Rose Madder

by Stephen King

  Normie, you've gone crazy, that calm, lucid voice said now. By the standards of the courtrooms where you've testified thousands of times, you're as nutty as a Payday candybar. You know that, don't you?

  Faintly, blowing to him on the breeze off the lake: "Ahoy for terror, matey!"

  Normie?

  "Yeah," he whispered. He began to massage his aching temples with the tips of his fingers. "Yeah, I guess I do know that."

  All right; a person can work with his handicaps ... if he's willing to acknowledge them. You have to find out where she is, and that means taking a risk. But you took a risk just coming here, right?

  "Yeah, " he said. "Yeah, Daddy, I did. "

  Okay, the bullshit stops here. Listen up, Normie.

  Norman listened up.

  9

  Gert pushed Stan Huggins on the swings for a little while longer, his cries for her to "loop him around the loop some more" becoming steadily more tiresome. She had no intention of doing that again; the first time he'd damned near fallen out, and for one second Gert had been sure she was going to drop dead of a heart attack.

  Also, her mind had returned to the guy. The bald guy.

  Did she know him from somewhere? Did she?

  Could it have been Rosie's husband?

  Oh, that's insane. Paranoia deluxe.

  Probably, yeah. Almost certainly. But the idea nibbled. The size looked about right ... although when you were looking at a guy in a wheelchair it was hard to tell, wasn't it? A man like Rosie's husband would know that, of course.

  Quit it. You're jumping at shadows.

  Stan tired of the swings and asked Gert if she'd climb on the jungle gym with him. She smiled and shook her head.

  "Why not?" he asked, pouting.

  "Because your old pal Gert hasn't had a jungle gym body since she ditched the diapers and rubber pants," she said. She saw Randi Franklin over by the slide and suddenly made a decision. If she didn't chase this a little, it would drive her nuts. She asked Randi if she'd keep an eye on Stan for awhile. The young woman said sure and Gert called her an angel, which Randi definitely was not ... but a little positive reinforcement never hurt anyone.

  "Where you goin, Gert?" Stan asked, clearly disappointed.

  "Got to run an errand, big boy. Chase on over there and slide awhile with Andrea and Paul."

  "Slidin's for babies," Stan said morosely, but he went.

  10

  Gert walked up the path which led from the picnic area to the main drag, and when she got there she made her way to the entrance booths. There were long lines at both the All-Day and the Half-Day, and she was nearly positive the man she wanted to talk to would not be helpful--she had already seen him in operation.

  The back door of the All-Day booth was open. Gert stood where she was a moment longer, gathering her resolve, and then marched toward it. She had no official capacity at Daughters and Sisters, never had, but she loved Anna, who had helped her out of a relationship with a man who had sent her to the emergency room nine times when Gert had been between the ages of sixteen and nineteen. Now she was thirty-seven, and had been Anna's informal second-in-command for almost fifteen years. Teaching battered newcomers what Anna had taught her--that they didn't have to keep going back to abusive husbands and boyfriends and fathers and step-parents-was only one of her functions. She taught self-defense skills (not because they saved lives but because they salvaged dignity); she helped Anna plan fund-raisers like this one; she worked with Anna's frail and elderly accountant to keep the place on something which resembled a paying basis. And when there was security work to be done, she tried her best to do it. It was in this capacity that she moved forward now, unsnapping the clasp of her handbag as she did so. It was Gert's traveling office.

  "Beg pardon, sir," she said, leaning in the open back door. "Could I speak to you a second?"

  "Customer Service booth is to the left of the Haunted Ship," he said without turning around. "If you have a problem, go there."

  "You don't understand," Gert said. She took a deep breath and worked to speak evenly. "This is a problem only you can help me with."

  "That's twenty-four dollars," the ticket-agent said to the young couple on the other side of the window, "and six is your change. Enjoy your day." To Gert, still without turning his head: "I'm busy here, lady, in case you didn't notice. So if you want to complain about how the games are rigged, or something of that nature, you just toddle on down to Customer Service and--"

  That was it; Gert had no intention of listening to this guy tell her to toddle anywhere, especially not in that insufferable the-world-is-full-of-fools voice. Maybe the world was full of fools, but she wasn't one of them, and she knew something this self-important idiot didn't: Peter Slowik had been bitten over eighty times, and it wasn't impossible that the man who had done it was here right now, looking around for his wife. She stepped into the booth--it was a squeeze, but she made it--and seized the agent by the shoulders of his blue uniform shirt. She turned him around. The name-tag on the breast pocket of his shirt said CHRIS. Chris stared into the dark moon of Gert Kinshaw's face, astonished to be touched by a customer. He opened his mouth, but Gert spoke before he got a chance.

  "Shut up and listen. I think there's a chance that you sold a day-pass to a very dangerous man this morning. A murderer. So don't bother telling me how tough your day's been, Chris, because I don't ... fucking .. care."

  Chris looked at her, bug-eyed with surprise. Before he could recover either his voice or his attitude, Gert had taken a slightly blurred fax photograph from her oversized purse and shoved it under his eyes. Detective Norman Daniels, who led the drug-busting undercover task force, read the caption beneath.

  "You want Security," Chris said. His tone was both injured and apprehensive. Behind him, the man now at the head of the line--he was wearing an idiotic Mr. Magoo hat and a teeshirt reading WORLD'S GREATEST GRANDPA--abruptly raised a videocam and began to shoot, possibly anticipating a confrontation that would land his footage on one of the network reality shows.

  If I'd known how much fun this was going to be, I never would have hesitated at all, Gert thought.

  "No, I don't want them, not yet, anyway; I want you. Please. Just take one good look and tell me--"

  "Lady, if you knew how many people I see in a single d--"

  "Think about a guy in a wheelchair. Early. Before the rush, okay? Big guy. Bald. You leaned out of the booth and yelled after him. He came back. He must have forgotten his change, or something."

  A light had gone on in Chris's eyes. "No, that wasn't it," he said. "He thought he was giving me the right money. I know he did, because it was a ten and two ones. He either forgot the handicapped price of an all-day pass, or he never noticed it."

  Yeah, Gert thought. Just the kind of thing a man who's only pretending to be a cripple might forget, if his mind was on other things.

  Mr. Magoo, apparently deciding there wasn't going to be a punchup after all, lowered his videocam. "Would you sell me a ticket for me and my grandson, please?" he asked through the speaker-hole.

  "Hold your water," Chris said. He was an all-around charmer if Gert had ever met one, but this was not the time to offer him helpful hints on how he could upgrade his performance. This was a time for diplomacy. When he turned back to her, looking weary and put-upon, she held out the picture again and spoke in a soft tell-me-o-wise-one voice.

  "Was this the man in the wheelchair? Imagine him without hair."

  "Aw, lady, come on! He was wearing sunglasses, too."

  "Try. He's dangerous. If there's even a chance he's here, I will have to talk to your Security people."

  Boink, a mistake. She knew it almost at once, but that was still a couple of seconds too late. The flicker in his eyes was brief but still hard to misunderstand. If she wanted to go to Security about some problem that didn't concern him, that was fine. If it did concern him, even tangentially, it wasn't fine. He'd had trouble with Security before, maybe, or maybe he'd just been re
primanded about being a short-tempered asshole. In either case, he had decided this whole business was an aggravation he didn't need.

  "It isn't the guy," he said. He'd taken the photo for a closer look. Now he attempted to hand it back. Gert raised her hands with her palms against her chest, above the formidable swell of her bosom, refusing to take it, at least for the time being.

  "Please," she said. "If he's here, he's looking for a friend of mine, and not because he wants to take her on the Ferris Wheel."

  "Hey!" someone shouted from the growing All-Day line. "Let's go, let's go!"

  There were cries of agreement, and Monsieur World's Greatest Grandpa raised his videocam again. This time he seemed interested only in capturing Gert's new friend, Mr. Congeniality, on tape. Gert saw Chris look at him, saw the color mounting into his cheeks, saw the abortive move to cover the side of his face with his hand, like a crook coming out of the county courthouse after his arraignment. Any chance she might have had of finding something out here had now passed.

  "It's not the guy!" Chris snapped. "Completely different! Now get your fat ass out of here, or I'll have you tossed out of the park."

  "Look who's talking," Gert sniffed. "I could set a twelve-course meal on what you're carrying behind you and never drop a single fork down the crack in the middle."

  "Get out! Right now!"

  Gert stalked back toward the picnic area, her cheeks flaming. She felt like a fool. How could she have blown that so badly? She tried to tell herself it was the place--too loud, too confusing, too many people running around like lunatics, trying to have fun--but it wasn't the place. She was scared, that was why it had happened. The idea that Rosie's husband might have killed Peter Slowik was bad, but the idea that he might be right here today, masquerading as a paralyzed iron horseman, was a thousand times worse. She had run into craziness before, but craziness combined with this degree of craft and obsessive determination ...

  Where was Rosie, anyhow? Not here, that was all Gert knew for sure. Not here yet, she amended to herself.

  "I blew it," she muttered aloud, and then remembered what she told almost all the women who came to D & S: If you know it, own it.

  All right, she'd own it. That meant Pier Security was out, at least for the time being--convincing them might be impossible, and even if she succeeded, it might take too long. She had seen the bald biker in the wheelchair hanging around the picnic, though, talking to several people, most of them women. Lana Kline had even brought him something to eat. Ice cream, it had looked like.

  Gert hurried back to the picnic area, needing to pee now but ignoring it. She looked for Lana or for any of the women who'd been talking to the bald guy, but it was like looking for a cop--there was never one around when you needed one.

  And now she really had to go; it was killing her. Why had she drunk so goddam much iced tea?

  11

  Norman rolled slowly back down the amusement park midway and toward the picnic area. The women were still eating, but not for much longer--he could see the first dessert trays being passed. He'd have to move fast if he wanted to act while most of them were still in one place. He wasn't worried, though; the worry had passed. He knew just where to go in order to find one woman alone, one woman he could talk to up close. Women can't stay away from bathrooms, Normie, his father had once told him. They're like dogs that can't pass a single damn lilac bush without stopping to squat and piddle.

  Norman wheeled his chair briskly past the sign reading TO COMFORT STATIONS.

  Just one, he thought. Just one walking by herself, one who can tell me where Rose has gone if she's not here. If it's San Francisco, I'll follow her there. If it's Tokyo, I'll follow her there. And if it's hell, I'll follow her there. Why not? That's where we're going to end up, anyway, and probably keeping house together.

  He passed through a little grove of ornamental firs and went freewheeling down a mild slope toward a windowless brick building with a door at either end--men on the right, women on the left. Norman rolled his chair past the door marked WOMEN and parked on the far side of the building. This was a very satisfactory location, in Norman's view--a narrow strip of bare earth, a line of plastic garbage cans, and a high stake privacy fence. He got out of the wheelchair and peered around the corner of the building, sliding his head out farther and farther until he could see the path. He felt all right again, calm and settled. His head still ached, but the pain had receded to a dull throb.

  A pair of women came out of the toy grove--no good. That was the worst thing about his current stakeout position, of course, the way women so often went to the john in pairs. What did they do in there, for Chrissake? Finger each other?

  These two went in. Norman could hear them through the nearest vent, laughing and talking about someone named Fred. Fred did this, Fred did that, Fred did the other thing. Apparently Fred was quite the boy. Every time the one doing most of the talking paused for breath the other one would giggle, a sound so jagged it made Normal feel as if someone were rolling his brain in broken glass the way a baker would roll a doughnut in sugar. He stood where he was, though, so he could watch the path, and he stood perfectly still, except for his hands, which opened and closed, opened and closed.

  At last they came out, still talking about Fred and still giggling, walking so close together that their hips brushed and their shoulders touched, and Norman found himself hard-put to keep from rushing after them and seizing their slutwhore heads, one head for the palm of each hand, so he could bring them together and shatter them like a couple of pumpkins stuffed full of high explosive.

  "Don't, " he whispered to himself. Sweat ran down his face in large, clear droplets and stood out all over his freshly shaven skull. "Oh don't, not now, for Christ's sake don't lose it now. " He was shivering, and his headache had come back full force, pounding like a fist. The bright zigzags boogied and hustled around the edges of his vision, and his nose had begun to leak from the right nostril.

  The next woman who came into view was alone, and Norman recognized her--white hair on top, ugly varicose veins on the bottom. The woman who'd given him the Yogurt Pop.

  I got a pop for you, he thought, tensing as she started down the concrete path. I got a pop for you, and if you don't give me the answers I'm looking for, and right away, you're apt to find yourself eating every goddam inch of it.

  Then someone else came out of the little grove of trees. Norman had seen her, too--the fat, nosy bitch in the red jumper, the one who had looked him over when the guy in the booth called him back. Once again he felt that maddening sense of recognition, like a name that dances impudently on your tongue, darting back every time you try to catch it. Did he know her? If only his head wasn't aching--

  She still had her oversized purse, the one which looked more like a briefcase, and she was pawing around in it. What you looking for, Fat Girl? Norman thought. Couple of Twinkies? A few Mallow Cremes? Maybe a--

  And suddenly, just like that, he had it. He'd read about her in the library, in a newspaper article about Daughters and Sisters. There had been a picture of her crouched down in some asshole karate posture, looking more like a doublewide trailer than Bruce Lee. She was the bitch who told the reporter men weren't their enemies ... "but if they hit, we hit back. " Gert. He didn't remember the last one, but her first name had been Gert.

  Get out of here, Gert, Norman thought at the big black woman in the red jumper. His hands were tightly clenched, the nails digging into his palms.

  But she didn't. "Lana!" she called instead. "Hey, Lana!"

  The white-haired woman turned, then walked back to Fat Girl, who looked like The Fridge in a dress. He watched the white-haired woman named Lana lead old Dirty Gertie back into the trees. Gertie was holding something out to her as they went. It looked like a piece of paper.

  Norman armed sweat out of his eyes and waited for Lana to finish her confab with Gert and come down to the toilet. On the other side of the grove, in the picnic area, desserts were now being finished up, and
when they were gone, the trickle of women coming down here to use the bathroom would become a flood. If his luck didn't change, and change soon, this could turn into a real mess.

  "Come on, come on, " Norman muttered under his breath, and as if in answer, someone came out of the trees and started down the path. It was neither Gert nor Lana the Yogurt Pop lady, but it was someone else Norman recognized, just the same--one of the whores he'd seen in the garden on the day he'd reconned Daughters and Sisters. It was the one with the tu-tone rock-star hair. The bold bitch had even waved at him.

  Scared the hell out of me, too, he thought, but turnabout's fair play, isn't it? Come on, now. Just come on down here to Papa.

  Norman felt himself getting hard, and his headache was entirely gone. He stood as still as a statue, with one eye peeking around the corner of the building, praying that Gert would not pick this particular moment to come back, praying that the girl with the half-green, half-orange hair wouldn't change her mind. No one came out of the trees and the girl with the fucked-up hair kept approaching. Ms. Punky-Grungy Scumbucket of 1994, come into my parlor said the spider to the fly, closer and closer, and now she was reaching out for the doorhandle but the door never opened because Norman's hand closed on Cynthia's thin wrist before she could touch the handle.

  She looked at him, startled, her eyes opening wide.

  "Come around here," he said, dragging her after him. "Come on around here so I can talk to you. So I can talk to you up close. "

  12

  Gert Kinshaw was hurrying for the bathroom, almost running, when--wonder of wonders--she saw the very woman she'd been looking for just ahead. She immediately opened her capacious purse and began hunting for the photograph.

  "Lana!" she called. "Hey, Lana!"

  Lana came back up the path. "I'm looking for Cathy Sparks," she said. "Have you seen her?"

  "Sure, she's throwing horseshoes," Gert said, cocking a thumb back toward the picnic area. "Saw her not two minutes ago."