'No。 No； I wouldn't。'
And he probably wouldn't； she thought。 Suddenly she felt both sad and old。 When she had called Holly Saturday morning to ask her if they could e； Holly had been delighted； and her delight had made Charity feel young。 It was strange that her own son's delight； his almost palpable euphoria； would make her feel old。 Nevertheless 。。。
What exactly is there going to be for him？ she asked herself； studying his ghostlike face； which was superimposed over the moving scenery like a camera trick。 He was bright； brighter than she was and much brighter than Joe。
He ought to go to college； but she knew that when he got to high school Joe would press him to sign up for the shop and automotive maintenance courses so he could be more help around the place。 Ten years ago he wouldn't have been able to get away with it； the guidance counselors wouldn't have allowed a bright boy like Brett to opt for all manual trades course； but in these days of phase electives and do your own thing； she was terribly afraid it might happen。
It made her afraid。 Once she had been able to tell herself that school was far away； so very far away … high school； real school。 Grammar school was nothing but play to a boy who slipped through his lessons as easily as Brett did。 But in high school the business of irrevocable choices began。 Doors slipped shut with a faint locking click that was only heard clearly in the dreams of later years。
She gripped her elbows and shivered； not even kidding herself that it was because the Hound's air conditioning was turned up too high。
For Brett； high school was now just four years away。
She shivered again and suddenly found herself wishing viciously that she had never won the money； or that she had lost the ticket。 They had only been away from Joe for an hour； but it was the first time she had really been separated from him since they had married in late 1966。 She hadn't realized that perspective would be so sudden； so dizzying and so bitter。 Picture this： Woman and boy are let free from the brooding castle keep 。。。 but there's a catch。 Stapled to their backs are large books； and slipped over the ends of the hooks are heavy…duty invisible rubber bands。 And before you can get too far； presto…whizzo！ You're snapped back inside for another fourteen years！
She made a little croaking sound in her throat。
'Did you say something； Mom？'
'No。 just clearing my throat。'
She shivered a third time； and this time her arms broke out in gooseflesh。 She had recalled a line of poetry from one of her own high school English classes （she had wanted to take the college courses； but her father had been furious at the idea … did she think they were rich？ … and her mother had laughed the idea to death gently and pityingly）。 It was from a poem by Dylan Thomas； and she couldn't remember the whole thing； but it had been something about moving through dooms of love。
That line had seemed funny and perplexing to her then； but she thought she understood it now。 What else did you call that heavy…duty invisible rubber hand； if not love？ Was she going to kid herself and say that she did not； even now； in some way love the man she had married？ That she stayed with him only out of duty； or for the sake of the child （that was a bitter laugh； if she ever left him it would be for the sake of the child）？ That he had never pleasured her in bed？ That he could not； sometimes at the most unexpected moments （like the one back at the bus station）； be tender？
And yet 。。。 and yet 。。。
Brett was looking out the window； enrapt。 Without turning from the view； he said； 'You think Cujo's all right； Mom？'
'I'm sure he's fine；' she said absently。
For the first time she found herself thinking about divorce in a concrete way … what she could do to support herself and her son； how they would get along in such an unthinkable （almost unthinkable） situation。 If she and Brett didn't e home from this trip； would he e after them； as he had vaguely threatened back in Portland？ Would he decide to let Charity go to the bad but try to get Brett back by fair means 。。。 or foul？
She began to tick the various possibilities over in her mind； weighing them； suddenly thinking that maybe a little perspective wasn't such a bad thing after all。 Painful； maybe。 Maybe useful； too。
The Greyhound slipped across the state line into New Hampshire and rolled on south。
The Delta 727 rose steeply； buttonhooked over Castle Rock …Vic always looked for his house near Castle Lake and 117； always fruitlessly … and then headed back toward the coast。 It was a twenty…minute run to Logan Airport。
Donna was down there； some eighteen thousand feet below。 And the Tadder。 He felt a sudden depression mixed with a black premonition that it wasn't going to work； that they were crazy to even think it might。 When your house blew down； you had to build a new house。 You couldn't put the old one back together again with Elmer's Glue。
The stewardess came by。 He and Roger were riding in first class （'Might as well enjoy it while we can； buddy；' Roger had said last Wednesday when he made the reservations； 'not everyone can go to the poorfarm in such impeccable style'）； and there were only four or five other passengers； most of them reading the morning paper … as was Roger。
'Can I get you anything？' she asked Roger with that professional twinkly smile that seemed to say she had been overjoyed to get up this morning at five thirty to make the upsy…downsy run from Bangor to Portland to Boston to New York to Atlanta。
Roger shook his head absently； and she turned that unearthly smile on Vic。 'Anything for you； sir？ Sweet roll？ Orange juice？'
'Could you rustle up a screwdriver？' Vic asked； and Roger's head came out of his paper with a snap。
The stew's smile didn't falter； a request for a drink before nine in the morning was no news to her。 'I can rustle one up；' she said； 'but you'll have to hustle to get it all down。 It's really only a hop to Boston。'
'I'll hustle；' Vic promised solemnly； and she passed on her way back up to the galley； resplendent in her powder…blue slacks uniform and her smile。
'What's with you？' Roger asked。
'What do you mean； what's with me？'
'You know what I mean。 I never even saw you drink a beer before noon before。 Usually not before five。'
'I'm launching the boat；' Vic said。
'What boat？'
'The R。M。S。 Titanic；' Vic said。
Roger frowned。 'That's sort of poor taste； don't you think？'
He did； as a matter of fact。 Roger deserved something better； but this morning； with the depression still on him like a foul…smelling blanket； he just couldn't think of anything better。 He managed a rather bleak smile instead。 But Roger went on frowning at him。
'Look；' Vic said； 'I've got an idea on this Zingers thing。 It's going to he a bitch convincing old man Sharp and the kid； but it might work。'
Roger looked relieved。 It was the way it had always worked with them； Vic was the raw idea man； Roger the shaper and implementer。 They had always worked as a team when it came to translating the ideas into media； and in the matter of presentation。
'What is it？'
'Give me a little while；' Vic said。 'Until tonight； maybe。 Then we'll run it up the flagpole …'
'…and see who drops their pants；' Roger finished with a grin。 He shook his paper open to the financial page again。 'Okay。 As long as I get it by tonight。 Sharp stock went up another eighth last week。 Were you aware of that？'
'Dandy；' Vic murmured； and looked out the window again。 No fog now； the day was as clear as a bell。 The beaches at Kennebunk and Ogunquit and York formed a panoramic picture postcard … cobalt blue sea； khaki sand； and then the Maine landscape of low hills； open fields； and thick bands of fir stretching west and out of sight。 Beautiful。 And it made his depression even worse。
If I have to cry； I'm damn well going into the crapper to do it； he thought grimly。 Six sentences on a sheet of cheap paper had done this to him。 It was a goddam fragile world； as fragile as one of those Easter eggs that were all pretty colors on the outside but hollow on the inside。 Only last week he had been thinking of just taking Tad and moving out。 Now he wondered if Tad and Donna would still be there when he and Roger got back。 Was it possible that Donna might just take the kid and decamp； maybe to her mother's place in the Poconos？
Sure it was possible。 She might decide that ten days apart wasn't enough； not for him； not for her。 Maybe a six months' separation would be better。 And she had Tad now。 Possession was nine points of the law； wasn't it？
And maybe； a crawling； insinuating voice inside spoke up； maybe she knows where Kemp is。 Maybe she'll decide to go to him。 Try it with him for a while。 They can search for their happy pasts together Now there's a nice crazy Monday morning thought； he told himself uneasily。
But the thought wouldn't go away。 Almost； but not quite。
He managed to finish every drop of his screwdriver before the plane touched down at Logan。 It gave him acid indigestion that he knew would last all morning long … like the thought of Donna and Steve Kemp together； it would e creeping back even if he gobbled a whole roll of Turns … but the depression lifted a little and so maybe it was worth it。
Maybe。
Joe Camber looked at the patch of