didn’t qualify as speaking, didn’t want to get reprimanded again, and so said, “Got it.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
The question surprised him—and angered him. “No.”
“I don’t either,” she said. “A boyfriend, I mean. I’m too tall.”
“To have a boyfriend?”
“No man wants to date a woman taller than themselves. Only movie stars don’t seem to care. Unfortunately, I don’t know any movie stars.”
Beetle glanced at Greta again. She must have been six feet, maybe six-one—his height, though likely two thirds his weight. She wore a red rain slicker over a white T-shirt. The slicker was unzipped, the tee soaked through. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
“You know,” she said, “it’s nice walking next to someone as tall as I am. I don’t feel like a freak.”
“You’re not a freak.”
“I was at a zoo last week, the one in Toronto. There were these young children there with their teachers on a school field trip. You should have seen how they all looked up at me, with these big, curious eyes, the same way they looked at the animals. I stick out like a blue thumb.”
“A sore thumb.”
“A blue thumb doesn’t stick out?”
“I guess. But the saying is a sore thumb.”
“I like blue thumb. I think a blue thumb sticks out more than a sore thumb.”
“Why would you have a blue thumb?”
“Hey,” she said, “do you think if we had babies, they would be tall too?” Her eyes shone with bright mischievousness. “Don’t worry,” she added, “I’m not proposing we have a baby. I don’t even know you. And you’re too quiet to be my husband. I’m just wondering if you think we would have tall babies.”
Beetle shrugged. “Babies aren’t tall.”
“Some are.”
“No, they’re not—inherently not. The same way ice isn’t warm.”
“Are you making a joke?”
“I’m pointing out a truism.”
“No, I think you made a joke.” She clapped her hands. “I can’t believe it! Herr Beetle has a sense of humor. Tell me something else funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke—” Beetle stopped abruptly. Aside from the machinegun-like patter of rain he thought he could hear the sound of an approaching engine. “A car’s coming,” he said.
“So?” Greta said.
Headlights appeared from around a bend ahead of them. Beetle took Greta’s arm and steered her into the vegetation lining the verge until they were concealed behind a large tree.
“Kinky, mister,” she said.
“It’s coming from the direction of the church.”
“Oh!” she whispered. “You think…?”
The headlights merged into a blinding white light. For a moment Beetle felt unacceptably exposed. He pressed his body against Greta’s, wanting to blende further into the shadows. The car roared past, the sound of the engine faded, then they were alone once more.
Beetle realized his lips were inches from Greta’s, his chest pressed against hers. Embarrassed, he led her back to the road. Her cheeks were flushed. Her erect nipples pressed against the fabric of her drenched shirt. She noticed him notice this.
Beetle looked away. “Guess we missed it,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“The mass,” he said. “If that was one of the Satanists, it seems the party’s over.”
“We don’t know who that was. It could have been anyone.”
“At this hour—?”
“Sue dumm fuhrt!” Greta said. “Don’t give up so easy on things, Herr Beetle.” She took his hand in hers. “Now come on! There still might be time.”
CHAPTER 27
“Sometimes dead is better.”
Pet Sematary (1989)
Cleavon had been the first to smell the smoke. They had replaced the blonde with the Asian on the altar—she’d been a bitch to tie down, fighting as if she really did have a demon inside her—and as Cleavon stood in front of her, trying to think how to begin the black mass, he detected the unmistakable smell of smoke. For a moment he wondered if someone was burning leaves before remembering the nearest neighbor was the motel some two miles away. He said, “Can you smell that?”
“That ain’t how you start the mass, Cleave!” Earl said. “First you gotta cross yourself backwards, that’s what you gotta do first—”
“Jess,” he said, “you smell that?”
Jesse was sniffing the air. “Sure do, Cleave.”
“Something’s burning, I reckon,” Weasel said.
“What the fuck’s Spence doing?” Cleavon growled. “Staring a fuckin’ signal fire for the girl?”
Tossing aside the little bell he’d been holding—it landed on the altar with a small ding!—he snatched the flashlight and marched up the aisle to the front doors. Jesse and Weasel followed close behind him, with Earl and Floyd bringing up the rear. He gripped the brass door handle and immediately released it, crying out in pain. He spun in a