Christine

by Stephen King

  We'd see.

  50 / Petunia

  Something warm was running in my eyes

  But I found my baby somehow that night,

  I held her tight, I kissed her our last kiss. . .

  --J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers

  I drove about four blocks before the reaction set in, and then I had to pull over. I had the shakes, bad. Not even the heater, tinned up to full, could kill them. My breath came in harsh little gasps. I clutched myself to keep warm, but it seemed that I would never be warm again, never. That face, that horrible face, and Arnie buried somewhere inside, he's always here, Arnie had said, always except when--what? When Christine rolled by herself, of course. LeBay couldn't be both places at the same time. That was beyond even his powers.

  At last I was able to drive on again, and I wasn't even aware that I had been crying until I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the wet circles under my eyes.

  It was quarter of ten by the time I made it out to Johnny Pomberton's place. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing green gum-rubber boots and a heavy red-and-black-checked hunting jacket. An old hat with a grease-darkened bill was tilted up on his balding head as he studied the gray sky.

  "More snow comin, the radio says. Didn't know as you'd really be out, boy, but I brung her around forya just in case. What do you think of her?"

  I got my crutches under me again and got out of my car. Road salt gritted under the crutches' rubber tips, but the going felt safe. Standing in front of Johnny Pomberton's woodpile was one of the strangest-looking vehicles I've ever seen in my life. A faint, pungent odor, not exactly pleasant, drifted over from it to where we stood.

  At one time, far back in its career, it had been a GM product--or so the logo on its gigantic snout advertised. Now it was a little bit of everything. One thing it surely was, and that was big. The top of its grille would have been head-high on a tall man. Behind and over it, the cab loomed like a big square helmet. Behind that, supported by two sets of double wheels on each side, was a long, tubular body, like the body of a gasoline tanker truck.

  Except that I never saw a tanker truck before this one that was painted bright pink. The word petunia was written across the side in Gothic letters two feet high.

  "I don't know what to think of her," I said. "What is she?"

  Pomberton poked a Camel cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a quick flick of his horny thumbnail on the tip of a wooden match. "Kaka sucker," he said.

  "What?"

  He grinned. "Twenty-thousand-gallon capacity," he said. "She's a corker, is Petunia."

  "I don't get you." But I was starting to. There was an absurd, grisly irony to it that Arnie--the old Arnie--would have appreciated.

  I had asked Pomberton over the phone if he had a big, heavy truck to rent, and this was the biggest one currently in his yard. All four of his dump trucks were working, two in Libertyville and two others in Philly Hill. He'd had a grader, he explained to me, but it had had a nervous bustdown just after Christmas. He said he was having a devilish job keeping his trucks rolling since Darnell's Garage shut down.

  Petunia was essentially a tanker, no more and no less. Her job was pumping out septic systems.

  "How much does she weigh?" I asked Pomberton.

  He flicked away his cigarette. "Dry, or loaded with shit?"

  I gulped. "Which is it now?"

  He threw his head back and laughed. "Do you think I'd rentcher a loaded truck?" He pronounced it ludded truck. "Naw, naw--she's dry, dry as a bone and all hosed out. Sure she is. Still a little fragrant, though, ain't she?"

  I sniffed. She was fragrant, all right.

  "It could be a lot worse," I said. "I guess."

  "Sure," Pomberton said. "You bet. Old Petunia's original pedigree was lost long ago, but what's on her current registration is eighteen thousand pounds, GVW."

  "What's that?"

  "Gross vehicle weight," he said. "If they pull you over on the Interstate and you weigh more than eighteen thousand, the ICC gets upset. Dry, she prob'ly goes around, I dunno, eight-nine thousand pounds. She's got a five-speed tranny with a two-speed differential, givin you ten forward speeds all told . . . if you can run a clutch."

  He cast a dubious eye up and down my crutches and lit another cigarette.

  "Can you run a clutch?"

  "Sure," I said with a straight face. "If it isn't really stiff." But for how long? That was the question.

  "Well, that's your business and I won't mess into it." He looked at me brightly. "I'll give you ten percent discount for cash, on account of I don't usually report cash transactions to my favorite uncle."

  I checked my wallet and found four twenties and four tens. "How much did you say for one day?"

  "How does ninety bucks sound?"

  I gave it to him. I had been prepared to pay a hundred and twenty.

  "What are you going to do with your Duster there?"

  It hadn't even crossed my mind until just now. "Could I leave it here? Just for today?"

  "Sure," Pomberton said, "you can leave it here all week, I don't give a shit. Just put it around the back and leave the keys in it in case I have to move it."

  I drove around back where there was a wilderness of cannibalized truck parts poking out of the deep snow like bones from white sand. It took me nearly ten minutes to work my way back around on my crutches. I could have done it faster if I'd used my left leg a bit, but I wouldn't do that. I was saving it for Petunia's clutch.

  I approached Petunia, feeling dread gather in my stomach like a small black cloud. I had no doubt it would stop Christine--if she really showed up at Darnell's Garage tonight and if I could drive the damned truck. I had never driven anything that big in my life, although the summer before I'd gotten some hours in on a bulldozer and Brad Jeffries had let me try the payloader a couple of times after knocking off for the day.

  Pomberton stood there in his checked jacket, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his workpants, watching me with wise eyes. I got over to the driver's side, grabbed the doorhandle, and slipped a little. He took a step or two toward me.

  "I can make it."

  "Sure," he said.

  I jammed the crutch into my armpit again, my breath frosting out in quick little gasps, and pulled the door open. Holding onto the door's inside handle with my left hand and balancing on my right leg like a stork, I threw my crutches into the cab and then followed them. The keys were in the ignition, the shift pattern printed on the stick. I slammed the door, pushed the clutch down with my left leg--not much pain, so far so good--and started Petunia up. Her engine sounded like a full field of stackers at Philly Plains.

  Pomberton strolled over. "Little noisy, ain't she?" he yelled.

  "Sure!" I screamed back.

  "You know," he bellowed, "I doubt like hell if you got an I on your license, boy." An / on your license meant that the state had tested you on the big trucks. I had an A for motorcycles (much to my mother's horror) but no I.

  I grinned down at him. "You never checked because I looked trustworthy."

  He smiled back. "Sure."

  I revved the engine a little. Petunia blew off two brisk backfires that were almost as loud as mortar blasts.

  "You mind if I ask what you want that truck for? None of my business, I know."

  "Just what it was meant for," I said.

  "Beggin your pardon?"

  "I want to get rid of some shit," I said.

  I had something of a scare going downhill from Pomberton's place; even dry and empty, that baby really got rolling. I seemed incredibly high up--able to look down on the roofs of the cars I passed. Driving through downtown Libertyville, I felt as conspicuous as a baby whale in a goldfish pond. It didn't help any that Pomberton's septic pumper was painted that bright pink color. I got some amused glances.

  My left leg had begun to ache a little, but running through Petunia's unfamiliar shift pattern in the stop-and-go downtown traffic kept my mind off it. A more surprising ach
e was developing in my shoulders and across my chest; it came from simply piloting Petunia through traffic. The truck was not equipped with power steering, and that wheel really turned hard.

  I turned off Main, onto Walnut, and then into the parking lot behind the Western Auto. I got carefully down from Petunia's cab, slammed her door (my nose had already become used to the faint odor she gave off), set my crutches under me, and went in the back entrance.

  I got the three garage keys off Jimmy's ring and took them over to the key-making department. For one-eighty, I got two copies of each. I put the new keys in one pocket, Jimmy's ring, with his original keys reattached, in the other. I went out the front door, onto Main Street, and down to the Libertyville Lunch, where there was a pay telephone. Overhead, the sky was grayer and more lowering than ever. Pomberton was right. There would be snow.

  Inside, I ordered a coffee and Danish and got change for the telephone booth. I went inside, closed the door clumsily behind me, and called Leigh. She answered on the first ring.

  "Dennis! Where are you?"

  "The Libertyville Lunch. Are you alone?"

  "Yes. Dad's at work and Mom went grocery shopping. Dennis, I . . . I almost told her everything. I started thinking about her parking at the A&P and crossing the parking lot, and . . . I don't know, what you said about Arnie leaving town didn't seem to matter. It still made sense, but it didn't seem to matter. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

  "Yes," I said, thinking about giving Ellie a lift down to Tom's the night before, even though my leg was aching like hell by then. "I know exactly what you mean."

  "Dennis, it can't go on like this. I'll go crazy. Are we still going to try your idea?"

  "Yes," I said. "Leave your mom a note, Leigh. Tell her you have to be gone for a little while. Don't say any more than that. When you're not home for supper, your folks will probably call mine. Maybe they'll decide we ran off and eloped."

  "Maybe that's not such a bad idea," she said, and laughed in a way that gave me prickles. "I'll see you."

  "Hey, one other thing. Is there any pain-killer in your house? Darvon? Anything like that?"

  "There's some Darvon from the time Dad threw his back out," she said. "Is it your leg, Dennis?"

  "It hurts a little."

  "How much is a little?"

  "It's really okay."

  "No B.S.?"

  "No B.S. And after tonight I'll give it a nice long rest, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Get here as quick as you can."

  She came in as I was ordering a second cup of coffee, wearing a fur-fringed parka and a pair of faded jeans. The jeans were tucked into battered Frye boots. She managed to look both sexy and practical. Heads turned.

  "Looking good," I said, and kissed her temple.

  She passed me a bottle of gray and pink gel capsules. "You don't look so hot, though, Dennis. Here."

  The waitress, a woman of about fifty with iron-gray hair, came over with my coffee. The cup sat placidly, an island in a small brown pond in the saucer. "Why aren't you kids in school?" she asked.

  "Special dispensation," I said gravely. She stared at me.

  "Coffee, please," Leigh said, pulling off her gloves. As the waitress went back behind the counter with an audible sniff, she leaned toward me and said, "It would be pretty funny if we got picked up by the truant officer, wouldn't it?"

  "Hilarious," I said, thinking that, in spite of the radiance the cold had given her, Leigh really wasn't looking all that good. I didn't think either of us really would be until this thing was over. There were small strain-lines around her eyes, as if she had slept poorly the night before.

  "So what do we do?"

  "We get rid of it," I said. "Wait until you see your chariot, madam."

  *

  "My God!" Leigh said, staring at Petunia's hot-pink magnificence. It hulked silently in the Western Auto parking lot, dwarfing a Chevy van on one side and a Volkswagen on the other. "What is it?"

  "Kaka sucker," I said with a straight face.

  She looked at me, puzzled . . . and then she burst into hysterical gales of laughter. I wasn't sorry to see it happen. When I had told her about my confrontation with Arnie in the student parking lot that morning, those strain-lines on her face had grown deeper and deeper, her lips whitening as they pressed together.

  "I know that it looks sort of ridiculous--" I said now.

  "That's putting it mildly," she replied, still giggling and hiccupping.

  "--but it'll do the job, if anything will."

  "Yes. Yes, I suppose it should. And . . . it's not exactly unfitting, is it?"

  I nodded. "I had that thought."

  "Well, let's get in," she said. "I'm cold."

  She climbed up into the cab ahead of me, her nose wrinkling. "Ag," she said.

  I smiled. "You get used to it." I handed her my crutches and climbed laboriously up behind the wheel. The pain in my left leg had subsided from a series of sharp clawings to a dull throb again; I had taken two Darvon back in the restaurant "Dennis, is your leg going to be all right?"

  "It'll have to be," I said, and slammed the door.

  51 / Christine

  As I sd to my

  friend, because I am

  always talking,--John I

  sd, which was not his

  name, the darkness sur—

  rounds us, what

  can we do against

  it, or else, shall we &

  why not, buy a goddamn big car,

  drive, he sd, for

  Christ's sake, look

  out where yr going.

  --Robert Creeley

  It was eleven-thirty or so when we pulled out of the Western Auto parking lot. The first spats of snow were coming down. I drove across town to the Sykeses' house, shifting more easily now as the Darvon took hold.

  The house was dark and locked, Mrs. Sykes maybe at work, Jimmy maybe off collecting his unemployment or something. Leigh found a crumpled-up envelope in her handbag, scratched off her address and wrote Jimmy Sykes across the front in her slanting, pretty hand. She put Jimmy's keyring into the envelope, folded in the flap, and slipped it through the letter-slot in the front door. While she did that, I let Petunia idle in neutral, resting my leg.

  "What now?" she asked, climbing back into the cab. "Another phone call," I said.

  Out near the intersection of JFK Drive and Crescent Avenue, I found a telephone booth. I got carefully out of the truck, holding on until Leigh handed down my crutches. Then I made my way carefully through the thickening snow to the booth. Seen through the dirty phone-booth glass and the swirling snow, Petunia looked like some strange pink dinosaur.

  I called Horlicks University and went through the switchboard to get Michael's office. Arnie had told me once that his dad was a real office drone, always brown-bagging it at lunch and staying in. Now, as the phone was picked up on the second ring, I blessed him for it.

  "Dennis! I tried to reach you at home! Your mom said--"

  "Where's he going?" My stomach was cold. It wasn't until then--at that exact moment--that all of it began to seem completely real to me, and I began to think that this crazy confrontation was going to come off.

  "How did you know he was going? You've got to tell me--"

  "I don't have time for questions, and I couldn't answer them anyway. Where is he going?"

  Slowly, he said, "He and Regina are going to Penn State this afternoon right after school. Arnie called her this morning and asked her if she'd go with him. He said . . ." He paused, thinking. "He said he felt as if he'd suddenly come to his senses. He said it just sort of hit him as he was going to school this morning that if he didn't do something definite about college, it might slip away from him. He told her he'd decided Penn State was the best bet and asked her if she'd like to go up with him and talk to the dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, and to some of the people in the history and philosophy department."

  The booth was cold. My hands were starting to go
numb. Leigh was high up in Petunia's wheelhouse, watching me anxiously. How well you arranged things, Arnie, I thought. Still the chess-player. He was manipulating his mother, putting her on strings and making her dance. I felt some pity for her, but not as much as I might have felt. How many times had Regina herself been the manipulator, dancing others across her stage like so many Punch and Judys? Now, while she was half-distracted with fear and shame, LeBay had dangled in front of her eyes the one thing absolutely guaranteed to make her come running: the possibility that things might just be returning to normal.

  "And did all that ring true to you?" I asked Michael.

  "Of course not!" he burst out. "It wouldn't have rung true to her, if she was thinking straight! With college admissions what they are today, Penn State would enroll him in July, if he had the money for tuition and the College Board scores--and Arnie has both He talked as if this were the fifties instead of the seventies!"

  "When are they leaving?"

  "She's going to meet him at the high school after period six; that's what she said when she called me. He's getting a dismissal slip."

  That meant they would be leaving Libertyville in less than an hour and a half. So I asked the last question, even though I already knew the answer. "They're not taking Christine, are they?"

  "No, they're going in the station wagon. She was delirious with joy, Dermis. Delirious. That business of getting her to go with him to Penn State . . . that was inspired. Wild horses wouldn't have kept Regina from a chance like that. Dennis, what's going on? Please."

  "Tomorrow," I said. "That's a promise. Firm. Meantime, you've got to do something for me. It could be a matter of life and death for my family and for Leigh Cabot's family. You--"

  "Oh my God," he said hoarsely. He spoke in the voice of a man for whom a great light has just dawned. "He's been gone every time--except when the Welch boy was killed, and that time he was . . . Regina saw him asleep, and I'm sure she wasn't lying about that . . . Dennis, who's driving that car? Who's using Christine to kill people when Arnie isn't here?'