the mail, Jessie. It must have slid off onto the floor.
It hadn't, though. When Jessie had turned her head as far to the left as it would go without popping her neck out of joint, she was able to see a dark blue blob at the farthest edge of her vision.
It's not really there, the hateful, doom-mongering part of her whispered. You think it's there, perfectly understandable, but it's really not. It's just a hallucination, Jessie, just you seeing what most of your mind wants you to see, orders you to see. Not me, though; I'm a realist.
She looked again, straining a tiny bit farther to the left in spite of the pain. Instead of disappearing, the blue blob grew momentarily clearer. It was the sample jar, all right. There was a reading-lamp on Jessie's side of the bed, and this hadn't slid off onto the floor when she tilted the shelf because the base was fastened to the wood. A paperback copy of The Valley of Horses which had been lying on the shelf since mid-July had slid against the base of the lamp, and the jar of Nivea cream had slid against the book. Jessie realized it was possible that her life was going to be saved by a reading-lamp and a bunch of fictional cave-people with names like Ayla and Oda and Uba and Thonolan. It was more than amazing; it was surreal.
Even if it's there, you'll never he able to reach it, the doom-monger told her, but Jessie barely heard it. The thing was, she thought she could reach the jar. She was almost sure of it.
She turned her left hand within its restraint and reached slowly up to the shelf, moving with infinite care. It would not do to make a mistake now, to nudge the jar of Nivea cream out of reach along the shelf, or knock it backward against the wall. For all she knew, there might now be a gap between the shelf and the wall, a gap a small sample-sized jar could easily drop through. And if that happened, she was quite sure her mind would break. Yes. She would hear the jar hit the floor down there, landing among the mouse-turds and dust bunnies, and then her mind would just... well, break. So she had to be careful. And if she was, everything might yet be all right. Because...
Because maybe there is a God, she thought, and He doesn't want me to die here on this bed like an animal in a leg-hold trap. It makes sense, when you stop to think about it. I picked that jar up off the shelf when the dog started chewing on Gerald, and then I saw it was too small and too light to do any damage even if I managed to bit the dog with it. Under those circumstances-revolted, confused, and scared out of my mind-the most natural thing in the world would have been to drop it before feeling around on the shelf for something heavier, Instead of doing that, I put it back on the shelf. Why would I or anyone else do such an illogical thing? God, that's why. That's the only answer I can think of, the only one that fits. God saved it for me because He knew Id need it.
She whispered her cuffed hand gently along the wood, trying to turn her splayed fingers into a radar dish. There must be no slip-ups. She understood that, questions of God or fate or providence aside, this was almost certainly going to be both her best chance and her last one. And as her fingers touched the smooth, curved surface of the jar, a snatch of talking blues occurred to her, a little dustbowl ditty probably composed by Woody Guthrie. She had first heard it sung by Tom Rush, back in her college days:
If you want to go to heaven
Let me tell you how to do it,
You gotta grease your feet
With a little mutton suet.
You just slide out of the devil's hand
And ooze on over to the Promised Land,,
Take it easy,
Go greasy.
She slipped her fingers around the jar, ignoring the rusty pull of her shoulder muscles, moving with a slow, caressing care, and hooked the jar gently toward her. Now she knew how safecrackers felt when they were using nitro. Take it easy, she thought, go greasy. Had truer words ever been spoken in the whole history of the world?
"I don't theeenk so, my deah," she said in