Stephen King - Dolores Claiborne

I pulled my nightgown on n fell on the bed n went fast asleep with the light on. I woke up screamin less’n an hour later with Joe’s hand on my ankle. I had a moment of relief when I realized it was only a dream, but then I thought, “What if he’s climbin the side of the well again?” I knew he wasn’t—I’d finished him for good when I hit him with that rock and he fell down the second time —but part of me was sure he was, and that he’d be out in another minute or so. Once he was, he’d come for me.

I tried to lie there n wait it out, but I couldn’t —that pitcher of him climbin up the side of the well just kept gettin clearer n clearer, and my heart was beatin so hard it felt like it might explode. Finally I put on my sneakers, grabbed the flashlight again, and went runnin out there in my nightgown. I crawled to the edge of the well that time; I couldn’t make myself walk, not for nothing. I was too afraid of his white hand snakin up outta the dark n grabbin onto me.

At last I shone the light down. He was layin there just the same as he had been, with his hands in his lap n his head cocked to one side. The rock was still layin in the same place, between his spread legs. I looked for a long time, and when I went back to the house that time, I’d begun to know he was really dead.

I crawled into bed, turned off the lamp, and pretty soon I corked off to sleep. The last thing I remember thinkin was “I’ll be all right now,” but I wasn’t. I woke up a couple of hours later, sure I could hear someone in the kitchen. Sure I could hear Joe in the kitchen. I tried to jump outta bed and my feet tangled in the blankets and I fell on the floor. I got up n started feelin around for the switch on the lamp, sure I’d feel his hands slide around my throat before I could find it.

That didn’t happen, accourse. I turned on the light n went through the whole house. It was empty. Then I put on my sneakers n grabbed the flashlight n ran back out to the well.

Joe was still layin on the bottom with his hands in his lap n his head on his shoulder. I had to look at him a long time, though, before I could convince myself it was layin on the same shoulder. And once I thought I saw his foot move, although that was most likely just a shadow movin. There were lots of those, because the hand holdin the flashlight wasn’t none too steady, let me tell you.

As I crouched there with my hair tied back and prob‘ly lookin like the lady on the White Rock labels, the funniest urge come over me—I felt like just lettin myself lean forward on my knees until I tumbled into the well. They’d find me with him—not the ideal way to finish up, s’far’s I was concerned—but at least I wouldn’t be found with his arms wrapped around me… n I wouldn’t have to keep wakin up with the idear he was in the room with me, or feelin I had to run back out with the light to check n make sure he was still dead.

Then Vera’s voice spoke up again, only this time it was in my head. I know that, just like I know that it spoke right into my ear the first time. “The only place you’re going to tumble into is your own bed,” that voice told me. “Get some sleep, and when you wake up, the eclipse really will be over. You’ll be surprised how much better things will look with the sun out.”

That sounded like good advice, and I set out to follow it. I locked both doors to the outside, though, and before I actually got into bed, I did somethin I ain’t never done before or since: propped a chair underneath the doorknob. I’m ashamed to admit that—my cheeks feel all hot, so I guess I’m blushin—but it musta helped, because I was asleep the second my head hit the pillow. When I opened my eyes the next time, full daylight was streamin in through the window. Vera had told me to take the day off—she said Gail Lavesque and a few of the other girls could oversee puttin the house to rights after the big party she’d been plannin for the night of the twentieth—and I was some glad.

I got up n took another shower n then got dressed. It took me half an hour to do all those things because I was so lamed up. It was my back, mostly; it’s been my weak point ever since the night Joe hit me in the kidneys with that stovelength, and I’m pretty sure I strained it again first pullin that rock I clouted him with free of the earth, then h’istin it up over my head the way I did. Whatever it was, I can tell you it hurt a bitch.

Once I finally had my clothes on, I sat down at the kitchen table in the bright sunshine and drank a cup of black coffee n thought of the things I ought to do. There wasn’t many, even though nothing had gone just the way I’d meant for it to go, but they’d have to be done right; if I forgot somethin or overlooked somethin, I’d go to prison. Joe St. George wa‘ant much loved on Little Tall, and there weren’t many who’d’ve blamed me for what I did, but they don’t pin a medal on you n give you a parade for killin a man, no matter if he was a worthless piece of shit.

I poured myself a fresh slug of mud and went out on the back porch to drink it… and to cast my eye around. Both reflector-boxes and one of the viewers were back in the grocery sack Vera’d given me. The pieces of the other viewer were layin right where they’d been since Joe jumped up sudden and it slid out of his lap n broke on the porch boards. I thought for quite awhile about those pieces of glass. Finally I went inside, got the broom n the dustpan, and swep em up. I decided that, bein the way I am and so many folks on the island knowin the way I am, it’d be more suspicious if I left em layin.

I’d started off with the idear of sayin I’d never seen Joe at all that afternoon. I thought I’d tell folks he’d been gone when I got home from Vera‘s, without s’much as a note left behind to say where he’d taken his country butt off to, and that I’d poured that bottle of expensive Scotch whiskey out on the ground because I was mad at him. If they did tests that showed he was drunk when he fell into the well, it wouldn’t bother me none; Joe could have gotten booze lots of places, includin under our own kitchen sink.

One look into the mirror convinced me that wouldn’t do—if Joe hadn’t been home to put those bruises on my neck, then they’d want to know who had put em there, and what was I gonna say? Santy Claus did it? Luckily, I’d left myself an out—I’d told Vera that if Joe started actin out the Tartar, prob’ly I’d leave him to stew in his own sauce n watch the eclipse from East Head. I hadn’t had any plan in mind when I said those words, but I blessed em now.

East Head itself wouldn’t do—there’d been people there, and they’d know I hadn’t been with em—but Russian Meadow’s on the way to East Head, it’s got a good western view, and there hadn’t been nobody at all there. I’d seen that for myself from my seat on the porch, and again while I was warshin up our dishes. The only real question—

What, Frank?

No, I wa‘ant worried a bit about his truck bein at the house. He had a string of three or four DWIs right close together back in ’59, you see, and finally lost his driver’s license for a month. Edgar Sherrick, who was our constable back then, came around n told him that he could drink until the cows came home, if that was what he wanted, but the next time he got caught drinkin and drivin, Edgar’d hoe him into district court n try to get his driver’s license lifted for a year. Edgar n his wife lost a little girl to a drunk driver back in 1948 or ’49, and although he was an easygoin man about other things, he was death on drunks behind the wheel. Joe knew it, and he quit drivin if he’d had more’n two drinks right after him n Edgar had their little chat on our porch. No, when I came back from Russian Meadow and found Joe gone, I thought one of his friends must’ve come by n taken him someplace to celebrate Eclipse Day—that was the story I meant to tell.