been goofing around in the dooryard while Charity hung out clothes.
“Well, that’s too bad, Ray,” Joe said, “but I don’t work for free. This ain’t no charitable organization.”
“Mrs. Beasley just had herself a litter,” Ray said. Mrs. Beasley was a prime bitch Saint Bernard. “Purebreds. You do the work and I’ll give you the pick of the litter. What do you say? You’d be coming out ahead, but I can’t cut no pulp if I don’t have a truck to haul it in. to
“Don’t need a dog,” Joe said. “Especially a big one like that Goddam Saint Bernards ain’t nothing but eatin machines. ”
“You don’t need a dog,” Ray said, casting an eye out at Brett, who was now just sitting on the grass and watching his mother, “but your boy might appreciate one.”
Joe opened his mouth and then closed it again. He and Charity didn’t use any protection, but there had been no more kids since Brett, and Brett himself had been a long while coming. Sometimes, looking at him, a vague question would form itself in Joe’s head: Was the boy lonely? Perhaps he was. And perhaps Ray Crowell was right. Brett’s birthday was coming up. He could give him the pup then.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
“Well, don’t think too long,” Ray said, bridling. “I can go see Vin Callahan over in North Conway. He’s just as handy as you are, Camber. Handier, maybe.”
“Maybe,” Joe said, unperturbed. Ray Crowell’s temper did not scare him in the least.
Later that week, the manager of the Shop ’n Save drove his Thunderbird up to Joe’s to get the transmission looked at It was a minor problem, but the manager, whose name was Donovan, fussed around the car like a worried mother while Joe drained the transmission fluid well, refilled it, and tightened the bands. The car was a piece of work, all right, a 1960 T-Bird in cherry condition. And as he finished the job, listening to Donovan talk about how his wife wanted him to sell the car, Joe had had an idea.
“I’m thinking about getting my boy a dog,” he told this Donovan as he let the T-Bird down off the jacks.
“Oh, yes?” Donovan asked politely.
“Ayuh. Saint Bernard. It’s just a pup now, but it’s gonna eat big when it grows. Now I was just thinking that we might make a little deal, you and me. If you was to guarantee me a discount on that dry dog food, Gaines Meal, Ralston-Purina, whatever you sell, I’d guarantee you to work on your Bird here every once in a while. No labor charges.”
Donovan had been delighted and the two of them had shaken on it Joe had called Ray Crowell and said he’d decided to take the pup if Crowell was still agreeable. Crowell was, and when his son’s birthday rolled around that year, Joe had astounded both Brett and Charity by putting the squirming, wriggling puppy into the boy’s arms.
“Thank you, Daddy, thank you, thank you!” Brett had cried, hugging his father and covering his cheeks with kisses.
“Sure,” Joe said. “But you take care of him, Brett. He’s your dog, not mine. I guess if he does any piddling or crapping around, I’ll take him out in back of the barn and shoot him for a stranger.”
“I will, Daddy . . . I promise!”
He had kept his promise, pretty much, and on the few occasions he forgot, either Charity or Joe himself had cleaned up after the dog with no comment. And Joe had discovered it was impossible to stand aloof from Cujo; as he grew (and he grew damned fast, developing into exactly the sort of eating machine Joe had foreseen), he simply took his place in the Camber family. He was one of your bona fide good dogs.
He had house-trained quickly and completely . . . and now this. Joe turned around, hands stuffed in his pockets, frowning. No sign of Cuje anywhere.
He stepped outside and whistled again. Damn dog was maybe down in the creek, cooling off. Joe wouldn’t blame him. It felt like eighty-five in the shade already. But the dog would come back soon, and when he did, Joe would rub his nose in that mess. He would be sorry to do it if Cujo had made it because he was missing his people, but you couldn’t let a dog get away with—
A new thought came. Joe slapped the flat of his hand against his forehead. Who was going to feed Cujo while