had been vivid enough to make him nightwalk again, after two quiet years. There was nothing inherently melodramatic about the words, spoken all of a rush in a quick sleeping sigh, but Charity’s hand went to her throat anyway. The flesh there was cold, cold.
“Cujo’s not hungry no more,” Brett said, the words riding out on that sigh. He stood up again, now holding the gravy boat cradled to his chest. “Not no more, not no more.”
He stood immobile for a short time by the counter, and Charity did likewise by the kitchen door. A single tear had slipped down his face. He put the gravy boat on the counter and headed for the door. His eyes were open but they slipped indifferently and unseeingly over his mother. He stopped, looking back.
“Look in the weeds,” he said to someone who was not there.
Then he began to walk toward her again. She stood aside, her hand still pressed against her throat. He passed her quickly and noiselessly on his bare feet and was gone up the hall toward the stairs.
She turned to follow him and remembered the gravy boat. It stood by itself on the bare, ready-for-the-day counter like the focal point in a weird painting. She picked it up and it slipped through her fingers—she hadn’t realized that her fingers were slick with sweat. She juggled it briefly, imagining the crash in the still, sleeping hours. Then she had it cradled safely in both hands. She put it back on the shelf and closed the cupboard door and could only stand there for a moment, listening to the heavy thud of her heart, feeling her strangeness in this kitchen. She was an intruder in this kitchen. Then she followed her son.
She got to the doorway of his room just in time to see him climb into bed. He pulled the sheet up and rolled over on his left side, his usual sleeping position. Although she knew it was over now, Charity stood there yet awhile longer.
Somebody down the hall coughed, reminding her again that this was someone else’s house. She felt a strong wave of homesickness; for a few moments it was as if her stomach were full of some numbing gas, the kind of stuff dentists use. In this fine still morning light, her thoughts of divorce seemed as immature and without regard for the realities as the thoughts of a child. It was easy for her to think such things here. It wasn’t her house, not her place.
Why had his pantomime of feeding Cujo, and those rapid, sighing words, frightened her so much? Cujo’s not hungry no more, not no more.
She went back to her own room and lay there in bed as the sun came up and brightened the room. At breakfast, Brett seemed no different than ever. He did not mention Cujo, and he had apparently forgotten about calling home, at least for the time being. After some interior debate, Charity decided to let the matter rest there.
It was hot.
Donna uncranked her window a little farther—about a quarter of the way, as far as she dared—and then leaned across Tad’s lap to unroll his too. That was when she noticed the creased yellow sheet of paper in his lap.
“What’s that, Tad?”
He looked up at her. There were smudged brown circles under his eyes. “The Monster Words,” he said.
“Can I see?”
He held them tightly for a moment and then let her take the paper. There was a watchful, almost proprietary expression on his face, and she felt an instant’s jealousy. It was brief but very strong. So far she had managed to keep him alive and unhurt, but it was Vic’s hocus-pocus he cared about. Then the feeling dissipated into bewilderment, sadness, and self-disgust. It was she who had put him in this situation in the first place. If she hadn’t given in to him about the baby-sitter . . .
“I put them in my pocket yesterday,” he said, “before we went shopping. Mommy, is the monster going to eat us?”
“It’s not a monster, Tad, it’s just a dog, and no, it isn’t going to eat us!” She spoke more sharply than she had intended. “I told you, when the mailman comes, we can go home.” And I told him the car would start in just a little while, and I told him someone would come, that the Cambers would be home soon—
But what was the use in thinking that?
“May I have my Monster Words back?” he