right, and so she does her duty. As I am doing mine.'
Three quick dull thumps as Annie dropped her knuckles on the manuscript — 190,000 words and five lives that a well and pain-free Paul Sheldon had cared deeply about, 190,000 words and five lives that he was finding more dispensable as each moment passed.
The pills. The pills. He had to have the goddam pills. The lives were shadows. The pills were not. They were real.
'Paul?'
'No!' h e sobbed.
The faint rattle of the capsules in their blisters — silence then the woody shuffle of the matches in their box.
'Paul?'
'No!'
'I'm waiting, Paul.'
Oh why in Christ's name are you doing this asshole Horatio-at-the-bridge act and who in Christ's name are you trying to impress? Do you think this is a movie or a TV show and you are getting graded by some audience on your bravery? You can do what she wants or you can hold out. If you hold out you'll die and then she'll burn the manuscript anyway. So what are you going to do, lie here and suffer for a book that would sell half as many copies as the least successful Misery book you ever wrote, and which Peter Prescott would shit upon in his finest genteel disparaging manner when he reviewed it for that great literary oracle, Newsweek ? Come on, come on, wise up! Even Galileo recanted when he saw they really meant to go through with it!
'Paul? I'm waiting. I can wait all day. Although I rather suspect that you may go into a coma before too long; I believe you are in a near-comatose state now, and I have had a lot of . . . '
Her voice droned away.
Yes! Give me the matches! Give me a blowtorch! Give me a Baby Huey and a load of napalm! I'll drop a tactical nuke on it if that's what you want, you fucking beldame!
So spoke the opportunist, the survivor. Yet another part, failing now, near-comatose itself, went wailing off into the darkness: A hundred and ninety thousand words! Five lives! Two years' work! And what was the real bottom line: The truth! What you knew about THE FUCKING TRUTH!
There was the creak of bedsprings as she stood up.
'Well! You are a very stubborn little boy, I must say, and I can't sit by your bed all night, as much as I might like to! After all, I've been driving for nearly an hour, hurrying to get back here. I'll drop by in a bit and see if you've changed y — '
' You burn it, then!' he yelled at her.
She turned and looked at him. 'No,' she said, 'I cannot do that, as much as I would like to and spare you the agony you feel.'
'Why not?'
'Because,' she said primly, 'you must do it of your own free will.'
He began to laugh then, and her face darkened for the first time since she had come back, and she left the room with the manuscript under her arm.
18
When she came back an hour later he took the matches.
She laid the title page on the grill. He tried to light one of the Blue Tips and couldn't because it kept missing the rough strip or falling out of his hand.
So Annie took the box and lit the match and put the lit match in his hand and he touched it to the comer of the paper and then let the match fall into the pot and watched, fascinated, as the flame tasted, then gulped. She had a barbecue fork with her this time, and when the page began to curl up, she poked it through the gaps in the grill.
'This is going to take forever,' he said. 'I can't — '
'No, we'll make quick work of it,' she said. 'But you must bum a few of the single pages, Paul — as a symbol of your understanding.'
She now laid the first page of Fast Cars on the grill, words he remembered writing some twenty-four months ago, in the New York townhouse: "'I don't have no wheels," Tony Bonasaro said, walking up to the girt coming down the steps, "and I am a slow learner, but I am a fast driver."'
Oh it brought that day back like the right Golden Oldie on the radio. He remembered walking around
Three quick dull thumps as Annie dropped her knuckles on the manuscript — 190,000 words and five lives that a well and pain-free Paul Sheldon had cared deeply about, 190,000 words and five lives that he was finding more dispensable as each moment passed.
The pills. The pills. He had to have the goddam pills. The lives were shadows. The pills were not. They were real.
'Paul?'
'No!' h e sobbed.
The faint rattle of the capsules in their blisters — silence then the woody shuffle of the matches in their box.
'Paul?'
'No!'
'I'm waiting, Paul.'
Oh why in Christ's name are you doing this asshole Horatio-at-the-bridge act and who in Christ's name are you trying to impress? Do you think this is a movie or a TV show and you are getting graded by some audience on your bravery? You can do what she wants or you can hold out. If you hold out you'll die and then she'll burn the manuscript anyway. So what are you going to do, lie here and suffer for a book that would sell half as many copies as the least successful Misery book you ever wrote, and which Peter Prescott would shit upon in his finest genteel disparaging manner when he reviewed it for that great literary oracle, Newsweek ? Come on, come on, wise up! Even Galileo recanted when he saw they really meant to go through with it!
'Paul? I'm waiting. I can wait all day. Although I rather suspect that you may go into a coma before too long; I believe you are in a near-comatose state now, and I have had a lot of . . . '
Her voice droned away.
Yes! Give me the matches! Give me a blowtorch! Give me a Baby Huey and a load of napalm! I'll drop a tactical nuke on it if that's what you want, you fucking beldame!
So spoke the opportunist, the survivor. Yet another part, failing now, near-comatose itself, went wailing off into the darkness: A hundred and ninety thousand words! Five lives! Two years' work! And what was the real bottom line: The truth! What you knew about THE FUCKING TRUTH!
There was the creak of bedsprings as she stood up.
'Well! You are a very stubborn little boy, I must say, and I can't sit by your bed all night, as much as I might like to! After all, I've been driving for nearly an hour, hurrying to get back here. I'll drop by in a bit and see if you've changed y — '
' You burn it, then!' he yelled at her.
She turned and looked at him. 'No,' she said, 'I cannot do that, as much as I would like to and spare you the agony you feel.'
'Why not?'
'Because,' she said primly, 'you must do it of your own free will.'
He began to laugh then, and her face darkened for the first time since she had come back, and she left the room with the manuscript under her arm.
18
When she came back an hour later he took the matches.
She laid the title page on the grill. He tried to light one of the Blue Tips and couldn't because it kept missing the rough strip or falling out of his hand.
So Annie took the box and lit the match and put the lit match in his hand and he touched it to the comer of the paper and then let the match fall into the pot and watched, fascinated, as the flame tasted, then gulped. She had a barbecue fork with her this time, and when the page began to curl up, she poked it through the gaps in the grill.
'This is going to take forever,' he said. 'I can't — '
'No, we'll make quick work of it,' she said. 'But you must bum a few of the single pages, Paul — as a symbol of your understanding.'
She now laid the first page of Fast Cars on the grill, words he remembered writing some twenty-four months ago, in the New York townhouse: "'I don't have no wheels," Tony Bonasaro said, walking up to the girt coming down the steps, "and I am a slow learner, but I am a fast driver."'
Oh it brought that day back like the right Golden Oldie on the radio. He remembered walking around
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