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while； Paul。〃 She scrubbed。 The stain slowly disappeared from the plaster but she went on dipping the cloth； wringing it out； scrubbing； and then repeating the whole process。 He could not see her face； but the idea … the certainty … that she had gone blank and might go on scrubbing the wall for hours tormented him。
At last … just before the clock chimed once； marking two…thirty … she got up and dropped the rag into the water。 She took the bucket from the room without a word。 He lay in bed； listening to the creaking boards which marked tier heavy； stolid passage； listening as she poured the water （out of her bucket … and； incredibly； the sound of the faucet as she drew more。 He began to cry soundlessly。 The tide had never gone out so far； he could see nothing but drying mudflats and those splintered pilings which cast their eternal damaged shadows。
She came back and stood for just a moment inside the doorway； observing his wet face with that same mixture of sternness and maternal love。 Then her eyes drifted to the corner； where no sign of the splashed soup remained。
〃Now I must rinse；〃 she said； 〃or else the soap will leave a dull spot。 I must do it all； I must make everything right。 Living alone as I do is no excuse whatever for scamping the job。 My mother had a motto； Paul； and I live by it。 〃Once nasty； never neat；〃 she used to say。〃
〃Please；〃 he groaned。 〃Please； the pain； I'm dying。〃
〃No。 You're not dying。〃
〃I'll scream；〃 he said； beginning to cry harder。 It hurt lo cry。 It hurt his legs and it hurt his heart。 〃I won't be able lo help it。〃
〃Then scream；〃 she said。 〃But remember that you made that mess。 Not me。 It's nobody's fault but your own。〃 Somehow he was able to keep from screaming。 He watched as she dipped and wrung and rinsed； dipped and wrung and rinsed。 At last； just as the clock in what he assumed was the parlor began to strike three； she rose and picked up the bucket。
She's going to go out now。 She's going to go out and I'll hear her pouring the rinse…water down the sink and maybe she won't e back for hours because maybe she's not done punishing me yet。
But instead of leaving； she walked over to the bed and fished in her apron pocket。 She brought out not two capsules but three。
〃Here；〃 she said tenderly。
He gobbled them into his mouth； and when he looked up he saw her lifting the yellow plastic floor…bucket toward him。 It filled his field of vision like a falling moon。 Grayish water slopped over the rim onto the coverlet。
〃Wash them down with this；〃 she said。 Her voice was still tender。
He stared at her； and his face was all eyes。
〃Do it；〃 she said。 〃I know you can dry…swallow them； but please believe me when I say I can make them e right back up again。 After all； it's only rinse…water。 It won't hurt you。〃 She leaned over him like a monolith； the bucket slightly tipped。 He could see the rag twisting slowly in its dark depths like a drowned thing； he could see a thin scrum of soap on top。 Part of him groaned but none of him hesitated。 He drank quickly； washing the pills down； and the taste in his mouth was as it had been on the occasions when his mother made him brush his teeth with soap。
His belly hitched and he made a thick sound。
〃I wouldn't throw them up； Paul。 No more until nine tonight。〃 She looked at him for a moment with a flat empty gaze； and then her face lit up and she smiled。
〃You won't make me mad again； will you？〃
〃No；〃 he whispered。 Anger the moon which brought the tide？ What an idea！ What a bad idea！
〃I love you；〃 she said； and kissed him on the cheek。 She left； not looking back； carrying the floor…bucket the way a sturdy countrywoman might carry a milk…pail； slightly away from her body with no thought at all； so that none would spill。
He lay back； tasting grit and plaster in his mouth and throat。 Tasting soap。
I won't throw up 。 。 。 won't throw up 。 。 。 won't throw up。
At last the urgency of this thought began to fade and he realized he was going to sleep。 He had held everything down long enough for the medication to begin its work。 He had won。
This time。
11
He dreamed he was being eaten by a bird。 It was not a good dream。 There was a bang and he thought； Yes； good； all right！ Shoot it！ Shoot the goddamned thing！
Then he was awake； knowing it was only Annie Wilkes； pulling the back door shut。 She had gone out to do the chores。 He heard the dim crunch of her footsteps in the snow。 She went past his window； wearing a parka with the hood up。 Her breath plumed out； then broke apart on her moving face。 She didn't look in at him； intent on her chores in the barn； he supposed。 Feeding the animals； cleaning the stalls； maybe casting a few runes … he wouldn't put it past her。 The sky was darkening purple … sunset。 Five…thirty； maybe six o'clock。
The tide was still in and he could have gone back to sleep … wanted to go back to sleep … but he had to think about this bizarre situation while he was still capable of something like rational thought。
The worst thing； he was discovering； was that he didn't want to think of it even while he could； even when he knew he could not bring the situation to an end without thinking about it。 His mind kept trying to push it away； like a child pushing away his meal even though he has been told he cannot leave the table until he has eaten it。
He didn't want to think about it because just living it was hard enough。 He didn't want to think about it because whenever he did unpleasant images intervened … the way she went blank； the way she made him think of idols and stones； and now the way the yellow plastic floor…bucket had sped toward his face like a crashing moon。 Thinking of those things would not change his situation； was in fact worse than not thinking at all； but once he turned his mind to Annie Wilkes and his position here in her house； they thoughts that came； crowding out all others。 His heart would start to beat too fast； mostly in fear； but partly in shame； too。 He saw himself putting his lips to the rim of the yellow floor…bucket； saw the rinse…water with its film of soap aid the rag floating in it； saw these things but drank anyway； never hesitating a bit。 He would never tell anyone about that； assuming he ever got out of this； and he supposed he might try to lie about it to himself； but he would never be able to do it。
Yet； miserable or not （and he was）； he still wanted to live。
Think about it； goddammit！ Jesus Christ； are you already so cowed you can't even try？
No … but almost that cowed。
Then an odd； angry thought occurred to him： She doesn't like the new book because she's too stupid to understand what it's up to。
The thought wasn't just odd； under the circumstances； how she felt about Fast Cars was totally immaterial。 But thinking about the things she had said was at least a new avenue； and feeling angry at her was better than feeling scared of her； and so he went down it with some eagerness。
Too stupid？ No。 Too set。 Not just unwilling to change； but antagonistic to the very idea of change。
Yes。 And while she might be crazy； was she so different in her evaluation of his work from the hundreds of thousands of other people across the country … ni