s suddenly very afraid； and unable to think why。 What could be so dreadful in Brett's acted…out dream of feeding his dog？ It was perfectly natural； as worried as he had been about Cujo。
He was bent over now； holding the gravy boat out； the drawstring of his pajama trousers making a right…angled white line to the horizontal plane of the red and black linoleum floor。 His face went though a slow…motion pantomime of sorrow。 He spoke then； muttering the words as sleepers so often do； gutturally； rapidly； almost unintelligibly。 And with no emotion in the words themselves； that was all inside； held in the cocoon of whatever dream had been vivid enough to make him nightwalk again； after two quiet years。 There was nothing inherently melodramatic about the words； spoken all of a rush in a quick sleeping sigh； but Charity's hand went to her throat anyway。 The flesh there was cold； cold。
'Cujo's not hungry no more；' Brett said； the words riding out on that sigh。 He stood up again； now holding the gravy boat cradled to his chest。 'Not no more； not no more。'
He stood immobile for a short time by the counter； and Charity did likewise by the kitchen door。 A single tear had slipped down his face。 He put the gravy boat on the counter and headed for the door。 His eyes were open but they slipped indifferently and unseeingly over his mother。 He stopped； looking back。
'Look in the weeds；' he said to someone who was not there。
Then be began to walk toward her again。 She stood aside； her hand still pressed against her throat。 He passed her quickly and noiselessly on his bare feet and was gone up the hall toward the stairs。
She turned to follow him and remembered the gravy boat。 It stood by itself on the bare； ready…for…the…day counter like the focal point in a weird painting。 She picked it up and it slipped through her fingers … she hadn't realized that her fingers were slick with sweat。 She juggled it briefly； imagining the crash in the still； sleeping hours。 Then she had it cradled safely in both hands。 She put it back on the shelf and closed the cupboard door and could only stand there for a moment； listening to the heavy thud of her heart； feeling her strangeness in this kitchen。 She was an intruder in this kitchen。 Then she followed her son。
She got to the doorway of his room just in time to see him climb into bed。 He pulled the sheet up and rolled over on his left side； his usual sleeping position。 Although she knew it was over now； Charity stood there yet awhile longer。
Somebody down the hall coughed； reminding her again that this was someone else's house。 She felt a strong wave of homesickness； for a few moments it was as if her stomach were full of some numbing gas； the kind of stuff dentists use。 In this fine still morning light； her thoughts of divorce seemed as immature and without regard for the realities as the thoughts of a child。 It was easy for her to think of such things here。 It wasn't her house； not her place。
Why had his pantomime of feeding Cujo； and those rapid； sighing words； frightened her so much？ Cujo's not hungry no more； not no more。
She went back to her own room and lay there in bed as the sun came up and brightened the room。 At breakfast； Brett seemed no different than ever。 He did not mention Cuio； and he had apparently forgotten about calling home； at least for the time being。 After some interior debate； Charity decided to let the matter rest there。
It was hot。
Donna uncranked her window a little farther … about a quarter of the way； as far as she dared … and then leaned across Tad's lap to unroll his too。 That was when she noticed the creased yellow sheet on paper in his lap。
'What's that； Tad？'
He looked up at her。 There were smudged brown circles under his eyes。 'The Monster Words；' he said。。
'Can I see？'
He held them tightly for a moment and then let her take the paper。 There was a watchful； almost proprietary expression on his face； and she felt an instant's jealousy。 It was brief but very strong。 So far she had managed to keep him alive and unhurt； but it was Vic's hocus…pocus he cared about。 Then the feeling dissipated into bewilderment； sadness； and self…disgust。 It was she who had put him in this situation in the first place。 If she hadn't given in to him about the baby…sitter 。。。
'I put them in my pocket yesterday；' he said； 'before we went shopping。 Mommy； is the monster going to eat us？'
'It's not a monster； Tad； it's just a dog； and no； it isn't going to eat us！' She spoke more sharply than she had intended。 'I told you； when the mailman es； we can go home。' And I told him the car would start in just a little while； and I told him someone would e； that the Cambers would be home soon
But what was the use of thinking that？
'May I have my Monster Words back？' he asked。
For a moment she felt a totally insane urge to tear the sweat…stained； creased sheet of yellow legal paper to bits and toss them out of her window； so much fluttering confetti。 Then she handed the paper back to Tad and ran both hands through her hair； ashamed and scared。 What was happening to her； for Christ's sake？ A sadistic thought like that。 Why would she want to make it worse for him？ Was it Vic？ Herself？ What？
It was so hot … too hot to think。 Sweat was streaming down her face and she could see it trickling down Tad's cheeks as well。 His hair was plastered against his skull in unlovely chunks； and it looked two shades darker than its usual medium…blond。 He needs his hair washed； she thought randomly； and that made her think of the bottle of Johnson's No More Tears again； sitting safely and sanely on the bathroom shelf； waiting for someone to take it down and pour a capful or two into one cupped palm。
（don't lose control of yourself）
No； of course not。 She had no reason to lose control of herself。 Everything was going to be all right； wasn't it？ Of course it was。 The dog wasn't even in sight； hadn't been for more than an hour。 And the mailman。 It was almost ten o'clock now。 The mailman would be along soon； and then it wouldn't matter that it was so hot in the car。 'The greenhouse effect'； they called it。 She had seen that on an SPCA handout somewhere； explaining why you shouldn't shut your dog up in your car for any length of time when it was hot like this。 The greenhouse effect。 The pamphlet had said that the temperature in a car that was parked in the sun could go as high as 140 degrees Fahrenheit if the windows were rolled up； so it was cruel and dangerous to lock up a pet while you did your shopping or went to see a movie。 Donna uttered a short； cracked…sounding chuckle。 The shoe certainly was on the other foot here； wasn't it？ it was the dog that had the people locked up。
Well； the mailman was ing。 The mailman was ing and that would end it。 It wouldn't matter that they had only a quarter of a Thermos of milk left； or that early this morning she had to go to the bathroom and she had used Tad's smaller Thermos … or had tried to … and it had overflowed and now the Pinto smelled of urine； an unpleasant smell that only seemed to grow stronger with the heat。 She had capped the Thermos and thrown it out the window。 She had heard it shatter as it hit the gravel。 Then she had cried。
But none of it mattered。 It was humiliating and demeaning to have to try and pee into a Thermos bottle； sure it was； but it didn't matter because the mailman was ing … even now he would be loading his small blue…and…white truck at the ivy…covered brick post office on Carbine Street 。。。 or maybe he had already begun his route； working his way out Route 117 toward the Maple Sugar Road。 Soon it would end。 She would take Tad home； and they would go upstairs。 They would strip and shower together； but before she got into the tub with him and under the shower； she would take the bottle of shampoo from the shelf and put the cap neatly on the edge of the sink； and she would wash first Tad's hair and then her own。
Tad was reading the yellow paper again； his lips moving soundlessly。 Not real reading； not the way he would be reading in a couple of years （if we get out of this； her traitorous mind insisted on adding senselessly but instantly）； but the kind that came from rote memorization。 The way driving schools prepared functional illiterates for the written part of the driver's exam。 She had read that somewhere too； or maybe seen it on a TV news story； and wasn't it amazing； the amount of crud the human mind was capable of storing up？ And wasn't it amazing how easily it all came spewing out when there was nothing else to engage it？ Like a subconscious garbage disposal running in reverse。
That made her think of something that had happened in her parents' house； back when it had still been her house too。 Less than two hours before one of her mother's Famous Cocktail Parties （that was how ' Donna's father always referred to them； with a satirical tone that automatically conferred the capital letters … the same satirical tone that could sometimes drive Samantha into a frenzy）； the disposal in the kitchen sink had somehow backed up into the bar sink； and when her mother turned the gadget on again in an effort to get rid of everything； green goo had exploded all over the ceiling。 Donna had been about fourteen at the time； and she remembered that her mother's utter