Misery (16 page)

     
N
ow, breaki
n
g i
n
to these gloomy meditatio
n
s, there came the healthy bawl of a child -- his so
n
, awake a
n
d more tha
n
ready for his after
n
oo
n
meal. Fai
n
tly he could hear the sou
n
d of A
nn
ie Wilkes, Thomas' capable
n
urse, as she bega
n
to soothe him a
n
d cha
n
ge his
n
apki
n
.

     "The wee bair
n
's i
n
good voice today," Mrs. Ramage observed. Ia
n
had o
n
e mome
n
t to thi
n
k agai
n
, with surpassi
n
g wo
n
der, that he was the father of a so
n
, a
n
d that his wife spoke from the doorway:

     "Hello, darli
n
g."

     He looked up, looked at his Misery, his darli
n
g. She stood lightly poised i
n
the doorway, her chest
n
ut hair with its mysterious deep-red gli
n
ts like dyi
n
g embers flowi
n
g over her shoulders i
n
gorgeous profusio
n
. Her complexio
n
was still too pallid, but i
n
her cheeks Ia
n
could see the first sig
n
s of retur
n
i
n
g color. Her eyes were dark a
n
d deep, a
n
d the glow of the kitche
n
lamps sparkled i
n
each, like small a
n
d precious diamo
n
ds lyi
n
g upo
n
darkest jewellers' felt.

     "My darli
n
g!" he cried, a
n
d ra
n
to her, as he had that day i
n
Liverpool, whe
n
it seemed certai
n
that the pirates had take
n
her away as Mad Jack Wickersham had swor
n
they would.

     Mrs
.
Ramage sudde
n
ly remembered somethi
n
g she had left u
n
do
n
e i
n
the parlor a
n
d left them together -- she we
n
t, however, with a smile co her face. Mrs. Ramage, too, had her mome
n
ts whe
n
she could
n
ot help wo
n
deri
n
g what life might have bee
n
like if Geoffrey a
n
d the doctor had arrived a
n
hour later o
n
that dark a
n
d stormy
n
ight two mo
n
ths ago, or if the experime
n
tal blood tra
n
sfusio
n
i
n
which her you
n
g master had so bravely poured his ow
n
life's blood i
n
to Misery's depleted vei
n
s had
n
ot worked.

      "Och, girrul," she told herself as she hurried dow
n
the hall. "Some thi
n
gs di
nn
a bear thi
n
ki
n
' a'." Good advice -- advice Ia
n
had give
n
himself. But both had discovered that good advice was sometimes easier to give tha
n
receive.

     I
n
the kitche
n
, tall hugged Misery tightly to him, feeli
n
g his soul live a
n
d die a
n
d the
n
live agai
n
i
n
the sweet smell of her warm ski
n
.

He touched the swell of her breast a
n
d felt the stro
n
g, a
n
d steady beat of

her heart.

"If you had died, I should have died with you," he whispered.

     She put her arms about his
n
eck, bri
n
gi
n
g the firm of her breast more fully i
n
to his ha
n
d. "Hush, my darli
n
g," Misery whispered, "a
n
d do
n
't be silly. I'm here . . . right here.
N
ow kiss me! If I die, I fear it will be with desire for you."

      He pressed his mouth agai
n
st hers a
n
d plu
n
ged his ha
n
ds deeply i
n
to the glory of her chest
n
ut hair, a
n
d for a few mome
n
ts there was
n
othi
n
g at all,

except for the two of them.

Annie laid the three pages of typescript on the night-table beside him and he waited to see what she would say about them. He was curious but not really nervous — he had been surprised, really, at how easy it had been to slip back into Misery's world. Her world was corny and melodramatic, but that did not change the fact that returning there had been nowhere near as distasteful as he had expected — it had been, in fact, rather comforting, like putting on a pair of old slippers. So his mouth dropped open and he was frankly and honestly flabbergasted when she said:

  'It's not right.' 'You — you don't like it?' He could hardly believe it. How could she have liked the other
Misery
novels and not like this? it was so
Misery
esque it was nearly a caricature, what with motherly old Mrs Ramage dipping snuff in the pantry, Ian and Misery pawing each other like a couple of horny kids just home from the Friday-night high-school dance, and — Now
she
was the one who looked bewildered.

  '
Like
it? Of course I like it. It's
beautiful.
When Ian swept her into his arms, I cried. I couldn't help it.' Her eyes actually were a bit red. 'And you naming baby Thomas's nurse after me . . . that was very sweet.'

  He thought:
Smart, too — at least, I hope so. And by the way, toots, the baby's name started out
to be Sean, in case you're interested; I changed it because I decided that was just too fucking
many n's to fill in.

  'Then I'm afraid I don't understand — '

   'No, you don't. I didn't say anything about not
liking
it, I said it wasn't
right
. It's a cheat. You'll have to change it.'

   Had he once thought of her as the perfect audience? Oh boy.
Have to give you credit, Paul —
when you make a mistake, you go whole hog.
Constant Reader had just become Merciless Editor.

  Without his even being aware that it was happening, Paul's face rearranged itself into the expression of sincere concentration he always wore while listening to editors. He thought of this as his Can I Help You, Lady? expression. That was because most editors were like women who drive into service stations and tell the mechanic to fix whatever it is that's making that knocking sound under the hood or going wonk-wonk inside the dashboard, and please have it done an hour ago. A look of sincere concentration was good because it flattered them, and when editors were flattered, they would sometimes give in on some of their mad ideas.

'How is it a cheat?' he asked.

   'Well, Geoffrey rode for the doctor,' she said.
'That's
all right. That happened in Chapter 38 of
Misery's Child.
But the doctor never came, as you well know, because Geoffrey's horse tripped on the top rail of that rotten Mr Cranthorpe's toll-gate when Geoffrey tried to jump it — I hope
that
dirty bird gets his comeuppance in
Misery's Retum,
Paul, I really do — and Geoffrey broke his shoulder and some of his ribs and lay there most of the night in the rain until the sheep-herder's boy came along and found him. So the doctor never came. You see?'

  'Yes.' He found himself suddenly unable to take his eyes from her face.

  He had thought she was putting on an editor's hat — maybe even trying on a collaborator's chapeau, preparing to tell him what to write and how to write it. But that was not so. Mr Cranthorpe, for instance. She
hoped
Mr Cranthorpe would get his comeuppance, but she did not demand it. She saw the story's creative course as something outside of her hands, in spite of her obvious control of him. But some things simply could not be done. Creativity or the lack of it had no bearing on these things; to do them was as foolish as issuing a proclamation revoking the law of gravity or trying to play table-tennis with a brick. She really was Constant Reader, but Constant Reader did not mean Constant Sap.

    She would not allow him to kill Misery . . . but neither would she allow him to cheat Misery back to life.

But Christ, I DID kill her,
he thought wearily.
What am I going to do?

   'When I was a girl,' she said, 'they used to have chapter-plays at the movies. An episode a week. The Masked Avenger, and Flash Gordon, even one about Frank Buck, the man who went to Africa to catch wild animals and who could subdue lions and tigers just by staring at them. Do you remember the chapter-plays?'

   'I remember them, but
you
can't be that old, Annie — you must have seen them on TV, or had an older brother or sister who told you about them.'

  At the corners of her mouth dimples appeared briefly in the solidity of flesh and then disappeared. 'Go on with you, you fooler! I
did
have an older brother, though, and we used to go to the movies every Saturday afternoon. This was in Bakersfield, California, where I grew up. And while I always used to enjoy the newsreel and the color cartoons and the feature, what I really looked forward to was the next installment of the chapter-play. I'd find myself thinking about it at odd moments all week long. If a class was boring, or if I had to babysit Mrs Krenmitz's four brats downstairs. I used to hate those little brats.'

    Annie lapsed into a moody silence, staring into the corner. She had become unplugged. It was the first time this had happened in some days, and he wondered uneasily if it meant she was slipping into the lower part of her cycle. If so, he had better batten down his hatches.

   At last she came out of it, as always with an expression of faint surprise, as if she had not really expected the world to still be here.

   'Rocket Man was my favorite. There he would be at the end of Chapter 6, Death in the Sky, unconscious while his plane went into a power dive. Or at the end of Chapter 9, Fiery Doom, he'd be tied to a chair in a burning warehouse. Sometimes it was a car with no brakes, sometimes poison gas, sometimes electricity.'

  Annie spoke of these things with an affection which was bizarre in its unmistakable genuineness.

  'Cliff-hangers, they called them,' he ventured.

   She frowned at him. 'I know that, Mister Smart Guy. Gosh, sometimes I think you must believe I'm awful stupid!'

'I don't, Annie, really.'

   She waved a hand at him impatiently, and he understood it would be better — today, at least — not to interrupt her. 'It was fun to try and think how he would get out of it. Sometimes I could, sometimes I couldn't. I didn't really care, as long as they played fair. The people who made the story.'

    She looked at him sharply to make sure he was taking the point. Paul thought he could hardly have missed it.

   'Like when he was unconscious in the airplane. He woke up, and there was a parachute under his seat. He put it on and jumped out of the plane and that was fair enough.'

  
Thousands of English-comp teachers would disagree with you; my dear,
Paul thought.
What
you're talking about is called a
deus ex machina,
the
God
from the machine, first used in Greek
amphitheaters. When the playwright got his hero into an impossible jam, this chair decked with
flowers came down from overhead. The hero sat down in it and was drawn up and out of harm's
way. Even the stupidest swain could grasp the symbolism — the hero had been saved by God. But
the
deus ex machina —
sometimes known in the technical jargon as 'the old parachute-under-the
airplane-seat trick', finally went out of vogue around the year 1700. Except, of course, for such
arcana as the Rocket Man serials and the Nancy Drew books. I guess you missed the news, Annie.

   For one gruesome, never-to-be-forgotten moment, Paul thought he was going to have a laughing fit. Given her mood this morning, that would almost surely have resulted in some unpleasant and painful punishment. He raised a hand quickly to his mouth, pasting it over the smile trying to be born there, and manufactured a coughing fit.

  She thumped him on the back hard enough to hurt.

  'Better?'

  'Yes, thanks.'

    'Can I go on now, Paul, or were you planning to have a sneezing fit? Should I get the bucket? Do you feel as if you might have to vomit a few times?'

'No, Annie. Please go on. What you're saying is fascinating.'

   She looked a little mollified — not much, but a little. 'When he found that parachute under the seat, it was fair. Maybe not all that
realistic,
but fair.'

   He thought about this, startled — her occasional sharp insights never failed to startle him — and decided it was true.
Fair and realistic
might be synonyms in the best of all possible worlds, but if so, this was not that world.