taken you to the amusement park at Old Orchard Beach, coaxed you aboard that big Viking ship that swung back and forth in the air like a pendulum, then laughed until tears squirted out of his eyes when you said you wanted to go again. The man who had once made love to you in the bathtub until you were literally screaming with pleasure. The man who was now sliding down that dog's gullet in gobs and chunks.
Alien elements like that.
"Strange days, pretty mamma," she said. "Strange days indeed." Her speaking voice had become a dusty, painful croak. She supposed she would do well to just shut up and give it a rest, but when it was quiet in the bedroom she could hear the panic, still there, still creeping around on the big soft pads of its feet, looking for an opening, waiting for her to let down her guard. Besides, there was no real quiet. The chainsaw guy had packed it in for the day, but the loon still voiced its occasional cry and the wind was rising as night approached, banging the door more loudly and more frequently-than ever.
Plus, of course, the sound of the dog dining on her husband. While Gerald had been waiting to collect and pay for their sub sandwiches in Amato's, Jessie had stepped next door to Michaud's Market. The fish at Michaud's was always good-almost fresh enough to flop, as her grandmother would have said. She had bought some lovely fillet of sole, thinking she would pan-broil it if they decided to stay overnight. Sole was good because Gerald, who would live on a diet of nothing but roast beef and fried chicken if left to his own devices (with the occasional order of deep-fried mushrooms thrown in for nutritional purposes), actually claimed to like sole. She had bought it without the slightest premonition that he would be eaten before he could cat.
"It's a jungle out there, baby," Jessie said in her dusty, croaky voice, and realized she was now doing more than just thinking in Ruth Neary's voice; she actually sounded like Ruth, who in their college days would have lived on a diet of nothing but Dewar's and Marlboros, if left to her own devices.
That tough no-bullshit voice spoke up then, as if Jessie had rubbed a magic lamp. Remember that Nick Lowe song you heard onWBLM when you were coming home from your pottery class one day lastwinter? The one that made you laugh?
She did. She didn't want to, but she did. It had been a Nick Lowe tune she believed had been titled "She Used to Be a Winner (Now She's just the Doggy's Dinner)', a cynically amusing pop meditation on loneliness set to an incongruously sunny beat. Amusing as hell last winter, yes, Ruth was right about that, but not so amusing now.
"Stop it, Ruth," she croaked. "If you're going to freeload in my head, at least have the decency to quit teasing me."
Teasing you? Jesus, tootsie, I'm not teasing you; I'm trying to wakeyou up!
"I am awake!" she said querulously. On the take the loon cried out again, as if to back her up on that. "Partly thanks to you!"
No, you're not. You haven't been awake-really awake-for a longtime. When something bad happens, Jess, do you know what you do? You tell yourself, "Oh, this is nothing to worry about, this is just a baddream, I get them every now and then, they're no big deal, and as soonas I roll over on my back again I'll be fine." And that's what you do, youpoor sap. That's just what you do.
Jessie opened her mouth to reply-such canards should not go unanswered, dry mouth and sore throat or not-but Goodwife Burlingame had mounted the ramparts before Jessie herself could do more than begin to organize her thoughts.
How can you say such awful things? You're horrible! Go away!
Ruth's no-bullshit voice uttered its cynical bark of laughter again, and Jessie thought how disquieting-how horribly disquieting-it was to hear part of your mind laughing in the make-believe voice of an old acquaintance who was long gone to God knew where.
Go away? You'd like that, wouldn't you? Tootsie-Wootsie, Puddin" "n" Pie, Daddy's little girl. Any time the truth gets too close, any time youstart to suspect the dream is maybe not just a dream, you run away.
That's ridiculous.
It is? Then what happened to Nora Callighan?
For a moment that shocked Goody's voice-and her own, the one that usually spoke both aloud and