Read Online Needful Things by Stephen King - Free Book Online

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 poupées, 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 splinter which had so amazed Brian announced it was 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—”
    â€œNot that big,” Polly protested. “My goodness!”
    â€œOkay,” 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?”
    â€œEven thinner.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYou’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 herfingers 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 grandfather’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.”
    â€œOh, I didn’t make it,” she said, “but I’ll convey the compliment to Nettie Cobb.