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file:///E|/Funny%20&%20Weird%20Shit/75%20-%20Stephen%20King%20Books/Stephen%20King%20-%20Pet%20Sematary.htmClimb a tree, shinny along a branch, drop into a graveyard, watch loversdig holes? That simple? Is it lunacy? I spent eight years becoming a doctor, but I’ve become a graverobber in one simple step— what I suppose people would call a ghoul.He crammed his fists against his mouth to stop some sound from coming out and felt for that interiorcoldness, that sense of disconnection. It was there, and Louis drew it gratefully around him.When the couple finally walked on, Louis watched them with nothing but impatience. They climbed thesteps of one of the apartment buildings. The man felt for a key, and a moment later they were inside. Thestreet was silent again except for the constant beat of the wind, rustling the trees and tumbling his sweatyhair over his forehead.Louis ran down to the fence, bent low, and felt through the brush for his canvas bundle. Here it was,rough under his fingers. He picked it up, listening to the muffled clank from inside. He carried it over tothe broad graveled drive that led in through the gates and paused to orient himself. Straight up here, goleft at the fork. No problem.He walked along the edge of the drive, wanting to be able to go farther into the shadow of the elms ifthere did happen to be a full-time caretaker and if he happened to be out.He bore left at the fork, approaching Cage’s grave now, and suddenly, appallingly, realized he could notremember what his son had looked like. He paused, staring off into the rows of graves, the frowningfaçades of the monuments, and tried to summon him up. Individual features came to him—his blondhair, still so fine and light, his slanting eyes, his small, white teeth, the little twist of scar on his chinfrom the time he had fallen down the back steps of their place in Chicago. He could see these things butcould not integrate them into a coherent whole. He saw Gage running toward the road, running towardhis appointment with the Orinco truck, but tage’s face was turned away.He tried to summon up Cage as he had been in his crib on the night of the kite-flying day and could seeonly darkness in his mind’s eye.Gage, where are you?Have you ever thought, Louis, that you may not be doing your son any good service? Perhaps he’shappy where he is. . . maybe all of that isn’t the bullshit you always thought it was. Maybe he’s with theangels or maybe he’s just sleeping. And if he’s sleeping, do you really know what it is you might wakeup?Oh Gage, where are you? I want you home with us.But was he really controlling his own actions? Why couldn’t he summon up Gage’s face, and why wasfile:///E|/Funny%20&%20Weird%20Shit/75%20-%20St...20Books/Stephen%20King%20-%20Pet%20Sematary.htm (270 of 333)7/28/2005 9:21:50 PM
file:///E|/Funny%20&%20Weird%20Shit/75%20-%20Stephen%20King%20Books/Stephen%20King%20-%20Pet%20Sematary.htmhe going against everyone’s warning—Jud’s, the dream of Pascow, the trepidation of his own troubledheart?He thought of the grave markers in the Pet Sematary, those rude circles, spiraling down into theMystery, and then the coldness came over him again. Why was he standing here, trying to summon upGage’s face anyway?He would be seeing it soon enough.The headstone was here now; it read simply CAGE WILLIAM CREED, followed by the two dates.Someone had been here today to pay his or her respects, he saw; there were fresh flowers. Who wouldthat have been? Missy Dandridge?His heart beat heavily but slowly in his chest. This was it then; if he was going to do it, he had betterstart. There was only so much night ahead, and then the day would come.Louis glanced into his heart one final time and saw that yes, he did intend to go ahead with this. Henodded his head almost imperceptibly and fished for his pocketknife. He had cinched his bundle withScotch strapping tape, and now he cut it. He unrolled the tarp at the foot of Gage’s grave like a bedrolland then arranged items in exactly the same way he would have arranged instruments to suture a cut orto perform a small in-office operation.Here was the flashlight with its lens felted as the hardware store clerk had suggested. The felt was alsosecured with strapping tape. He had made a small circle in the middle by placing a penny on the felt andcutting around it with a scalpel. Here was the short-handled pick which he should not have to use—hehadbrought it only as a contingency. He would have no sealed cap to deal with, and he shouldn’t run intoany rocks in a newly filled grave. Here was the shovel, the spade, the length of rope, the work gloves.He put the gloves on, grabbed the spade, and started.The ground was soft, the digging easy. The grave’s shape was well defined, the dirt he was throwing outsofter than the earth at the verge. His mind made a kind of automatic comparison between the ease ofthis dig and the rocky, unforgiving ground of the place where, if all went well, he would be reburyinghis son later on this night. Up there he would need the pick. Then he tried to stop thinking altogether. Itonly got in the way.He threw the dirt on the ground to the left of the grave, working into a steady rhythm that only becamemore difficult to maintain as the hole deepened. He stepped into the grave, smelling that dank aroma offresh dirt, a smell he remembered from his summers with Uncle Carl.Digger, he thought and stopped to wipe sweat from his brow. Uncle Carl had told him that was thefile:///E|/Funny%20&%20Weird%20Shit/75%20-%20St...20Books/Stephen%20King%20-%20Pet%20Sematary.htm (271 of 333)7/28/2005 9:21:50 PM
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