Stephen King - Insomnia

Ralph cast his mind cautiously back into the black pit he’d been living in at the end of 1992 and said, “Well, I remember that the cops caught some guy in the hospital’s long-term parking lot with a can of gasoline, but I didn’t know-”

“That was Charlie Pickering. He’s a member of Daily Bread, one of the right-to-life groups that keep the pickets marching out there,” Davenport said. “They put him up to it, too-take my word. This year they’re not bothering with gasoline, though; they’re going to try to get the City Council to change the zoning regulations and squeeze WomanCare right out of existence. They just might do it, too. You know Derry, Ralph-it’s not exactly a hotbed of liberalism.”

“No,” Ralph said with a wan smile. “It’s never been that, and WomanCare is an abortion clinic, isn’t it?” Davenport gave him an out-of-patience look and jerked his head in the direction of Secondhand Rose. “That’s what assholes like him call it,” he said, “only they like to use the word mill instead of clinic.

They ignore all the other stuff WomanCare does.” To Ralph, Davenport had begun to sound a little like the TV announcer who hawked run-free pantyhose during the Sunday afternoon movie.

“They’re involved in family counselling, they deal with spouse and child abuse, and they run a shelter for abused women over by the Newport town line. They have a rape crisis center at the in-town building by the hospital, and a twenty-four-hour hotline for women who’ve been raped or beaten. In short, they stand for all the things that make Marlboro Men like Dalton shit bullets.”

“But they do perform abortions,” Ralph said. “That’s what the pickets are about, right?”

There had been sign-carrying demonstrators in front of the lowslung, unobtrusive brick building that housed WomanCare for years, it seemed to Ralph. They always looked too pale to him, too intense, too skinny or too fat, too utterly sure that God was on their side, The signs they carried said things like THE UNBORN HAVE RIGHTS, TOO and LIFE, WHAT A BEAUTIFUL CHOICE and that old standby, ABORTION IS MURDER!

On several occasions women using the clinic-which was near Derry Home but not actually associated with it, Ralph thought-had been spat upon.

“Yeah, they perform abortions, Ham said. “You got a problem with that?”

Ralph thought of all the years he and Carolyn had tried to have a baby-years that had produced nothing but several false alarms and a single messy five-months miscarriage-and shrugged. Suddenly the day seemed too hot and his legs too tired. The thought of his return journey-the Up-Mile Hill leg of it in particular-hung in the back of his mind like something strung from a line of fishhooks. “Christ, I don’t know,” he said. “I just wish people didn’t have to get so… so shrill.”

Davenport grunted, walked over to his neighbor’s display window, and peered at the bogus wanted poster. While he was looking at it, a tall, pallid man with a goatee-the absolute antithesis of the Marlboro Man, Ralph would have said-materialized from the gloomy depths of Secondhand Rose like a vaudeville spook that has gotten a bit mouldy around the edges. He saw what Davenport was looking at, and a tiny disdainful smile dimpled the corners of his mouth.

Ralph thought it was the kind of smile that could cost a man a couple of teeth, or a broken nose. Especially on a dog-hot day like this one.

Davenport pointed to the poster and shook his head violently.

Dalton’s smile deepened, He flapped his hands at davenport Who gives a shit what you think? the gesture said-and then disappeared back into the depths of his store.

Davenport returned to Ralph, bright spots of color burning in his cheeks. “That man’s picture should be next to the word prick in the dictionary,” he said.

Exactly what he thinks about You, I imagine, Ralph thought, but of course did not say.

Davenport stood in front of the library cart full of paperbacks, hands stuffed into his pockets beneath his red change apron, brooding at the poster of (hey hey) Susan Day.

“Well,” Ralph said, “I suppose I better-”

Davenport shook himself out of his brown study. “Don’t go yet,” he said. “Sign my petition first, will you? put a little shine back on my morning.”

Ralph shifted his feet uncomfortably. “I usually don’t get involved in confrontational stuff like-”

“Come on, Ralph,” Davenport said in a let’s-be-reasonable voice.

“We’re not talking confrontation here; we’re talking about making sure that the fruits and nuts like the ones who run Daily Breadand Political Neanderthals like Dalton-don’t shut down a really useful women’s resource center. It’s not like I’m asking you to endorse testing chemical warfare weapons on dolphins,”

“No,” Ralph said. “I suppose not.), “We’re hoping to send five thousand signatures to Susan Day by the first of September. Probably won’t do any good-Derry’s really not much more than a wide place in the road, and she’s probably booked into the next century anyhow-but it can’t hurt to try.”

Ralph thought about telling Ham that the only petition he wanted to sign was one asking the gods of sleep to give him back the three hours or so of good rest a night they had stolen away, but then he took another look at the man’s face and decided against it.

Carolyn would have signed his damned petition, he thought. She was no fan of abortion, but she was also no fan Of men coming home after the bars close and mistaking their wives and kids for soccer balls.

True enough, but that wouldn’t have been her main reason for signing; she would have done it on the off-chance that she might get to hear an authentic firebrand like Susan Day up close and in person.

She would have done it out of the ingrained curiosity which had perhaps been her dominating characteristic-something so strong not even the brain tumor had been able to kill it. Two days before she died she had pulled the movie ticket he’d been using as a bookmark out of the paperback novel he’d left on her bedside table because she had wanted to know what he’d been to see. It had been A Few Good Men, as a matter of fact, and he was both surprised and dismayed to discover how much it hurt to remember that. Even now it hurt like hell.

“Sure,” he told Ham. “I’ll be happy to sign it.”

“My man!” Davenport exclaimed, and clapped him on the shoulder.

The broody look was replaced by a grin, but Ralph didn’t think the change much of an improvement. The grin was hard and not especially charming. “Step into my den of iniquity! “Ralph followed him into the tobacco-smelling shop, which did not seem particularly iniquitous at nine-thirty in the morning. Winston Smith fled before them, pausing just once to look back with his ancient yellow eyes. He’s a fool and you’re another, that parting stare might have said. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t a conclusion Ralph felt much inclined to dispute. He tucked his newspapers under his arm, leaned over the ruled sheet on the counter beside the cash register, and signed the petition asking Susan Day to come to Derry and speak in defense of WomanCare.

He did better climbing UP-Mile Hill then he had expected, and crossed the X-shaped intersection of Witchm and Jackson thinking, There, that wasn’t so bad, was He suddenly realized that his ears were ringing and his legs had begun to tremble beneath him. He stopped on the front side of Witcham and placed one hand against his shirt. He could feel his heart beating just beneath It, PumPing away with a ragged fierceness that was scary. He heard a papery rustle, and saw an advertising supplement slip out of the Boston Globe and go seesawing down into the gutter. He started to bend over and get it, then stopped.