then he charges you what he said it was gonna cost. Funny way to do business, huh?” And he drove away, leaving Vic to wonder if the mailman had been serious or if he (Vic) had just been on the receiving end of some obscure Yankee joke.
But he had called Camber, and one day in July (a much cooler July than the one which would follow a year later), he and Donna and Tad had driven out to Camber’s place together. It really was far out; twice Vic had to stop and ask directions, and it was then that he began to call those farthest reaches of the township East Galoshes Corners.
He pulled into the Camber dooryard, the back wheel clunking louder than ever. Tad, then three, was sitting on Donna Trenton’s lap, laughing up at her; a ride in Daddy’s “no-top” always put him in a fine mood, and Donna was feeling pretty fine herself.
A boy of eight or nine was standing in the yard, hitting an old baseball with an even older baseball bat. The ball would travel through the air, strike the side of the barn, which Vic assumed was also Mr. Camber’s garage, and then roll most of the way back.
“Hi,” the boy said. “Are you Mr. Trenton?”
“That’s right,” Vic said.
“I’ll get my dad,” the boy said, and went into the barn.
The three Trentons got out, and Vic walked around to the back of his Jag and squatted by the bad wheel, not feeling very confident Perhaps he should have tried to nurse the car into Portland after all. The situation out here didn’t look very promising; Camber didn’t even have a sign hung out.
His meditations were broken by Donna, calling his name nervously. And then: “Oh my God, Vic—”
He got up quickly and saw a huge dog emerging from the barn. For one absurd moment he wondered if it really was a dog, or maybe some strange and ugly species of pony. Then, as the dog padded out of the shadows of the barn’s mouth, he saw its sad eyes and realized it was a Saint Bernard.
Donna had impulsively snatched up Tad and retreated toward the hood of the Jag, but Tad was struggling impatiently in her arms, trying to get down.
“Want to see the doggy, Mom . . . want to see the doggy!”
Donna cast a nervous glance at Vic, who shrugged, also uneasy. Then the boy came back and ruffled the dog’s head as he approached Vic. The dog wagged a tail that was absolutely huge, and Tad redoubled his struggles.
“You can let him down, ma’am.” the boy said politely.
“Cujo likes kids. He won’t hurt him.” And then, to Vic: “My dad’s coming right out. He’s washing his hands.”
“All right,” Vic said. “That’s one hell of a big dog, son. Are you sure he’s safe?”
“He’s safe,” the boy agreed, but Vic found himself moving up beside his wife as his son, incredibly small, toddled toward the dog. Cujo stood with his head cocked, that great brush of a tail waving slowly back and forth.
“Vic—” Donna began.
“It’s all right,” Vic said, thinking, I hope. The dog looked big enough to swallow the Tadder in a single bite.
Tad stopped for a moment, apparently doubtful. He and the dog looked at each other.
“Doggy?” Tad said.
“Cujo,” Camber’s boy said, walking over to Tad. “His name’s Cujo.”
“Cujo,” Tad said, and the dog came to him and began to lick his face in great, goodnatured, slobbery swipes that had Tad giggling and trying to fend him off. He turned back to his mother and father, laughing the way he did when one of them was tickling him. He took a step toward them and his feet tangled in each other. He fell down, and suddenly the dog was moving toward him, over him, and Vic, who had his arm around Donna’s waist, felt his wife’s gasp as well as heard it. He started to move forward . . . and then stopped.
Cujo’s teeth had clamped on the back of Tad’s Spider-Man T-shirt. He pulled the boy up—for a moment Tad looked like a kitten in its mother’s mouth—and set the boy on his feet.
Tad ran back to his mother and father. “Like the doggy! Mom! Dad! I like the doggy!”
Camber’s boy was watching this with mild amusement, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.
“Sure, it’s a great dog,” Vic said. He was amused, but his heart was still beating fast. For just one moment there he had