3.

Castle Rock Middle School was a frowning pile of red brick standing between the Post Office and the Library, a holdover from the time when the town elders didn't feel entirely comfortable with a school unless it looked like a reformatory. This one had been built in 1926 and filled that particular bill admirably. Each year the town got a little closer to deciding to build a new one, one with actual windows instead of loopholes and a playground that didn't look like a penitentiary exercise yard and cla.s.srooms that actually stayed warm in the winter.

Sally Ratcliffe's speech therapy room was an afterthought in the bas.e.m.e.nt, tucked away between the furnace room and the supply closet with its stacks of paper towels, chalk, Ginn and Company textbooks, and barrels of fragrant red sawdust. With her teacher's desk and six smaller pupil desks in the room there was barely enough s.p.a.ce to turn around, but Sally had tried to make the place as cheery as possible, just the same. She knew that most kids who were tapped for speech therapy-the stutterers, the lispers, the dyslexics, the nasal blocks-found the experience a frightening, unhappy one. They were teased by their peers and closely questioned by their parents. There was no need for the environment to be unnecessarily grim on top of all that.

So there were two mobiles hanging from the dusty ceiling pipes, pictures of TV and rock stars on the walls, and a big Garfield poster on the door. The words in the balloon coming out of Garfield's mouth said, "If a cool cat like me can talk that trash, so can you!"

Her files were woefully behind even though school had been in session for only five weeks. She had meant to spend the whole day updating them, but at quarter past one Sally gathered them all up, stuck them back into the file-drawer they had come from, slammed it shut, and locked it. She told herself she was quitting early because the day was too nice to spend cooped up in this bas.e.m.e.nt room, even with the furnace mercifully silent for a change. This wasn't entirely the truth, however. She had very definite plans for this afternoon.

She wanted to go home, she wanted to sit in her chair by the window with the sun flooding into her lap, and she wanted to meditate upon the fabulous splinter of wood she had bought in Needful Things.

She had become more and more sure that the splinter was an authentic miracle, one of the small, divine treasures G.o.d had scattered around the earth for His faithful to find. Holding it was like being refreshed by a dipper of well-water on a hot day. Holding it was like being fed when you were hungry. Holding it was...

Well, holding it was ecstasy.

And something had been nagging at her, as well. She had put the splinter in the bottom drawer of her bedroom dresser, beneath her underwear, and she had been careful to lock her house when she went out, but she had a terrible, nagging feeling that someone might break in and steal the (relic holy relic) splinter. She knew it didn't make much sense-what robber would want to steal an old gray piece of wood, even if he found it? But if the robber happened to touch touch it... if those sounds and images filled it... if those sounds and images filled his his head as they filled hers every time she closed the splinter in her small fist... well... head as they filled hers every time she closed the splinter in her small fist... well...

So she'd go home. She'd change into shorts and a halter and spend an hour or so in quiet (exaltation) meditation, feeling the floor beneath her turn into a deck which heaved slowly up and down, listening to the animals moo and low and baa, feeling the light of a different sun, waiting for the magic moment-she was sure it would come if she held the splinter long enough, if she remained very, very quiet and very, very prayerful-when the bow of the huge, lumbering boat should come to rest on the mountain top with a low grinding sound. She did not know why G.o.d had seen fit to bless her, of all the world's faithful, with this bright and shining miracle, but since He had, Sally meant to experience it as fully and as completely as she could.

She went out the side door and crossed the playground to the faculty parking lot, a tall, pretty young woman with darkish blonde hair and long legs. There was a good deal of talk about those legs in the barber shop when Sally Ratcliffe went strolling by in her sensible low heels, usually with her purse in one hand and her Bible-stuffed with tracts-in the other.

"Christ, that woman's got legs right up to her chin," Bobby Dugas said once.

"Don't let em worry you," Charlie Fortin replied. "You ain't never gonna feel em-wrapped around your your a.s.s. She belongs to Jesus and Lester Pratt. In that order." a.s.s. She belongs to Jesus and Lester Pratt. In that order."

The barber shop had exploded into hearty male laughter on the day when Charlie had gotten that one-a genuine Knee-Slapper-off. And outside, Sally Ratcliffe had walked along on her way to Rev. Rose's Thursday Evening Bible Study for Young Adults, unknowing, uncaring, wrapped securely in her own cheerful innocence and virtue.

No jokes were made about Sally's legs or Sally's anything anything if Lester Pratt happened to be in The Clip Joint (and he went there at least once every three weeks to have the bristles of his crewcut sharpened). It was clear to most of those in town who cared about such things that he believed Sally farted perfume and s.h.i.t petunias, and you didn't argue about such things with a man who was put together like Lester. He was an amiable enough guy, but on the subjects of G.o.d and Sally Ratcliffe he was always dead serious. And a man like Lester could pull off your arms and legs before putting them back on in new and interesting ways, if he wanted to. if Lester Pratt happened to be in The Clip Joint (and he went there at least once every three weeks to have the bristles of his crewcut sharpened). It was clear to most of those in town who cared about such things that he believed Sally farted perfume and s.h.i.t petunias, and you didn't argue about such things with a man who was put together like Lester. He was an amiable enough guy, but on the subjects of G.o.d and Sally Ratcliffe he was always dead serious. And a man like Lester could pull off your arms and legs before putting them back on in new and interesting ways, if he wanted to.

He and Sally had had some pretty hot sessions, but they had never gone All the Way. Lester usually returned home after these sessions in a state of total discomposure, his brain bursting with joy and his b.a.l.l.s bursting with frustrated j.i.z.z, dreaming of the night, not too far away now, when he wouldn't have to stop. He sometimes wondered if he might not drown her the first time they actually Did It.

Sally was also looking forward to marriage and an end to s.e.xual frustration... although these last few days, Lester's embraces had seemed a little less important to her. She had debated telling him about the splinter of wood from the Holy Land she had purchased at Needful Things, the splinter with the miracle inside it, and in the end she hadn't. She would, would, of course; miracles should be shared. It was undoubtedly a sin not to share them. But she had been surprised (and a little dismayed) by the feeling of jealous possessiveness which rose up in her each time she thought of showing Lester the splinter and inviting him to hold it. of course; miracles should be shared. It was undoubtedly a sin not to share them. But she had been surprised (and a little dismayed) by the feeling of jealous possessiveness which rose up in her each time she thought of showing Lester the splinter and inviting him to hold it.

No! an angry, childish voice had cried out the first time she had considered this. an angry, childish voice had cried out the first time she had considered this. No, it's mine! It wouldn't mean as much to him as it does to me! It No, it's mine! It wouldn't mean as much to him as it does to me! It couldn't! couldn't!

The day would come when she would share it with him, just as the day would come when she would share her body with him-but it was not time for either of those things to happen yet.

This hot October day belonged strictly to her her.

There were only a few cars in the faculty lot, and Lester's Mustang was the newest and nicest of them. She'd been having lots of problems with her own car-something in the drive-train kept breaking down-but that was no real problem. When she had called Les this morning and asked if she could have his car yet again (she'd only returned it after a six-day loan at noon the day before), he agreed to drive it over right away. He could jog back, he said, and later he and a bunch of The Guys were going to play touch football. She guessed he would have insisted that she take the car even if he had had needed it, and that seemed perfectly all right to her. She was aware-in a vague, unfocused way that was the result of intuition rather than experience-that Les would jump through hoops of fire if she asked him to, and this established a chain of adoration which she accepted with naive complacency. Les worshipped her; they both worshipped G.o.d; everything was as it should be; world without end, amen. needed it, and that seemed perfectly all right to her. She was aware-in a vague, unfocused way that was the result of intuition rather than experience-that Les would jump through hoops of fire if she asked him to, and this established a chain of adoration which she accepted with naive complacency. Les worshipped her; they both worshipped G.o.d; everything was as it should be; world without end, amen.

She slipped into the Mustang, and as she turned to put her purse on the console, her eye happened on something white sticking out from beneath the pa.s.senger seat. It looked like an envelope.

She bent over and plucked it up, thinking how odd it was to find such a thing in the Mustang; Les usually kept his car as scrupulously neat as his person. There was one word on the front of the envelope, but it gave Sally Ratcliffe a nasty little jolt. The word was Lovey, Lovey, written in lightly flowing script. written in lightly flowing script.

Feminine script. script.

She turned it over. Nothing written on the back, and the envelope was sealed.

"Lovey?" Sally asked doubtfully, and suddenly realized she was sitting in Lester's car with all the windows still rolled up, sweating like mad. She started the engine, rolled down the driver's window, then leaned across the console to roll down the pa.s.senger window.

She seemed to catch a faint whiff of perfume as she did it. If so, it wasn't hers; she didn't wear perfume, or make-up either. Her religion taught her that such things were the tools of harlots. (And besides, she didn't need them.) It wasn't perfume, anyway. Just the last of the honeysuckle growing along the playground fence-that's all you smelled.

"Lovey?" she said again, looking at the envelope.

The envelope said nothing. It just lay there smugly in her hands.

She fluttered her fingers over it, then bent it back and forth. There was a piece of paper in there, she thought-at least one-and something else, too. The something else felt like it might be a photograph.

She held the envelope up to the windshield, but that was no good; the sun was going the other way now. After a moment's debate she got out of the car and held the envelope up in front of the sun. She could only make out a light rectangle-the letter, she thought-and a darker square shape that was probably an enclosed photo from (Lovey) whoever had sent Les the letter.

Except, of course, it hadn't been sent sent-not through the mails, anyway. There was no stamp, no address. Just that one troubling word. It hadn't been opened, either, which meant... what? That someone had slipped it into Lester's Mustang while Sally had been working on her files?

That might be. It might also mean that someone had slipped it into the car last night-even yesterday-and Lester hadn't seen it. After all, only a corner had been sticking out; it might have slid forward a little from its place under the seat while she had been driving to school this morning.

"Hi, Miss Ratcliffe!" someone called. Sally jerked the envelope down and hid it in the folds of her skirt. Her heart b.u.mped guiltily.

It was little Billy Marchant, cutting across the playground with his skateboard under his arm. Sally waved to him and then got quickly back into the car. Her face felt hot. She was blushing. It was silly-no, crazy-but she was behaving almost as if Billy had caught her doing something she shouldn't.

Well, weren't you? Weren't you trying to peek at a letter that isn't yours?

She felt the first twinges of jealousy then. Maybe it was hers; a lot of people in Castle Rock knew she had been driving Lester's car as much as she had been driving her own these past few weeks. And even if it wasn't wasn't hers, Lester Pratt was. Hadn't she just been thinking, with the solid, pleasant complacency which only Christian women who are young and pretty feel so exquisitely, that he would jump through hoops of fire for her? hers, Lester Pratt was. Hadn't she just been thinking, with the solid, pleasant complacency which only Christian women who are young and pretty feel so exquisitely, that he would jump through hoops of fire for her?

Lovey.

No one had left that envelope for her her, she was sure of that much. She didn't have any women friends who called her Sweetheart or Darling or Lovey. It had been left for Lester. Lester. And- And- The solution suddenly struck her, and she collapsed against the powder-blue bucket seat with a little sigh of relief. Lester taught Phys Ed at Castle Rock High. He only had the boys, of course, but lots of girls-young girls, impressionable girls-saw him every day. And Les was a good-looking young man.

Some little high school girl with a crush slipped a note into his car. That's all it is. She didn't even dare leave it on the dashboard where he would see it right away.

"He wouldn't mind if I opened it," Sally said aloud, and tore off the end of the envelope in a neat strip which she put in the ashtray where no cigarette had ever been parked. "We'll have a good laugh about it tonight."

She tilted the envelope, and a Kodak print fell out into her hand. She saw it, and her heart stuttered to a stop for a moment. Then she gasped. Bright red suffused her cheeks, and her hand covered her mouth, which had pursed itself into a small, shocked O of dismay.

Sally had never been in The Mellow Tiger and so she didn't know that was the background, but she wasn't a total innocent; she had watched enough TV and been to enough movies to know a bar when she saw one. The photo showed a man and a woman sitting at a table in what appeared to be one corner (a cozy cozy corner, her mind insisted on calling it) of a large room. There was a pitcher of beer and two Pilsner gla.s.ses on the table. Other people were sitting at other tables behind and around them. In the background was a dance-floor. corner, her mind insisted on calling it) of a large room. There was a pitcher of beer and two Pilsner gla.s.ses on the table. Other people were sitting at other tables behind and around them. In the background was a dance-floor.

The man and the woman were kissing.

She was wearing a sparkly sweater top which left her midriff exposed and a skirt of what appeared to be white linen. A very short short skirt. One of the man's hands pressed familiarly against the skin of her waist. The other was actually skirt. One of the man's hands pressed familiarly against the skin of her waist. The other was actually under her skirt, under her skirt, pushing it up even further. Sally could see the blur of the woman's panties. pushing it up even further. Sally could see the blur of the woman's panties.

That little chippie, Sally thought with angry dismay. Sally thought with angry dismay.

The man's back was to the photographer; Sally could make out only his chin and one ear. But she could see that he was very muscular, and that his black hair was mown into a rigorously short crewcut. He was wearing a blue tee-shirt-what the schoolkids called a muscle-shirt-and blue sweatpants with a white stripe on the side.

Lester.

Lester exploring the landscape under that chippie's skirt.

No! her mind proclaimed in panicky denial. It can't can't be him! Lester doesn't go out to bars! He doesn't even drink! And he'd never kiss another woman, because he loves me! I know he does, because... be him! Lester doesn't go out to bars! He doesn't even drink! And he'd never kiss another woman, because he loves me! I know he does, because...

"Because he says so." Her voice, dull and listless, was shocking to her own ears. She wanted to crumple the picture up and throw it out of the car, but she couldn't do that-someone might find it if she did, and what would that someone think?

She bent over the photograph again, studying it with jealous, intent eyes.

The man's face blocked most of the woman's, but Sally could see the line of her brow, the corner of one eye, her left cheek, and the line of her jaw. More important, she could see how the woman's dark hair was cut-in a s.h.a.g, with bangs feathered across the forehead.

Judy Libby had dark hair. And Judy Libby had it cut in a s.h.a.g, with bangs feathered across the forehead.

You're wrong. No, worse than that-you're crazy. Les broke up with Judy when she left the church. And then she went away. To Portland or Boston or someplace like that. This is someone's twisted, mean idea of a joke. You know Les would never- But did did she know? Did she really? she know? Did she really?

All of her former complacency now rose up to mock her, and a voice which she had never heard before today suddenly spoke up from some deep chamber of her heart: The trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool. The trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool.

It didn't have have to be Judy, though; it didn't to be Judy, though; it didn't have have to be Lester, either. After all, you couldn't really tell who people were when they were kissing, could you? You couldn't even tell for sure at the movies if you came in late, not even if they were two famous stars. You had to wait until they stopped and looked at the camera again. to be Lester, either. After all, you couldn't really tell who people were when they were kissing, could you? You couldn't even tell for sure at the movies if you came in late, not even if they were two famous stars. You had to wait until they stopped and looked at the camera again.

This was no movie, the new voice a.s.sured her. the new voice a.s.sured her. This was real life. And if it isn't them, what was that envelope doing in this car? This was real life. And if it isn't them, what was that envelope doing in this car?

Now her eyes fixed upon the woman's right hand, which was pressed lightly against (Lester's) her boyfriend's neck. She had long, shaped nails, painted with some dark polish. Judy Libby had had nails like that. Sally remembered that she hadn't been at all surprised when Judy stopped coming to church. A girl with fingernails like that, she remembered thinking, has got a lot more than the Lord of Hosts on her mind.

All right, so it's probably Judy Libby. That doesn't mean it's Lester with her. This could just be her nasty way of getting back at both of us because Lester dropped her when he finally realized she was about as Christian as Judas Iscariot. After all, lots of men have crewcuts, and any man can put on a blue tee-shirt and a pair of pants with white coach-stripes running up the sides.

Then her eye happened upon something else, and her heart suddenly seemed to fill up with lead shot. The man was wearing a wrist.w.a.tch-the digital kind. She recognized it even though it wasn't in perfect focus. She ought to have recognized it; hadn't she given it to Lester herself, for his birthday last month?

It could be a coincidence, her mind insisted feebly. It was only a Seiko, that was all I could afford. Anyone could have a watch like that. But the new voice laughed raucously, despairingly. The new voice wanted to know who she thought she was kidding. And there was more. She couldn't see the hand under the girl's skirt (thank G.o.d for small favors!), but she could see the arm to which it was attached. There were two large moles on that arm, just below the elbow. They almost touched, making a shape like a figure-eight.

How often had she run her finger lovingly over those very same moles as she and Lester sat on the porch swing? How often had she kissed them lovingly as he caressed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s (armored in a heavy J. C. Penney bra carefully selected for just such conflicts of love on the back porch) and panted terms of endearment and promises of unflagging loyalty in her ear?

It was Lester, all right. A watch could be put on and taken off, but moles couldn't be. A s.n.a.t.c.h of an old disco song occurred to her: "Bad girls... toot-toot... beep-beep... "Bad girls... toot-toot... beep-beep..."

"Chippie, chippie, chippie!" chippie!" she hissed at the picture in a sudden vicious undertone. How could he have gone back to her? she hissed at the picture in a sudden vicious undertone. How could he have gone back to her? How? How?

Maybe, the voice said, the voice said, because she lets him do what you won't. because she lets him do what you won't.

Her breast rose sharply; a hissy little gasp of dismay tore over her teeth and down her throat.

But they're in a bar! Lester doesn't- Then she realized that was very much a secondary consideration. If Lester was seeing Judy, if he was lying about that, that, a lie about whether or not he drank beer wasn't very important, was it? a lie about whether or not he drank beer wasn't very important, was it?

Sally put the photograph aside with a shaking hand and pawed out of the envelope the folded note which accompanied it. It was on a single sheet of peach-colored stationery with a deckle edge. Some light smell, dusty and sweet, came from it when she took it out. Sally held it to her nose and inhaled deeply.

"Chippie!" she cried in a hoa.r.s.e, agonized undertone. If Judy Libby had appeared in front of her at that moment, Sally would have attacked her with her own nails, sensibly short though they were. She wished Judy were. She wished Lester were, too. It would be awhile before he played any more touch football after she cried in a hoa.r.s.e, agonized undertone. If Judy Libby had appeared in front of her at that moment, Sally would have attacked her with her own nails, sensibly short though they were. She wished Judy were. She wished Lester were, too. It would be awhile before he played any more touch football after she she got through with him. got through with him. Quite Quite awhile. awhile.

She unfolded the note. It was short, the words written in the rolling Palmer Method hand of a schoolgirl.

Darling Les,Felicia took this when we were at the Tiger the other night. She said she ought to use it to blackmail us! But she was only teasing. She gave it to me, and I am giving it to you as a souvenir of our BIG NIGHT. It was TERRIBLY NAUGHTY of you to put your hand under my skirt like that "right out in public," but it got me SO HOT. Besides, you are so STRONG. The more I looked at it the more "hot" it started to make me. If you look close, you can see my underwear! It's a good thing Felicia wasn't around later, when I wasn't wearing any!!! I will see you soon. In the meantime, keep this picture "in remembrance of me." I will be thinking of you and your BIG THING. I better stop now before I get any hotter or I'll have to do something naughty. And please stop worrying about YOU KNOW WHO. She is two busy going steady with Jesus to worry about us.YourJudy Sally sat behind the wheel of Lester's Mustang for almost half an hour, reading this note again and again, her mind and her emotions in a stew of anger, jealousy, and hurt. There was also an undertone of s.e.xual excitement in her thoughts and feelings-but this was something she would never have admitted to anyone, least of all herself.

The stupid s.l.u.t doesn't even know how to spell "too," she thought. Her eyes kept finding new phrases to fix upon. Most of them were the ones which had been capitalized. she thought. Her eyes kept finding new phrases to fix upon. Most of them were the ones which had been capitalized.

Our BIG NIGHT.

TERRIBLY NAUGHTY.

SO HOT.

SO STRONG.

Your BIG THING.

But the phrase she kept returning to, the one which fed her rage most successfully, was that blasphemous perversion of the Communion ritual: ... keep this picture "in remembrance of me."

Obscene images rose in Sally's mind, unbidden. Lester's mouth closing on one of Judy Libby's nipples while she crooned: "Take, drink ye all of this, in remembrance of me." Lester on his knees between Judy Libby's spread legs while she told him to take, eat this in remembrance of me.

She crumpled the peach-colored sheet of paper into a ball and threw it onto the floor of the car. She sat bolt upright behind the wheel, breathing hard, her hair fuzzed out in sweaty tangles (she had been running her free hand distractedly through it as she studied the note). Then she bent, picked it up, smoothed it out, and stuffed both it and the photograph back into the envelope. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to try three times to get it in, and when she finally did, she tore the envelope halfway down the side.

"Chippie!" she cried again, and burst into tears. The tears were hot; they burned like acid. "b.i.t.c.h! "b.i.t.c.h! And And you! You! you! You! Lying Lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

She jammed the key into the ignition. The Mustang awoke with a roar that sounded as angry as she felt. She dropped the gearshift into drive and tore out of the faculty parking lot in a cloud of blue smoke and a wailing shriek of burned rubber.

Billy Marchant, who was practicing nosies on his skateboard across the playground, looked up in surprise.

4.

She was in her bedroom fifteen minutes later, digging through her underwear, looking for the splinter and not finding it. Her anger at Judy and her lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a boyfriend had been eclipsed by an overmastering terror-what if it was gone? What if it had been stolen after all?

Sally had brought the torn envelope in with her, and became aware that it was still clutched in her left hand. It was impeding her search. She threw it aside and tore her sensible cotton underwear out of her drawer in big double handfuls, throwing it everywhere. Just as she felt she must scream with a combination of panic, rage, and frustration, she saw the splinter. She had pulled the drawer open so hard that it had slid all the way into the left rear corner of the drawer.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, and at once felt peace and serenity flood through her. She grabbed the envelope with her other hand and then held both hands in front of her, good and evil, sacred and profane, alpha and omega. Then she put the torn envelope in the drawer and tossed her underwear on top of it in helter-skelter piles.

She sat down, crossed her legs, and bowed her head over the splinter. She shut her eyes, expecting to feel the floor begin to sway gently beneath her, expecting the peace which came to her when she heard the voices of the animals, the poor dumb animals, saved in a time of wickedness by the grace of G.o.d.

Instead, she heard the voice of the man who had sold her the splinter. You really ought to take care of this, you know. You really ought to take care of this, you know. Mr. Gaunt said from deep within the relic. Mr. Gaunt said from deep within the relic. You really ought to take care of this... this nasty business. You really ought to take care of this... this nasty business.

"Yes," Sally Ratcliffe said. "Yes, I know."

She sat there all afternoon in her hot maiden's bedroom, thinking and dreaming in the dark circle which the splinter spread around her, a darkness which was like the hood of a cobra.

5.