Gerald’s Game

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Punkin? All right?

Yes, but… it’s a little scary, isn’t it?

Now she doesn’t have to look into the reflector-box to know something’s happening; the day is beginning to darken the way it does when a cloud passes over the sun. But this is no cloud; the murk has unravelled and what clouds there are lie quite far to the east.

Yes, he says, and when she glances at him, she is enormously relieved to see he means it. Want to sit on my lap, Jess?

Can I?

You bet.

So she does, glad of his nearness and warmth and his sweet smell-the smell of Daddy-as the day continues to darken. Glad most of all because it is a little scary, scarier than she imagined it would be. What scares her the most is the way their shadows on the deck are fading. She has never seen shadows fade quite like this before, and is almost positive she never will again. That’s perfectly okay with me, she thinks, and snuggles closer, glad to be (at least for the duration of this slightly spooky interlude) her father’s Punkin again instead of plain old Jessie-too tall, too gawky… too squeaky.

Can I look through the smoked glass yet, Dad?

Not yet. His hand, heavy and warm on her leg. She puts her own hand over it, then turns to him and grins.

It’s exciting, isn’t it?

Yes. Yes it is, Punkin. Quite a bit more than I thought it would be, actually-

She wriggles again, wanting to find a way to coexist with the hard part of him against which her bottom is now resting. He draws in a quick hissing mouthful of air over his bottom lip.

Daddy? Am I too heavy? Did I hurt you?

No. You’re fine.

Can I look at it through the glass yet?

Not yet, Punkin. But very soon.

The world no longer has the look it gets when the sun dives into a cloud; now it seems as if twilight has come in the middle of the afternoon. She hears the old hooty-owl in the woods, and the sound makes her shiver. On WNCH Debbie Reynolds is fading out, and the deejay who comes in on top of them will soon be replaced by Marvin Gaye.

Look out on the lake! Daddy tells her, and when she does, she sees a weird twilight creeping over a lackluster world from which every strong color has been subtracted, leaving nothing but subdued pastels. She shivers and tells him it’s creepy; he tells her to try not to be too scared to enjoy it, a statement she will examine carefully-too carefully, perhaps-for double meanings years later. And now…

Dad? Daddy? It’s gone. Can I-

Yes, Now it’s okay. But when I say you have to stop, you have to stop. No arguments, understand?

He gives her three panes of smoked glass in a stack, but first he gives her a potholder. He gives it to her because he made the viewers from panes of glass cut from an old shed window, and he is less than confident of his abilities with the glass-cutter. And as she looks down at the potholder in this experience which is both dream and memory, her mind suddenly leaps even further back, as nimbly as an acrobat turning a flip, and she hears him say The last thing I need…