Misery Chastain was dead. Paul Sheldon had just killed her — with relief, with joy. Misery had made him rich; she was the heroine of a string of bestsellers. And now he wanted to get on to some real writing. That’s when the car accident happened, and he woke up in pain in a strange bed. But it wasn’t the hospital.
Авторы: King Stephen Edwin
rotary dial or the single booping sound as he touch-toned 0 — these were seductions too great to resist.
He worked the wheelchair around until it was directly facing the parlor, and then he rolled down to it.
The place smelled musty, unaired, obscurely tired. Although the curtains guarding the bow windows were only half-drawn, affording a lovely view of the mountains, the room seemed too dark — because its colors were too dark, he thought. Dark red predominated, as if someone had spilled a great deal of venous blood in here.
Over the mantel was a tinted photograph portrait of a forbidding woman with tiny eyes buried in a fleshy face. The rosebud mouth was pursed. The photograph, enclosed in a rococo frame of gold gilt, was the size of the President’s photograph in the lobby of a big-city post office. Paul did not need a notarised statement telegram to tell him that this was Annie’s sainted mother.
He rolled farther into the room. The left side of the wheelchair struck a small occasional table covered with ceramic gewgaws. They chattered together and one of them — a ceramic penguin sitting on a ceramic ice-block — fell off the side.
Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed it. The gesture was almost casual… and then reaction set in. He held the penguin tightly in his curled fist, trying to will the shakes away. You caught it, no sweat, besides, there’s a rug on the floor, probably wouldn’t have broken anyway — But if it HAD! his mind screamed back. If it HAD! Please, you have to go back to your room before you leave something… a track…
No. Not yet. Not yet, no matter how frightened he was. Because this had cost him too much. If there was a payoff, he was going to have it.
He looked around the room, which was stuffed with heavy graceless furniture. It should have been dominated by the bow windows and the gorgeous view of the Rockies beyond them but was instead dominated by the picture of that fleshy woman imprisoned in the ghastly glaring frame with its twists and curlicues and frozen gilded swags.
On a table at the far end of the couch, where she would sit to watch TV, was a plain dialer telephone.
Gently, hardly daring to breathe, he put the ceramic penguin (NOW MY TALE IS TOLD! the legend on the block of ice read) back on the knickknack table and rolled across the room toward the phone.
There was an occasional table in front of the sofa; he gave it a wide berth. On it was a spray of dried flowers in an ugly green vase, and the whole thing looked topheavy, ready to tip over if he so much as brushed it.
No cars coming outside — only the sound of the wind.
He grasped the handset of the phone in one hand and slowly picked it up.
A queer predestinate sense of failure filled his mind even before he got the handset to his ear and heard the nothing. He replaced the receiver slowly, a line from an old Roger Miller song occurring to him and seeming to make a certain senseless sense: No phone, no pool, no pets… I ain’t got no cigarettes…
He traced the phone cord with his eye, saw the small square module on the baseboard, saw that the jack was plugged into it. Everything looked in perfect working order.
Like the barn, with its heat-tapes.
Keeping up appearances is very, very important.
He closed his eyes and saw Annie removing the jack and squeezing Elmer’s Glue into the hole in the module. Saw her replacing the jack in the dead-white glue, where it would harden and freeze forever. The phone company would have no idea that anything was wrong unless someone attempted to call her and reported the line out of service, but no one called Annie, did they? She would receive regular monthly bills on her dead line and she would pay them promptly, but the phone was only stage dressing, part of her never-ending battle to keep up appearances, like the neat barn with its fresh red paint and cream trim and heat-tapes to melt the winter ice. Had she castrated the phone in case of just such an expedition as this? Had she foreseen the possibility that he might get out of the room? He doubted it. The phone — the working phone — would have gotten on her nerves long before he came. She would have lain awake at night, looking up at the ceiling of her bedroom, listening to the high-country whine of the wind, imagining the people who must be thinking of her with either dislike or outright malevolence — all the world’s Roydmans — people who might, any of them, at any time, take a notion to call her on the telephone and scream: You did it, Annie! They took you all the way to Denver, and we know you did it! They don’t take you all the way to Denver if you’re innocent! She would have asked for and gotten an unlisted number, of course — anyone tried for and acquitted of some major crime (and if it had been Denver, it had been major)
