Cujo threw himself against the side of the car below her window again. And again. And again. Now her door was badly dented inward. Each time the dog's two-hundred-pound bulk struck the Pinto, it rocked on its springs. Each time she heard that heavy, toneless thud, she felt sure it must have killed itself, at least knocked itself unconscious. And each time it trotted back toward the house, whirled and charged the car again. Cujo's face was a mask of blood and matted fur from which his eyes, once a kind, mild brown, peered with stupid fury.
She looked at Tad and saw that he had gone into a shock reaction, curling himself up into a tight, fetal ball in his bucket seat, his hands laced together at the nape of his neck, his chest hitching.
Maybe that's best. Maybe
Inside the house the phone stopped ringing. Cujo, in the act of whirling around for another charge, paused. He cocked his head again in that curious, evocative gesture. Donna held her breath.
The silence seemed very big. Cujo sat down, raised his horribly mangled nose toward the sky, and howled once such a dark and lonesome sound and she shivered, no longer hot but as cold as a crypt. In that instant she knew - she did not feel or just think - she knew that the dog was something more than just a dog.
The moment passed. Cujo got to his feet, very slowly and wearily, and walked around to the front of the Pinto. She supposed he had lain down there - she could no longer see his tail. Nevertheless she held herself tensed for a few moments longer, mentally ready in case the dog should spring up onto the hood as it had done before.
It hadn't. There was nothing but silence.
She gathered Tad into her arms and began to croon to him.
When Brett had at last given up and come out of the telephone booth, Charity took his hand and led him into Caldor's coffee shop.
They had come to Caldor's to look at matching tablecloths and curtains.
Holly was waiting for them, sipping the last of an ice-cream soda.
'Nothing wrong, is there?' she asked.
'Nothing too serious,' Charity said, and ruffled his hair. 'He's worried about his dog. Aren't you, Brett?'
Brett shrugged - nodded miserably.
'You go on ahead, if you want,' Charity said to her. 'We'll catch up.'
'All right. I'll be downstairs.'
Holly finished her soda and said, 'I bet your pooch is just fine, Brett.'
Brett smiled at her as best he could but didn't reply. They watched Holly walk away, smart in her dark burgundy dress and cork-soled sandals, smart in a way Charity knew she would never be able to duplicate. Maybe once, but not now. Holly had left her two with a sitter, and they had come into Bridgeport around noon. Holly had bought them a nice lunch paying with a Diners Club card - and since then they had been shopping. But Brett had been quiet and withdrawn, worrying about Cujo. Charity didn't feel much like shopping herself; it was hot, and she was still a little unnerved by Brett's sleepwalking that morning. Finally she had suggested that he try calling home from one of the booths around the corner from the snack bar ... but the results had been precisely those of which she had been afraid.
The waitress came. Charity ordered coffee, milk, and two Danish pastries.
'Brett,' she said 'when I told your father I wanted us to go on this trip, he was against it'
'Yeah, I figured that.'
'- and then he changed his mind. He changed it all at once. I think that maybe ... maybe he saw it as a chance for a little vacation of his own. Sometimes men like, to go off by themselves, you know, and do things
'Like hunting?'
(and whoring and drinking and God alone knows what else orwhy)
'Yes, like that.'
'And movies,' Brett said. Their snacks came, and he began munching his Danish.
(yes the X-rated kind on Washington Street they call it the CombatZone)
'Could be. Anyway, your father might have taken a couple of days to go to Boston ~~
'Oh, I don't think so,' Brett said earnestly. 'He had a lot of work. A lot of work. He told me so.'
'There might not have been as much as he thought,' she said, hoping that the cynicism she felt hadn't rubbed through into her voice. 'Anyway, that's what I think he did, and that's why he didn't answer the phone yesterday or today. Drink your milk, Brett. It builds up your bones.'
He drank half his milk and grew an old man's mustache. He set the glass down. 'Maybe he did. He could have got Gary to go with him, maybe. He likes Gary a lot.'
'Yes, maybe he did get Gary to go with him,' Charity said. She spoke as if this idea had never occurred to her, but in fact she had called Gary's house this morning while Brett had been out in the back yard, playing with Jim Junior. There had been no answer. She hadn't a doubt in the world that they were together, wherever they were. 'You haven't eaten much of that Danish.'
He picked it up, took a token bite, and put it down ' again. 'Mom, I think Cujo was sick. He looked sick when I saw him yesterday morning. Honest to God.'
'Brett -'
'He did, Mom. You didn't see him. He looked ... well, gross.'
'If you knew Cujo was all right, would it set your mind at rest?'
Brett nodded.
'Then we'll call Alva Thornton down on the Maple Sugar tonight,'
she said. 'Have him go up and check, okay? My guess is your father already called him and asked him to feed Cujo while he's gone.'
'Do you really think so?'
