Misery

so I just gave you your pills like always. Like I didn’t suspect. I’m very good at that, Paul. Then I helped you into your chair so you could write. And when I helped you into it that afternoon, I felt like Saint Paul on the road to Damascus. My eyes were opened. I saw how much of your color had come back. I saw that you were moving your legs. They were giving you pain, and you could only move them a little, but you were moving them. And your arms were getting stronger again, as well.
“I saw you were almost healthy again.
“That was when I started to realize I could have a problem with you even if no one from the outside suspected a thing. I looked at you and saw that I might not be the only one good at keeping secrets.
“That night I changed your medication for something a little stronger, and when I was sure you weren’t going to wake up even if someone exploded a grenade under your bed, I got my little tool-kit from the cellar shelf and I took the keyplate off that door. And look what I found!” She took something small and dark from one of the flap pockets of her mannish shirt. She put it in his numb hand. He brought it up close to his face and stared at it owlishly. It was a bent and twisted chunk of bobby-pin.
Paul began to giggle. He couldn’t help it.
“What’s so funny, Paul?”
“The day you went to pay your taxes. I needed to open the door again. The wheelchair — it was almost too big — it left black marks. I wanted to wipe them off if I could.”
“So I wouldn’t see them.”
“Yes. But you already had, hadn’t you?”
“After I found one of my bobby-pins in the lock?” She smiled herself “You bet your rooty-patooties I had.” Paul nodded and laughed even harder. He was laughing so hard tears were squirting from his eyes. All his work… all his worry… all for nothing. It seemed deliciously funny.
He said, “I was worried that piece of bobby-pin might mess me up… but it didn’t. I never even heard it rattling around. And there was a good reason for that, wasn’t there? It never rattled because you took it out. What a fooler you are, Annie.”
“Yes,” she said, and smiled thinly. “What a fooler I am.” She moved her feet. That muffled wooden thump from the foot of the bed came again.

“How many times were you out in all?” The knife. Oh Christ, the knife.
“Twice. No — wait. I went out again yesterday afternoon around five o’clock. To fill up my water pitcher.” This was true; he had filled the pitcher. But he had omitted the real reason for his third trip. The real reason was under his mattress. The Princess and the Pea. Paulie and the Pig Sticker. “Three times, counting the trip for the water.”
“Tell the truth, Paul.”
“Just three times, I swear. And never to get away. For Christ’s sake I’m writing a book here, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Don’t use the Saviour’s name in vain, Paul.”
“You quit using mine that way and maybe I will. The first time I was in so much pain that it felt like someone had put me into hell from the knees on down. And someone did. You did, Annie.”
“Shut up, Paul!”
“The second time I just wanted to get something to eat, and make sure I had some extra supplies in here in case you were gone a long time,” he went on, ignoring her. “Then I got thirsty. That’s all there is. No big conspiracy.”
“You didn’t try the telephone either time, I suppose, or took at the locks — because you are just such a good little boy.”
“Sure I tried the phone. Sure I looked at the locks… not that I would have gotten very far in the mudbath out there even if your doors had been wide open.” The dope was coming in heavier and heavier waves, and now he just wished she would shut up and go away. She had already doped him enough to tell the truth — he was afraid he would have to pay the consequences in time. But first he wanted to sleep.
“How many times did you go out?”
“I told you — “
“How many times?” Her voice was rising. “Tell the truth!”
“I am! Three times!”
“How many times, God damn it?” In spite of the cruiser-load of dope she’d shot into him, Paul began to be frightened.
At least if she does something to me it can’t hurt too much… and she wants me to finish the book… she said so…
“You’re treating me like a fool.” He noticed how shiny her skin was, like some sort of polymer plastic stretched tightly over stone. There seemed to be no pores at all in that face.
“Annie, I swear — “
“Oh, liars can swear! Liars love to swear! Well, go ahead and treat me like a fool, if that’s what you want. That’s fine. Goody-goody for you. Treat a woman who isn’t a fool as if she were, and that woman always comes out ahead. Let me tell you, Paul — I’ve stretched thread and strands of hair from