Misery

sulked. “I made you that nice sundae and the least you could do is tell me a few things. It doesn’t have to exactly be the whole story, I guess, but… did the Baron kill Calthorpe?” Her eyes sparkled. “That’s one thing I really want to know. And what did he do with the body if he did? Is it all cut up in that trunk his wife won’t let out of her sight? That’s what I think.” Paul shook his head — not to indicate she had it wrong but to indicate he would not tell.
She became even blacker. Yet her voice was soft. “You’re making me very angry — you know that, don’t you, Paul?”
“Of course I know it. But I can’t help it.”
“I could make you. I could make you help it. I could make you tell.” But she looked frustrated, as if knowing that she could not. She could make him say some things, but she could not make him tell.
“Annie, do you remember telling me what a little kid says to his mother when she catches him playing with the cleaning fluid under the sink and makes him stop? Mommy, you’re mean! Isn’t that what you’re saying now? Paul, you’re mean!”
“If you make me much madder, I don’t promise to be responsible,” she said, but he sensed the crisis was already past — she was strangely vulnerable to these concepts of discipline and behavior.
“Well, I’ll have to chance that,” he said, “because I’m just like that mother — I’m not saying no to be mean, or to spite you — I’m saying no because I really want you to like the story… and if I give you what you want, you won’t like it, and you won’t want it anymore.” And then what will happen to me, Annie? he thought but did not say.
“At least tell me if that nigger Hezekiah really does know where Misery’s father is! At least tell me that!”
“Do you want the novel, or do you want me to fill out a questionnaire?”
“Don’t you take that sarcastic tone to me!”
“Then don’t you pretend you don’t understand what I’m saying!” he shouted back. She recoiled from him in surprise and unease, the last of that blackness going out of her face, and all that was left was that weird little-girl look, that I’ve-been-naughty look. “You want to cut open the golden goose! That’s what it comes down to! But when the farmer in the story finally did that, all he had was a dead goose and a bunch of worthless guts!”
“All right,” she said. “All right, Paul. Are you going to finish your sundae?”
“I can’t eat any more,” he said.
“I see. I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. I expect that you’re right. I was wrong to ask.” She was perfectly calm again. He had half-expected another period of deep depression or rage to follow, but none had. They had simply gone back to the old routine, Paul writing, Annie reading each day’s output, and enough time had passed between the argument and the thumbectomy that Paul had missed the connection. Until now.
I bitched about the typewriter, he thought, looking at it now and listening to the drone of the mower. It sounded fainter now, and he was marginally aware that wasn’t because Annie was moving away but because he was. He was drowsing off. He did that a lot now, simply drowsed off like some old fart in a nursing home.
Not a lot; I only bitched about it that once. But once was enough, wasn’t it? More than enough. That was — what? — a week after she brought those oogy sundaes? Just about that. Just one week and one bitch. About how the clunk of that dead key was driving me crazy. I didn’t even suggest she get another used typewriter from Nancy Whoremonger or whoever that woman was, one with all its keys intact. I just said those clunks are driving me crazy, and then, in almost no time at all, presto chango, when it comes to Paul’s left thumb, now you see it and now you don’t. Except she didn’t really do it because I bitched about the typewriter, did she? She did it because I told her no and she had to accept that. It was an act of rage. The rage was the result of realization. What realization? Why, that she didn’t hold all the cards after all — that I had a certain passive hold over her. The power of the gotta. I turned out to be a pretty passable Scheherazade after all.
It was crazy. It was funny. It was also real. Millions might scoff, but only because they failed to realize how pervasive the influence of art — even of such a degenerate sort as popular fiction — could become. Housewives arranged their schedules around the afternoon soaps. If they went back into the workplace, they made buying a VCR a top priority so they could watch those same soap operas at night. When Arthur Conan Doyle killed Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach Falls, all of Victorian England rose as one and demanded him back. The tone of their protests had been Annie’s exactly — not bereavement but outrage. Doyle was berated by his own mother when he wrote and told her of his intention to do away with Holmes. Her indignant reply had come by return