Read Online Cujo by Stephen King - Free Book Online

flush flared high on his cheekbones. She had seen him look this way on the tennis courts behind the Bridgton Academy buildings, sometimes. When he blew an easy point. She had watched him play several times—including two sets during which he had mopped up her panting, puffing husband with ease—and on the few occasions she had seen him lose, his reaction had made her extremely uneasy about what she had gotten into with him. He had published poems in over two dozen little magazines, and a book, Chasing Sundown, had beenpublished by an outfit in Baton Rouge called The Press over the Garage. He had graduated from Drew, in New Jersey; he held strong opinions on modern art, the upcoming nuclear referendum question in Maine, the films of Andy Warhol, and he took a double fault the way Tad took the news it was bedtime.
    Now he came after her, grabbed her shoulder, and spun her around to face him. The carton of milk fell from her hand and split open on the floor.
    â€œThere, look at that,” Donna said. “Nice going, hotshot.”
    â€œListen, I’m not going to be pushed around. Do you—”
    â€œYou get out of here!” she screamed into his face. Her spittle sprayed his cheeks and his forehead. “What do I have to do to convince you? Do you need a picture? You’re not welcome here! Go be God’s gift to some other woman!”
    â€œYou cheap, cockteasing little bitch,” he said. His voice was sullen, his face ugly. He didn’t let go of her arm.
    â€œAnd take the bureau with you. Pitch it in the dump.”
    She pulled free of him and got the washrag from its place, hung over the sink faucet. Her hands were trembling, her stomach was upset, and she was starting to get a headache. She thought that soon she would vomit.
    She got down on her hands and knees and began wiping up the spilt milk.
    â€œYeah, you think you’re something,” he said. “When did your crotch turn to gold? You loved it. You screamed for more.”
    â€œYou’ve got the right tense, anyway, champ,” she said, not looking up. Her hair hung in her face and she liked it that way just fine. She didn’t want him to see how pale and sick her face was. She felt as if someone had pushed her into a nightmare. She felt that if she looked at herself in a mirror at this moment she would see an ugly, capering witch. “Get out, Steve. I’m not going to tell you again.”
    â€œAnd what if I don’t? You going to call Sheriff Bannerman? Sure. Just say, ‘Hi, there, George, this is Mr. Businessman’s wife, and the guy I’ve been screwing on the side won’t leave. Would you please come on up here and roust him?’ That what you’re going to say?”
    The fright went deep now. Before marrying Vic, she had been a librarian in the Westchester school system, and her own private nightmare had always been telling the kids forthe third time—in her loudest speaking voice—to quiet down at once, please. When she did that, they always had—enough for her to get through the period, at least—but what if they wouldn’t? That was her nightmare. What if they absolutely wouldn’t? What did that leave? The question scared her. It scared her that such a question should ever have to be asked, even to oneself, in the dark of night. She had been afraid to use her loudest voice, and had done so only when it became absolutely necessary. Because that was where civilization came to an abrupt, screeching halt. That was the place where the tar turned to dirt. If they wouldn’t listen when you used your very loudest voice, a scream became your only recourse.
    This was the same sort of fear. The only answer to the man’s question, of course, was that she would scream if he came near her. But would she?
    â€œGo,” she said in a lower voice. “Please. It’s over.”
    â€œWhat if I decide it isn’t? What if I decide to just rape you