Needful Things

CHAPTER TWO

When a new shop opens in a small New England town, the residents-hicks though they may be in many other things isplay a cosmopolitan attitude which their city cousins can rarely match. In New York or Los Angeles, a new gallery may attract a little knot of might-be patrons and simple lookers-on before the doors are opened for the first time; a new club may even garner a line, and police barricades with paparazzi, armed with gadget bags and telephoto lenses, standing expectantly beyond them. There is an excited hum of conversation, as among theatergoers on Broadway before the opening of a new play which, smash hit or drop-dead flop, is sure to cause comment.

When a new shop opens in a small New England town, there is rarely a crowd before the doors open, and never a line. When the shades are drawn up, the doors unlocked, and the new concern declared open for business, customers come and go in a trickle which would undoubtedly strike an outsider as apathetic… and probably as an ill omen for the shopkeeper’s future prosperity.

What seems like lack of interest often masks keen anticipation and even keener observation (Cora Rusk and Myra Evans were not the only two women in Castle Rock who had kept the telephone lines buzzing about Needful Things in the weeks before it opened).

That interest and anticipation do not change the small-town shopper’s conservative code of conduct, however. Certain things are simply Not Done, particularly not in the tight Yankee enclaves north of Boston. These are societies which exist for nine months of every year mostly sufficient unto themselves, and it is considered bad form to show too much interest too soon, or in any way to indicate that one has felt more than a passing interest, so to speak.

Investigating a new shop in a small town and attending a socially prestigious party in a large city are both activities which cause a fair amount of excitement among those likely to participate, and there are rules for both-rules which are unspoken, immutable, and strangely similar. The chief among these is that one must not arrive first. Of course, someone has to break this cardinal rule, or no one would arrive at all, but a new shop is apt to stand empty for at least twenty minutes after the CLOSED sign in the window has been turned over to read OPEN for the first time, and a knowledgeable observer would feel safe in wagering that the first arrivals would come in a group-a pair, a trio, but more likely a foursome of ladies.

The second rule is that the investigating shoppers display a politeness so complete that it verges on iciness. The third is that no one must ask (on the first visit, at least) for the new shopkeeper’s history or bona fides. The fourth is that no one should bring a welcome-to-town present, especially one as tacky as a home-made cake or a pie. The last rule is as immutable as the first: one must not depart last.

This stately gavotte-which might be called The Dance of Female Investigation-lasts anywhere from two weeks to two months, and does not apply when someone from town opens a business.

That sort of opening is apt to be like an Old Home Week church supper-informal, cheery, and quite dull. But when the new tradesman is From Away (it is always said that way, so one can hear the capital letters), The Dance of Female Investigation is as sure as the fact of death and the force of gravity. When the trial period is over (no one takes out an ad in the paper to say that it is, but somehow everyone knows), one of two things happens: either the flow of trade becomes more normal and satisfied customers bring in belated welcome gifts and invitations to Come and Visit, or the new business fails. In towns like Castle Rock, small businesses are sometimes spoken of as “broke down” weeks or even months before the hapless owners discover the fact for themselves.

There was at least one woman in Castle Rock who did not play by the accepted rules, immutable as they might seem to others.

This was Polly Chalmers, who ran You Sew and Sew. Ordinary behavior was not expected of her by most; Polly Chalmers was considered by the ladies of Castle Rock (and many of the gentlemen) to be Eccentric.

Polly presented all sorts of problems for the self-appointed social arbiters of Castle Rock. For one thing, no one could quite decide on the most basic fact of all: was Polly From Town, or was she From Away? She had been born and mostly raised in Castle Rock, true enough, but she had left with Duke Sheehan’s bun in her oven at the age of eighteen. That had been in 1970, and she had only returned once before moving back for good in 1987.

That brief return call had begun in late 1975, when her father had been dying from cancer of the bowel. Following his death, Lorraine Chalmers had suffered a heart attack, and Polly had stayed on to nurse her mother. Lorraine had suffered a second heart attack-this one fatal-in the early spring of 1976, and after her mother had been buried away in Homeland, Polly (who had by then attained a genuine Air of Mystery, as far as the ladies of the town were concerned) had left again.

Gone for good this time had been the general consensus, and when the last remaining Chalmers, old Aunt Evvie, died in 1981 and Polly did not attend the funeral, the consensus seemed a proven fact. Yet four years ago she had returned, and had opened her sewing shop. Although no one knew for certain, it seemed likely that she had used Aunt Evvie Chalmers’s money to fund the new venture. Who else would that crazy old rip have left it to?

The town’s more avid followers of la comidie humaine (this was most of them) felt sure that, if Polly made a success of her little business and stuck around, most of the things they were curious about would be revealed to them in the fullness of time. But in Polly’s case, many matters remained dark. It was really quite exasperating.

She had spent some of the intervening years in San Francisco, that much was known, but little more-Lorraine Chalmers had been as close as the devil about her wayward daughter. Had Polly gone to school there, or somewhere? She ran her business as if she had taken business courses, and learned a right smart from them, too, but no one could say for sure. She was single when she returned, but had she ever been married, either in San Francisco or in one of those places where she might (or might not) have spent some of her time between Then and Now?

No one knew that, either, only that she had never married the Sheehan boy-he had joined the Marines, had done a few turns there, and was now selling real estate someplace in New Hampshire. And why had she come back here to stay after all the years?

Most of all they wondered what had become of the baby. Had pretty Polly gotten an abortion? Had she given it up for adoption?

Had she kept it? If so, had it died? Was it (maddening pronoun, that) alive now, at school somewhere, and writing the occasional letter home to its mother? No one knew these things, either, and in many ways the unanswered questions about “it” were the most galling. The girl who had left on a Greyhound with a bun in her oven was now a woman of almost forty and had been back, living and doing business in town, for four years, and no one even knew the sex of the child that had caused her to leave. just lately Polly Chalmers had given the town a fresh demonstration of her eccentricity, if one was needed: she had been keeping company with Alan Pangborn, Castle County’s Sheriff, and Sheriff Pangborn had buried his wife and younger son only a year and a half ago. This behavior was not quite a Scandal, but it was certainly Eccentric, and so no one was really surprised to see Polly Chalmers go marching down the sidewalk of Main Street from her door to that of Needful Things at two minutes past ten on the morning of October 9th.

They were not even surprised at what she was carrying in her gloved hands: a Tupperware container which could only contain a cake.

It was, the locals said when discussing it later, just like her.

2

The display window of Needful Things had been cleansed of soap, and a dozen or so items had been set out there-clocks, a silver setting, a painting, a lovely triptych just waiting for someone to fill it with well-loved photographs. Polly glanced at these items with approval, then went to the door. The sign hanging there read OPEN. As she did what the sign suggested, a small bell jingled over her head-this had been installed since Brian Rusk’s preview.

The shop smelled of now carpeting and fresh paint. It was filled with sunshine, and as she stepped in, looking around with interest, a clear thought came to her: This is a success. Not a customer has stepped through the door yet-unless I’m one-and it’s already a success.

Remarkable. Such hasty judgments were not like her, and neither was her feeling of instant approval, but they were undeniable.

A tall man was bending over one of the glass display cases. He looked up when the bell jingled and smiled at her. “Hello,” he said.

Polly was a practical woman who knew her own mind and generally liked what she found there, and so the instant of confusion which struck her when she first met this stranger’s eyes was confusing in and of itself.

I know him, was the first clear thought to come through that unexpected cloud. I’ve met this man before. Where?

She hadn’t, though, and that knowledge-that surety-came a moment later. It was diji vu, she supposed, that sense of false recollection which strikes almost everyone from time to time, a feeling which is disorienting because it is at once so dreamy and so prosaic.

She was put off her stride for a moment or two, and could only smile at him lamely. Then she moved her left hand to get a better grip on the cake container she held, and a harsh bolt of pain shot up the back of it and out toward the wrist in two bright spikes. The tines of a large chrome fork seemed to be planted deep in her flesh.

It was arthritis, and it hurt like a son of a bitch, but at least it focused her attention again, and she spoke without a noticeable lag … only she thought that the man might have noticed, just the same.

He had bright hazel eyes which looked as if they might notice a great deal.

“Hi,” she said. “My name is Polly Chalmers. I own the little dress and sewing shop two doors down from you. I thought that, since we’re neighbors, I’d come over and welcome you to Castle Rock before the rush.”

He smiled, and his entire face lit up. She felt an answering smile lift her own lips, even though her left hand was still hurting like a bastard. If I weren’t already in love with Alan, she thought, I think I’d fall at this man’s feet without a whimper. “Show me to the bedroom, Master, I will go quietly.” With a quirk of amusement, she wondered how many of the ladies who would pop in here for a quick peek before the end of the day would go home with ravening crushes on him.

She saw he was wearing no wedding band; more fuel to the fire.

“I’m delighted to meet you, Ms. Charmers,” he said, coming forward. “I’m Leland Gaunt.” He put out his right hand as he approached her, then frowned slightly as she took a small step backward.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t shake hands. Don’t think me impolite, please. I have arthritis.” She set the Tupperware container on the nearest glass case and raised her hands, which were encased in kid-leather gloves. There was nothing freakish about them, but they were clearly misshapen, the left a little more than the right.

There were women in town who thought that Polly was actually proud of her disease; why else, they reasoned, would she be so quick to show it off? The truth was the exact opposite. Though not a vain woman, she was concerned enough about her looks that the ugliness of her hands embarrassed her. She showed them as quickly as she could, and the same thought surfaced briefly-so briefly it almost always went unrecognized-in her mind each time she did: There. That’s over. Now we can get on with whatever else there is.

People usually registered some discomposure or embarrassment of their own when she showed them her hands. Gaunt did not. He grasped her upper arm in hands that felt extraordinarily strong and shook that instead. it might have struck her as an inappropriately intimate thing to have done on first acquaintance, but it did not.

The gesture was friendly, brief, even rather amusing. All the same, she was glad it was quick. His hands had a dry, unpleasant feel even through the light fall coat she was wearing.

“It must be difficult to run a sewing shop with that particular disability, Ms. Chalmers. How ever do you manage?”

It was a question very few people put to her, and, with the exception of Alan, she couldn’t remember anyone’s ever asking her in such a straightforward way.

“I went right on sewing full-time as long as I could,” she said.

“Grinned and bore it, I suppose you’d say. Now I have half a dozen girls working for me part-time, and I stick mostly to designing.

But I still have my good days.” This was a lie, but she felt it did no harm, since she told it mostly for her own benefit.

“Well, I’m delighted that you came over. I’ll tell you the truthI’ve got a bad case of stage fright.”

“Really? Why?” She was even less hasty about judging people than she was of judging places and events, and she was startled-even a little alarmed-at how rapidly and naturally she felt at home with this man she had met less than a minute ago.

“I keep wondering what I’ll do if no one comes in. No one at all, all day long.”

“They’ll come,” she said. “They’ll want a look at your stockno one seems to have any idea what a store called Needful Things sells-but even more important, they’ll want a look at you. It’s just that, in a little place like Castle Rock-“,-no one wants to seem too eager,” he finished for her. “I know-I’ve had experience of small towns. My rational mind assures me that what you’ve just said is the absolute truth, but there’s another voice that just goes on saying, ‘They won’t come, Leland, oohhh, no, they won’t come, they’ll stay away in droves, you just wait and see.’ ” She laughed, remembering suddenly that she had felt exactly the same way when she opened You Sew and Sew.

“But what’s this?” he asked, touching the Tupperware container with one hand. And she noticed what Brian Rusk had already seen: the first and second fingers of that hand were exactly the same length.

“It’s a cake. And if I know this town half as well as I think I do, I can assure you it will be the only one you’ll get today.”

He smiled at her, clearly delighted. “Thank you! Thank you very much, Ms. Chalmers-I’m touched.”

And she, who never asked anyone to use her first name on first or even short acquaintance (and who was suspicious of anyone realtors, insurance agents, car salesmen-who appropriated that privilege unasked), was bemused to hear herself saying, “If we’re going to be neighbors, shouldn’t you call me Polly?”

3

The cake was devil’s food, as Leland Gaunt ascertained merely by lifting the lid and sniffing. He asked her to stay and have a slice with him. Polly demurred. Gaunt insisted.

“You’ll have someone to run your shop,” he said, “and no one will dare set foot in mine for at least half an hour-that should satisfy the protocols. And I have a thousand questions about the town. ” So she agreed. He disappeared through the curtained doorway at the back of the shop and she heard him climbing stairs-the upstairs area, she supposed, must be his living quarters, if only temporarily-to get plates and forks. While she waited for him to come back, Polly wandered around looking at things.

A framed sign on the wall by the door through which she had entered said that the shop would be open from ten in the morning until five in the afternoon on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.

It would be closed “except by appointment” on Tuesdays and Thursdays until late spring-or, Polly thought with an interior grin, until those wild and crazy tourists and vacationers arrived again, waving their fistfuls of dollars.

Needful Things, she decided, was a curio shop. An upscale curio shop, she would have said after a single glance, but a closer examination of the items for sale suggested it was not that easily categorized.

The items which had been placed out when Brian stopped in the afternoon before-geode, Polaroid camera, picture of Elvis Presley, the few others-were still there, but perhaps four dozen more had been added. A small rug probably worth a small fortune hung on one of the off-white walls-it was Turkish, and old. There was a collection of lead soldiers in one of the cases, possibly antiques, but Polly knew that all lead soldiers, even those cast in Hong Kong a week ago last Monday, have an antiquey look.

The goods were wildly varied. Between the picture of Elvis, which looked to her like the sort of thing that would retail on any carnival midway in America for $4.99, and a singularly uninteresting American eagle weathervane, was a carnival glass lampshade which was certainly worth eight hundred dollars and might be worth as much as five thousand. A battered and charmless teapot stood flanked by a pair of gorgeous poupies, and she could not even begin to guess what those beautiful French dollies with their rouged cheeks and gartered gams might be worth.

There was a selection of baseball and tobacco cards, a fan of pulp magazines from the thirties (Weird Tales, Astounding Tales, Thrilling Wonder Stories), a table-radio from the fifties which was that disgusting shade of pale pink which the people of that time had seemed to approve of when it came to appliances, if not to politics.

Most-although not all-of the items had small plaques standing in front of them: TRI-CRYSTAL GEODE, ARIZONA, read one.

CUSTOM SOCKET-WRENCH KIT, read another. The one in front of the splinterwhich had so amazed Brian announced itwas PETRIFIED WOOD FROM THE HOLY LAND. The plaques in front of the trading cards and the pulp magazines read: OTHERS AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST.

All the items, whether trash or treasure, had one thing in common, she observed: there were no price-tags on any of them.

4

Gaunt arrived back with two small plates-plain old Corning Ware, nothing fancy-a cake-knife, and a couple of forks. “Everything’s helter-skelter up there,” he confided, removing the top of the container and setting it aside (he turned it upside down so it would not imprint a ring of frosting on the top of the cabinet he was serving from). “I’ll be looking for a house as soon as I get things set to rights here, but for the time being I’m going to live over the store.

Everything’s in cardboard cartons. God, I hate cardboard cartons.

Who would you say-” “Not that big,” Polly protested. “My goodness!”

“Okay,” Gaunt said cheerfully, putting the thick slab of chocolate cake on one of the plates. “This one will be mine. Eat, Rowf, eat, I say! Like this for you?”

“Even thinner.”

“I can’t cut it any thinner than this,” he said, and sliced off a narrow piece of cake. “It smells heavenly. Thank you again, Polly.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

It did smell good, and she wasn’t on a diet, but her initial refusal had been more than first-meeting politeness. The last three weeks had been a stretch of gorgeous Indian summer weather in Castle Rock, but on Monday the weather had turned cool, and her hands were miserable with the change. The pain would probably abate a little once her joints got used to the cooler temperatures (or so she prayed, and so it always had been, but she was not blind to the progressive nature of the disease), but since early this morning it had been very bad.

When it was like this, she was never sure what she would or would not be able to do with her traitor hands, and her initial refusal had been out of worry and potential embarrassment.

Now she stripped off her gloves, flexed her right hand experimentally. A spear of hungry pain bolted up her forearm to the elbow. She flexed again, her lips compressed in anticipation. The pain came, but it wasn’t as intense this time. She relaxed a little.

It was going to be all right. Not great, not as pleasant as eating cake should be, but all right. She picked up her fork carefully, bending her fingers as little as possible when she grasped it. As she conveyed the first bite to her mouth, she saw Gaunt looking at her sympathetically. Now he’ll commiserate, she thought glumly, and tell me how bad his grand father’s arthritis was. Or his ex-wife’s.

Or somebody’s.

But Gaunt did not commiserate. He took a bite of cake and rolled his eyes comically. “Never mind sewing and patterns,” he said, “you should have opened a restaurant.”

“Oh, I didn’t make it,” she said, “but I’ll convey the compliment to Nettle Cobb. She’s my housekeeper.”

“Nettle Cobb,” he said thoughtfully, cutting another bite from his slice of cake.

“Yes-do you know her?”

“Oh, I doubt it.” He spoke with the air of a man who is suddenly recalled to the present moment. “I don’t know anyone in Castle Rock.”

He looked at her slyly from the corners of his eyes. “Any chance she could be hired away?”

“None,” Polly said, laughing.

“I was going to ask you about real-estate agents,” he said. “Who would you say is the most trustworthy around here?”

“Oh, they’re all thieves, but Mark Hopewell’s probably as safe as any.

He choked back laughter and put a hand to his mouth to stifle a spray of crumbs. Then he began to cough, and if her hands hadn’t been so painful, she would have thumped him companionably on the back a few times. First acquaintance or not, she did like him.

“Sorry,” he said, still chuckling a little. “They are all thieves, though, aren’t they?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Had she been another sort of woman@ne who kept the facts of her own past less completely to herself-Polly would then have begun asking Leland Gaunt leading questions. Why had he come to Castle Rock? Where had he been before coming here? Would he stay long? Did he have family? But she wasn’t that other sort of woman, and so she was content to answer his questions… was delighted to, in fact, since none of them were about herself. He wanted to know about the town, and what the flow of traffic was like on Main Street during the winter, and if there was a place nearby where he could shop for a nice little jotul stove, and insurance rates, and a hundred other things.

He produced a narrow black leather notebook from the pocket of the blue blazer he wore and gravely noted down each name she mentioned.

She looked down at her plate and saw that she had finished all of her cake. Her hands still hurt, but they felt better than they had when she arrived. She recalled that she had almost decided against coming by, because they were so miserable. Now she was glad she’d done it, anyway.

“I have to go,” she said, looking at her watch. “Rosalie will think I died.”

They had eaten standing up. Now Gaunt stacked their plates neatly, put the forks on top, and replaced the top on the cake container. “I’ll return this as soon as the cake is gone,” he said.

“Is that all right?”

“Perfectly.”

“You’ll probably have it by mid-afternoon, then,” he said gravely.

“You don’t have to be that prompt,” she said as Gaunt walked her to the door. “It’s been very nice to meet you.”

“Thanks for coming by,” he said. For a moment she thought he meant to take her arm, and she felt a sense of dismay at the thought of his touch-silly, of course-but he didn’t. “You’ve made what I expected to be a scary day something of a treat instead.”

“You’ll be fine.” Polly opened the door, then paused. She had asked him nothing at all about himself, but she was curious about one thing, too curious to leave without asking. “You’ve got all sorts of interesting things-” “Thank you. “-but nothing is priced. Why is that?”

He smiled. “That’s a little eccentricity of mine, Polly. I’ve always believed that a sale worth making is worth dickering over a little.

I think I must have been a Middle Eastern rug merchant in my last incarnation. Probably from Iraq, although I probably shouldn’t say so these days.”

“So you charge whatever the market will bear?” she asked, teasing just a little.

“You could say so,” he agreed seriously, and again she was struck by how deep his hazel eyes were-how oddly beautiful. “I’d rather think of it as defining worth by need.”

“I see.”

“Do you really?”

“Well… I think so. It explains the name of the shop.”

He smiled. “It might,” he said. “I suppose it might, at that.”

“Well, I’ll wish you a very good day, Mr. Gaunt-” “Leland, please. Or just Lee.”

“Leland, then. And you’re not to worry about customers. I think by Friday, you’ll have to hire a security guard to shoo them out at the end of the day.”

“Do you? That would be lovely.”

“Goodbye.”

“Ciao,” he said, and closed the door after her.

He stood there a moment, watching as Polly Chalmers walked down the street, smoothing her gloves over her hands, so misshapen and in such startling contrast to the rest of her, which was trim and pretty, if not terribly remarkable. Gaunt’s smile grew. As his lips drew back, exposing his uneven teeth, it became unpleasantly predatory.

“You’ll do,” he said softly in the empty shop. “You’ll do just fine.”

5

Polly’s prediction proved quite correct. By closing time that day, almost all of the women in Castle Rock-those who mattered, anyway-and several men had stopped by Needful Things for a quick browse. Almost all of them were at some pains to assure Gaunt that they had only a moment, because they were on their way to someplace else.

Stephanie Bonsaint, Cynthia Rose Martin, Barbara Miller, and Francine Pelletier were the first; Steffie, Cyndi Rose, Babs, and Francie arrived in a protective bunch not ten minutes after Polly was observed leaving the new shop (the news of her departure spread quickly and thoroughly by telephone and the efficient bush telegraph which runs through New England back yards).

Steffie and her friends looked. They ooohed and ahhhed. They assured Gaunt they could not stay long because this was their bridge day (neglecting to tell him that the weekly rubber usually did not start until about two in the afternoon). Francae asked him where he came from. Gaunt told her Akron, Ohio. Steffie asked him if he had been in the antiques business for long. Gaunt told her he did not consider it to be the antiques business… exactly. Cyndi wanted to know if Mr. Gaunt had been in New England.long.

Awhile, Gaunt replied; awhile.

All four agreed later that the shop was many odd things!-but it had been a very unsuccessful interview. The man was as close-mouthed as Polly Chalmers, perhaps more. Babs then pointed out what they all knew (or thought they knew): that Polly had been the first person in town to actually enter the new shop, and that she had brought a cake.

Perhaps, Babs speculated, she knew Mr. Gaunt… from that Time Before, that time she had spent Away.

Cyndi Rose expressed interest in a Lalique vase, and asked Mr.

Gaunt (who was nearby but did not hover, all noted with approval) how much it was.

“How much do you think?” he asked, smiling.

She smiled back at him, rather coquettishly. “Oh,” she said. “Is that the way you do things, Mr. Gaunt?”

“That’s the way I do them,” he agreed.

“Well, you’re apt to lose more than you gain, dickering with Yankees,” Cyndi Rose said, while her friends looked on with the bright interest of spectators at a Wimbledon Championship match.

“That,” he said, “remains to be seen.” His voice was still friendly, but now it was mildly challenging, as well.

Cyndi Rose looked more closely at the vase this time. Steffie Bonsaint whispered something in her ear. Cyndi Rose nodded.

“Seventeen dollars,” she said. The vase actually looked as if it might be worth fifty, and she guessed that in a Boston antiques shop, it would be priced at one hundred and eighty.

Gaunt steepled his fingers under his chin in a gesture Brian Rusk would have recognized. “I think I’d have to have at least forty-five,” he said with some regret.

Cyndi Rose’s eyes brightened; there were possibilities here. She had originally seen the Lalique vase as something only mildly interesting, really not much more than another conversational crowbar to use on the mysterious Mr. Gaunt. Now she looked at it more closely and saw that it really was a nice piece of work, one which would look right at home in her living room. The border of flowers around the long neck of the vase was the exact color of her wallpaper. Until Gaunt had responded to her suggestion with a price which was only a finger’s length out of her reach, she hadn’t realized that she wanted the vase as badly as she now felt she did.

She consulted with her friends.

Gaunt watched them, smiling gently.

The bell over the door rang and two more ladies came in.

At Needful Things, the first full day of business had begun.

6

When the Ash Street Bridge Club left Needful Things ten minutes later, Cyndi Rose Martin carried a shopping bag by the handles.

Inside was the Lalique vase, wrapped in tissue paper. She had purchased it for thirty-one dollars plus tax, almost all of her pin money, but she was so delighted with it that she was almost purring.

Usually she felt doubtful and a little ashamed of herself after such an impulse buy, certain that she had been cozened a little if not cheated outright, but not today. This was one deal where she had come out on top. Mr. Gaunt had even asked her to come back, saying he had the twin of this vase, and it would be arriving in a shipment later in the week-perhaps even tomorrow! This one would look lovely on the little table in her living room, but if she had two, she could put one on each end of the mantel, and that would be smashing.

Her three friends also felt that she had done well, and although they were a little frustrated at having gotten so little of Mr.

Gaunt’s background, their opinion of him was, on the whole, quite high.

“He’s got the most beautiful green eyes,” Francie Pelletier said, a little dreamily.

“Were they green?” Cyndi Rose asked, a little startled. She herself had thought they were gray. “I didn’t notice.”

7

Late that afternoon, Rosalie Drake from You Sew and Sew stopped in Needful Things on her coffee break, accompanied by Polly’s housekeeper, Nettle Cobb. There were several women browsing in the store, and in the rear corner two boys from Castle County High were leafing through a cardboard carton of comic books and muttering excitedly to each other-it was amazing, they both agreed, how many of the items they needed to fill their respective collections were here. They only hoped the prices would not prove too high. It was impossible to tell without asking, because there were no price-stickers on the plastic bags which held the comics.

Rosalie and Nettle said hello to Mr. Gaunt, and Gaunt asked Rosalie to thank Polly again for the cake. His eyes followed Nettle, who had wandered away after the introductions and was looking rather wistfully at a small collection of carnival glass. He left Rosalie studying the picture of Elvis next to the splinter of PETRIFIED WOOD FROM THE HOLY LAND and walked over to Nettle.

“Do you like carnival glass, Ms. Cobb?” he asked softly.

She jumped a little-Nettle Cobb had the face and almost painfully shy manner of a woman made to jump at voices, no matter how soft and friendly, when they spoke from the general area of her elbow-and smiled at him nervously.

“It’s Missus Cobb, Mr. Gaunt, although my husband’s been passed on for some time now.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“No need to be. It’s been fourteen years. A long time. Yes, I have a little collection of carnival glass.” She seemed almost to quiver, as a mouse might quiver at the approach of a cat. “Not that I could afford anything so nice as these pieces. Lovely, they are.

Like things must look in heaven.”

“Well, I’ll tell you something,” he said. “I bought quite a lot of carnival glass when I got these, and they’re not as expensive as you might think. And the others are much nicer. Would you like to come by tomorrow and have a look at them?”

She jumped again and sidled away a step, as If he had suggested she might like to come by the next day so he could pinch her bottom a few times… perhaps until she cried.

“Oh, I don’t think… Thursday’s my busy day, you know… at Polly’s… we have to really turn the place out on Thursdays, you know…”

“Are you sure you can’t drop by?” he coaxed. “Polly told me that you made the cake she brought this morning-” “Was it all right?”

Nettle asked nervously. Her eyes said she expected him to say, No, it was not all right, Nettle, it gave me cramps, it gave me the backdoor trots, in fact, and so I am going to hurt you, Nettle, I’m going to drag you into the back room and twist your nipples until you holler uncle.

“It was wonderful,” he said soothingly. “It made me think of cakes my mother used to make… and that was a very long time ago.”

This was the right note to strike with Nettle, who had loved her own mother dearly in spite of the beatings that lady had administered after her frequent nights out in the juke-joints and ginmills. She relaxed a little.

“Well, that’s fine, then,” she said. “I’m awfully glad it was good.

Of course, it was Polly’s idea. She’s just about the sweetest woman in the world.”

“Yes,” he said. “After meeting her, I can believe that.” He glanced at Rosalie Drake, but Rosalie was still browsing. He looked back at Nettle and said, “I just felt I owed you a little something-”

“Oh no!” Nettle said, alarmed all over again. “You don’t owe me a thing. Not a single solitary thing, Mr. Gaunt.”

“Please come by. I can see you have an eye for carnival glass… and I could give you back Polly’s cake-box.”

“Well… I suppose I could drop by on my break…” Nettle’s eyes said she could not believe what she was hearing from her own mouth.

“Wonderful,” he said, and left her quickly, before she could change her mind again. He walked over to the boys and asked them how they were doing. They hesitantly showed him several old issues of The Incredible Hulk and The X-Men. Five minutes later they went out with most of the comic books in their hands and expressions of stunned joy on their faces.

The door had barely shut behind them when it opened again.

Cora Rusk and Myra Evans strode in. They looked around, eyes as bright and avid as those of squirrels in nut-gathering season, and went immediately to the glass case containing the picture of Elvis.

Cora and Myra bent over, cooing with interest, displaying bottoms which were easily two axe-handles wide.

Gaunt watched them, smiling.

The bell over the door jingled again. The new arrival was as large as Cora Rusk, but Cora was fat and this woman looked strong-the way a lumberjack with a beer belly looks strong. A large white button had been pinned to her blouse. The red letters proclaimed:

CASINO NITE-JUST FOR FUN!

The lady’s face had all the charm of a snowshovel. Her hair, an unremarkable and lifeless shade of brown, was mostly covered by a kerchief which was knotted severely under her wide chin. She surveyed the interior of the store for a moment or two, her small, deepset eyes flicking here and there like the eyes of a gunslinger who surveys the interior of a saloon before pushing all the way through the batwing doors and starting to raise hell. Then she came in.

Few of the women circulating among the displays gave her more than a glance, but Nettle Cobb looked at the newcomer with an extraordinary expression of mingled dismay and hate. Then she scuttled away from the carnival glass. Her movement caught the newcomer’s eye. She glanced at Nettle with a kind of massive contempt, then dismissed her.

The bell over the door jingled as Nettle left the shop.

Mr. Gaunt observed all of this with great interest.

He walked over to Rosalie and said, “Mrs. Cobb has left without you, I’m afraid.”

Rosalie looked startled. “Why-” she began, and then her eyes settled on the newcomer with the Casino Nite button pinned adamantly between her breasts. She was studying the Turkish rug hung on the wall with the fixed interest of an art student in a gallery.

Her hands were planted on her vast hips. “Oh, ” Rosalie said.

“Excuse me, I really ought to go along.”

“No love lost between those two, I’d say,” Mr. Gaunt remarked.

Rosalie smiled distractedly.

Gaunt glanced at the woman in the kerchief again. “Who is she?”

Rosalie wrinkled her nose. “Wilma Jersyck,” she said. “Excuse me … I really ought to catch up with Nettle. She’s high-strung, you know.”

“Of course,” he said, and watched Rosalie out the door. To himself he added, Aren’t we all.”

Then Cora Rusk was tapping him on the shoulder. “How much is that picture of The King?” she demanded.

Leland Gaunt turned his dazzling smile upon her. “Well, let’s talk about it,” he said. “How much do you think it’s worth?”