I imagine that Donny Donahue will do it, his mother replied. Her eyes were red-rimmed; most of all she had looked tired. His mother had looked almost ill with weariness.
He's your uncle's best pal in the business. Oh, but Louis.
Sweet little Ruthie... I can't stand to think she suffered.
pray with me. will you, Louis? Pray with me for Ruthie. I need you to help me.
So they had gotten down on their knees in the kitchen, he and his mother, and they prayed, and it was the praying that finally brought it home to him; if his mother was praying for Ruthie Creed's soul, then it meant that her body was gone. Before his closed eyes rose a terrible image of Ruthie coming to his thirteenth birthday party with her decaying eyeballs hanging on her cheeks and blue mould growing in her red hair, and this image provoked not just sickening horror but an awful doomed love.
He cried out in the greatest mental agony of his life, "She can't be dead!
MOMMA, SHE CAN'T BE DEAD-I LOVE HER!"
And his mother's reply, her voice flat and yet full of images: dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust: She is, my darling. I'm sorry, but she is. Ruthie is gone.
Louis shuddered, thinking, Dead is dead-what else do you need?
Suddenly Louis knew what it was he had forgotten to do, why he was still awake on this night before the first day of his new job, hashing over old griefs.
He got up, headed for the stairs, and suddenly detoured down the hall to Ellie's room. She was sleeping peacefully, mouth open, wearing her blue baby-doll pajamas that she had really outgrown. My God, Ellie, he thought, you're sprouting like corn. Church lay between her splayed ankles, also dead to the world. You should pardon the pun.
Downstairs there was a bulletin board on the wall by the phone with various messages, memos, and bills tacked to it. Written across the top in Rachel's neat caps was THINGS TO PUT OFF AS LONG AS POSSIBLE. Louis got the telephone book, looked up a number, and jotted it on a blank memo sheet. Below the number he wrote: Quentin L. Jolander, D. V. M.-call for appointment re Church--if Jolander doesn't neuter animals, he will refer.
He looked at the note, wondering if it was time, knowing that it was. Something concrete had to come out of all this bad feeling, and he had decided sometime between this morning and tonight-without even knowing he was deciding-that he didn't want Church crossing the road anymore if he could help it.
His old feelings on the subject rose up in him, the idea that neutering would lessen the cat, would turn him into a fat old torn before his time, content to just sleep on the radiator until someone put something into his dish. He didn't want Church like that. He liked Church the way he was, lean and mean.
Outside in the dark, a big semi droned by on Route 15, and that decided him. He tacked the memo up and went to bed.
11
The next morning at breakfast, Ellie saw the new memo on the bulletin board and asked him what it meant.
"It means he's going to have a very small operation," Louis said. "He'll probably have to stay over at the vet's for one night afterward. And when he comes home, he'll stay in our yard and not want to roam around so much."
"Or cross the road?" Ellie asked.
She may be only five, Louis thought, but she's sure no slouch. "Or cross the road," he agreed.
"Yay!" Ellie said, and that was the end of the subject.
Louis, who had been prepared for a bitter and perhaps hysterical argument about Church being out of the house for even one night, was mildly stunned by the ease with which she had acquiesced. And he realized how worried she must have been.
Perhaps Rachel had not been entirely wrong about the effect the Pet Sematary had had on her.
Rachel herself, who was feeding Gage his breakfast egg, shot him a grateful approving look, and Louis felt something loosen in his chest. The look told him that the chill was over; this particular hatchet had been buried. Forever, he hoped.
Later, after the big yellow school bus had gobbled Ellie up for the morning, Rachel came to him, put her arms around his neck, and kissed his mouth gently.
"You were very sweet to do that," she said, "and I'm sorry I was such a bitch."
Louis returned her kiss, feeling a little uncomfortable nonetheless. It occurred to him that the I'm sorry! was such a bitch statement, while by no means a standard, was not exactly something he'd never heard before either. It usually came after Rachel had gotten her way.
Gage, meanwhile, had toddled unsteadily over to the front door and was looking out the lowest pane of glass at the empty road. "Bus," he said, hitching nonchalantly at his sagging diapers. "Ellie-bus."
"He's growing up fast," Louis said.
Rachel nodded. "Too fast to suit me, I think."
"Wait until he's out of diapers," Louis said. "Then he can stop. ', She laughed, and it was all right between them again-completely all right. She stood back, made a minute adjustment to his tie, and looked him up and down critically.
"Do I pass muster, Sarge?" he asked.