Read Online Insomnia by Stephen King - Free Book Online

with Lois on the park bench; the receptionist with the cool, sexy voice told him she could fit him in next Tuesday morning at ten, if that was okay, and Ralph told her that was fine as paint. Then he hung up, went into the living room, sat in the wing-chair that overlooked Harris Avenue, and thought about how Dr Litchfield had initially treated his wife’s brain tumor with Tylenol-3 and pamphlets explaining various relaxation techniques. From there he moved on to the look he’d seen in Litchfield’s eyes after the magnetic resonance imaging tests had confirmed the CAT scan’s bad news . . . that look of guilt and unease.
    Across the street, a bunch of kids who would soon be back in school came out of the Red Apple armed with candy bars and Slurpies. As Ralph watched them mount their bikes and tear away into the bright eleven o’clock heat, he thought what he always did when the memory of Dr Litchfield’s eyes surfaced: that it was most likely a false memory.
    The thing is, old buddy, you wanted Litchfield to look uneasy . . . but even more than that, you wanted him to look guilty.
    Quite possibly true, quite possibly Carl Litchfield was a peach of a guy and a helluva doctor, but Ralph still found himself calling Litchfield’s office again half an hour later. He told the receptionist with the sexy voice that he’d just rechecked his calendar and discovered next Tuesday at ten wasn’t so fine after all. He’d made an appointment with the podiatrist for that day and forgotten all about it.
    ‘My memory’s not what it used to be,’ Ralph told her.
    The receptionist suggested next Thursday at two.
    Ralph countered by promising to call back.
    Liar, liar, pants on fire, he thought as he hung up the phone, walked slowly back to the wing-chair, and lowered himself into it. You’re done with him, aren’t you?
    He supposed he was. Not that Dr Litchfield was apt to lose any sleep over it; if he thought about Ralph at all, it would be as one less old geezer to fart in his face during the prostate exam.
    All right, so what are you going to do about the insomnia, Ralph?
    ‘Sit quiet for half an hour before bedtime and listen to classical music,’ he said out loud. ‘Buy some Depends for those troublesome calls of nature.’
    He startled himself by laughing at the image. The laughter had a hysterical edge he didn’t much care for – it was damned creepy, as a matter of fact – but it was still a little while before he could make himself stop.
    Yet he supposed he would try Hamilton Davenport’s suggestion (although he would skip the diapers, thank you), as he had tried most of the folk remedies well-meaning people had passed on to him. This made him think of his first bona fide folk remedy, and that raised another grin.
    It had been McGovern’s idea. He had been sitting on the porch one evening when Ralph came back from the Red Apple with some noodles and spaghetti sauce, had taken one look at his upstairs neighbor and made a tsk-tsk sound, shaking his head dolefully.
    ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Ralph asked, taking the seat next to him. A little farther down the street, a little girl in jeans and an oversized white tee-shirt had been skipping rope and chanting in the growing gloom.
    ‘It means you’re looking folded, spindled, and mutilated,’ McGovern said. He used one thumb to tilt the Panama back on his head and looked more closely at Ralph. ‘Still not sleeping?’
    ‘Still not sleeping,’ Ralph agreed.
    McGovern was quiet for a few seconds. When he spoke again, he did so in a tone of absolute – almost apocalyptic, in fact – finality. ‘Whiskey is the answer,’ he said.
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘To your insomnia, Ralph. I don’t mean you should take a bath in it – there’s no need of that. Just mix a tablespoon of honey with half a shot of whiskey and hook it down fifteen or twenty minutes before you hit the hay.’
    ‘You think?’ Ralph had asked hopefully.
    ‘All I can say is