so, Louis had gone down to the front row of seats and sat there on the aisle, aware of very little (only peripherally aware of the cloying stink of the flowers) except the fact that he was very tired and sleepy. It was only partly the beer, he supposed. His mind was finally ready to shut down. Probably a good thing. Perhaps, after twelve or sixteen hours of sleep, he would be able to comfort Rachel a little.

After a while his head had sunk until he was looking at his hands, loosely linked between his knees. The hum of voices near the back was soothing. He had been relieved to see that Irwin and Dory weren't here when the four of them returned from lunch, but he should have known their continued absence was too good to be true.

“Where's Rachel?” Louis asked now.

“With her mother. Where she should be.” Goldman spoke with the studied triumph of a man who has closed a big deal. There was Scotch on his breath. A lot of it. He stood before Louis like a banty little district attorney before a man in the bar of justice, a man who is patently guilty. He was unsteady on his feet.

“What did you say to her?” Louis said, feeling the beginnings of alarm now. He knew Goldman had said something. It was in the man's face.

“Nothing but the truth. I told her this is what it gets you, marrying against your parents' wishes. I told her—”

“Did you say that?” Louis asked incredulously. “You didn't really say that, did you?”

“That and more,” Irwin Goldman said. “I always knew it would come to this—this or something like it. I knew what kind of a man you were the first time I saw you.” He leaned forward, exhaling Scotch fumes. “I saw through you, you prancing little fraud of a doctor. You enticed my daughter into a stupid, feckless marriage and then you turned her into a scullery maid and then you let her son be run down in the highway like a . . . a chipmunk.”

Most of this went over Louis's head. He was still groping with the idea that this stupid little man could have—

“You
said
that to her?” he repeated. “You
said
it?”

“I hope you rot in hell!” Goldman said, and heads turned sharply toward the sound of his voice. Tears began to squeeze out of Irwin Goldman's bloodshot brown eyes. His bald head
glowed under the muted fluorescent lights. “You made my wonderful daughter into a scullery maid . . . destroyed her future . . . took her away . . . and let my grandson die a dirty death in a country road.”

His voice rose to a hectoring scream.

“Where were you? Sitting on your ass while he was playing in the road? Thinking about your stupid medical articles? What were you doing, you shit? You stinking shit! Killer of children! Ki—”

There they were. There they were at the front of the East Room. There they were, and Louis saw his arm go out. He saw the sleeve of his suit coat pull back from the cuff of his white shirt. He saw the mellow gleam of one cufflink. Rachel had given him the set for their third wedding anniversary, never knowing that her husband would someday wear these cufflinks to the funeral ceremonies of their then-unborn son. His fist was just something tied to the end of his arm. It connected with Goldman's mouth. He felt the old man's lips squash and splay back. It was a sickening feeling, really—squashing a slug with your fist might feel something like that. There was no satisfaction in it. Beneath the flesh of his father-in-law's lips he could feel the stern, unyielding regularity of his dentures.

Goldman went stumbling backward. His arm came down against Gage's coffin, knocking it aslant. One of the vases, top-heavy with flowers, fell over with a crash. Someone screamed.

It was Rachel, struggling with her mother, who was trying to hold her back. The people who were there—ten or fifteen in
all—seemed frozen between fright and embarrassment. Steve had taken Jud back to Ludlow, and Louis was dimly grateful for that. This was not a scene he would have wished Jud to witness. It was unseemly.

“Don't hurt him!” Rachel screamed. “Louis, don't hurt my father!”

“You like to hit old men, do you?” Irwin Goldman of the overflowing checkbook cried out shrilly. He was grinning through a mouthful of blood. “You like to hit old men? I am not surprised, you stinking bastard. That does not surprise me at all.”

Louis turned toward him, and Goldman struck him in the neck. It was a clumsy, side-handed, chopping blow, but Louis was unprepared for it. A paralyzing pain that would make it hard for him to swallow for the next two hours exploded in his throat. His head rocked back, and he fell to one knee in the aisle.

First the flowers, now me,
he thought.
What is it the Ramones say? Hey-ho, let's go!
He thought he wanted to laugh, but there was no laugh in him. What came out of his hurt throat was a little groan.

Rachel screamed again.

Irwin Goldman, his mouth dripping blood, marched over to where his son-in-law kneeled and kicked Louis smartly in the kidneys. The pain was a bright flare of agony. He put his hands down on the rug runner to keep from going flop on his belly.

“You don't do so good even against old men, sonny!” Goldman cried with cracked excitement. He kicked out at Louis again, missing the kidney this time, getting Louis on the
high part of the left buttock with one black old man's shoe. Louis grunted in pain, and this time he did go down on the carpet. His chin hit with an audible crack. He bit his tongue.

“There!” Goldman cried. “There's the kick in the ass I should have given you the first time you came sucking around, you bastard. There!” He kicked Louis in the ass again, this time connecting with the other buttock. He was weeping and grinning. Louis saw for the first time that Goldman was unshaven—a sign of mourning. The funeral director raced toward them. Rachel had broken Mrs. Goldman's hold and was also racing toward them, screaming.

Louis rolled clumsily over on his side and sat up. His father-in-law kicked out at him again and Louis caught his shoe in both hands—it thwapped solidly into his palms like a well-caught football—and shoved backward as hard as he could.

Bellowing, Goldman flew backward at an angle, pinwheeling his arms for balance. He fell on Gage's Eternal Rest casket, which had been manufactured in the town of Storyville, Ohio, and which had not come cheap.

Oz the Gweat and Tewwible has just fallen on top of my son's coffin,
Louis thought dazedly. The casket fell from the trestle with a huge crash. The left end fell first, then the right. The latch snapped. Even over the screams and the crying, even over the bellows of Goldman, who after all was only playing a children's party game of Pin the Blame on the Donkey, Louis heard the lock snap.

The coffin did not
actually open and spill Gage's sad, hurt remains out onto the floor for all of them to gawp at, but Louis was sickly aware that they had only been spared that by the way the coffin had fallen—on its bottom instead of on its side. It easily could have fallen that other way. Nonetheless in that split instant before the lid slammed shut on its broken latch again, he saw a flash of gray—the suit they had bought to put in the ground around Gage's body. And a bit of pink. Gage's hand, maybe.

Sitting there on the floor, Louis put his face in his hands and began to weep. He had lost all interest in his father-in-law, in the MX missile, in permanent versus dissolving sutures, in the heat death of the universe. At that moment, Louis Creed wished he were dead. And suddenly, weirdly, an image rose in his mind: Gage in Mickey Mouse ears, Gage laughing and shaking hands with a great big Goofy on Main Street, in Disney World. He saw this with utter clarity.

One of the trestle supports had fallen over; the other leaned with drunken casualness against the low dais where a minister might stand to offer a eulogy. Sprawled in the flowers was Goldman, also weeping. Water from the overturned vases trickled. The flowers, some of them crushed and mangled, gave off their turgid scent even more strongly.

Rachel was screaming and screaming.

Louis could not respond to her screams. The image of Gage in Mickey Mouse ears was fading, but not before he heard a voice announcing there would be fireworks later that evening.
He sat with his face in his hands, not wanting them to see him anymore, his tear-stained face, his loss, his guilt, his pain, his shame, most of all his cowardly wish to be dead and out of this blackness.

The funeral director and Dory Goldman led Rachel out. She was still screaming. Later on, in another room (one that Louis assumed was reserved especially for those overcome with grief—the Hysterics' Parlor, perhaps) she became very silent. Louis himself, dazed but sane and in control, sedated her this time, after insisting that the two of them be left alone.

*  *  *

At home he led her up to bed and gave her another shot. Then he pulled the covers up to her chin and regarded her waxy, pallid face.

“Rachel, I'm sorry,” he said. “I'd give anything in the world to take that back.”

“It's all right,” she said in a strange, flat voice and then rolled over on her side, turning away from him.

He heard the tired old question
Are you all right?
rising to his lips and pushed it back. It wasn't a true question; it wasn't what he really wanted to know.

“How bad are you?” he asked finally.

“Pretty bad, Louis,” she said and then uttered a sound that could have been a laugh. “I am terrible, in fact.”

Something more seemed required, but Louis could not supply it. He felt suddenly resentful of her, of Steve Masterton, of Missy Dandridge and her husband with his arrowhead-shaped adam's apple, of the whole damned crew. Why
should he have to be the eternal supplier? What sort of shit was that?

He turned off the light and left. He found that he could not give much more to his daughter.

For one wild moment, regarding her in her shadowy room, he thought she was Gage—the thought came to him that the whole thing had been a hideous nightmare, like his dream of Pascow leading him into the woods, and for a moment his tired mind grasped at it. The shadows helped—there was only the shifting light of the portable TV that Jud had taken up for her to pass the hours. The long, long hours.

But it wasn't Gage, of course; it was Ellie, who was now not only grasping the picture in which she was pulling Gage on the sled, but sitting in Gage's chair. She had taken it out of his room and brought it into hers. It was a small director's chair with a canvas seat and a canvas strip across the back. Stenciled across that strip was
GAGE
. Rachel had mail-ordered four of these chairs. Each member of the family had one with his or her name stenciled on the back.

Ellie was too big for Gage's chair. She was crammed into it, and the canvas bottom bulged downward dangerously. She held the Polaroid picture to her chest and stared at the TV, where some movie was showing.

“Ellie,” he said, snapping off the TV, “bedtime.”

She worked her way out of the chair, then folded it up. She apparently meant to take the chair into bed with her.

Louis hesitated, wanting to say something about the chair, and finally settled
on, “Do you want me to tuck you in?”

“Yes, please,” she said.

“Do you . . . would you want to sleep with Mommy tonight?”

“No, thanks.”

“You sure?”

She smiled a little. “Yes. She steals the covers.”

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.”