Pet Sematary

too. The three of you have got to get through it together, Louis. That’s the only way. That’s all anybody knows.”
“That’s right,” Louis agreed, and in his mind it all started to happen again, only this time he leaped two feet farther right at the end, and snagged the back of Gage’s jacket, and none of this was happening.
At the time the scene in the East Room happened, Ellie was pushing her Monopoly marker aimlessly-and silently-around the board with Jud Crandall. She shook the dice with one hand and clutched the Polaroid of her pulling Gage on her Speedaway sled with the other.
Steve Masterton had decided it would be all right for Rachel to attend the afternoon viewing-in light of later developments, it was a decision he came to deeply regret.
The Goldmans had flown into Bangor that morning and were staying at the Holiday Inn. Her father had called four times by noon, and Steve had to be increasingly firm-almost threatening, by call four-with the old man. Irwin Goldman wanted to come out and not all the dogs of hell could keep him from his daughter in her time of need, he said. Steve responded that Rachel needed this time before going to the funeral parlor to get over as much of her initial shock as she could. He didn’t know about all the dogs of hell, he said, but he knew one Swedish-American physician’s assistant that had no intention of allowing anyone into the Creed home until Rachel had appeared in public, of her own volition.
After the viewing in the afternoon, Steve said, he would be more than happy to let the relatives’ support system take over. Until then, he wanted her left alone.
The old man swore at him in Yiddish and banged the phone down at his end, breaking the connection. Steve waited to see if Goldman would indeed show up, but Goldman had apparently decided to wait. By noon Rachel did seem a little better. She was at least aware of the time frame she was in, and she had gone out to the kitchen to see if there were sandwich makings or anything for after.
People would probably want to come back to the house after, wouldn’t they? she asked Steve.
Steve nodded.
There was no bologna or cold roast beef, but there was a Butterball turkey in the freezer, and she put it on the drainboard to thaw. Steve looked into the kitchen a few minutes later and saw her standing by the sink, looking fixedly at the turkey on the drainboard and weeping.
“Rachel?”
She looked toward Steve. “Gage really liked these. He especially liked the white meat. It was just occurring to me that he was never going to eat another Butterball turkey.”
Steve sent her upstairs to dress-the final test of her ability to cope, really-and when she came down wearing a simple black dress belted at the waist and carrying a small black clutch bag (an evening bag, really), Steve decided she was all right, and Jud concurred.
Steve drove her into town. He stood with Surrendra Hardu in the lobby of the East Room and watched Rachel drift down the aisle toward the flower-buried coffin like a wraith.
“How is it going, Steve?” Surrendra asked quietly.
“Going fucking terrible,” Steve said in a low, harsh voice. “How did you think it was going?”
“I thought it was probably going fucking terrible,” Surrendra said and sighed.
The trouble really began at the morning viewing, when Irwin Goldman refused to shake hands with his son-in-law.
The sight of so many friends and relatives had actually forced Louis out of the web of shock a little, had forced him to notice what was going on and be outward. He had reached that stage of malleable grief that funeral directors are so used to handling and turning to its best advantage. Louis was moved around like a counter in a Parcheesi game.
Outside the East Room was a small foyer where people could smoke and sit in overstuffed easy chairs. The chairs looked as if they might have come directly from a distress sale at some old English men’s club that had gone broke. Beside the door leading into the viewing room was a small easel, black metal chased with gold, and on this easel was a small sign which said simply CAGE WILLIAM CREED. If you went across this spacious white building that looked misleadingly like a comfortable old house, you came to an identical foyer, this one outside the West Room, where the sign on the easel read ALBERTA BURNHAM NEDEAU. At the back of the house was the Riverfront Room. The easel to the left of the door between the foyer and this room was blank; it was not in use on this Tuesday morning. Downstairs was the coffin showroom, each model lit by a baby spotlight mounted on the ceiling. If you looked up-Louis had, and the funeral director had frowned severely at him-it looked as if there were a lot of strange animals roosting up there.