Christine by Steven King Page B

teeth—
    Last chance, big guy.
    Then my mother’s hand, cool and dry, was on my forehead, hunting fever.
    â€œIt’s all right, Mom,” I said. “It was nothing. Just a nightmare.”
    â€œBut you don’t remember—”
    â€œNo. It’s gone now.”
    â€œI was scared,” she said, and then uttered a shaky little laugh. “I guess you don’t know what scared is until one of your kids screams in the dark.”
    â€œUgh, gross, don’t talk about it,” Elaine said.
    â€œGo back to bed, little one,” Dad said, and gave her butt a light swat.
    She went, not looking totally happy about it. Maybe once she was over her own initial fright, she was hoping I’d break down and have hysterics. That would have given her a real scoop with the training bra set down at the rec program in the morning.
    â€œYou really okay?” my mother asked. “Dennis? Hon?”
    That word again, bringing back memories of knees scraped falling out of my red wagon; her face, lingering over my bed as it had while I lay in the feverish throes of all those childhood illnesses—mumps, measles, a bout of scarletina. Making me feel absurdly like crying. I had nine inches and seventy pounds on her.
    â€œSure,” I said.
    â€œAll right,” she said. “Leave the light on. Sometimes it helps.”
    And with a final doubtful look at my dad, she went out. I had something to be bemused about—the idea that my mother had ever had a nightmare. One of those things that never occur to you, I guess. Whatever her nightmares were, none of them had ever found their way into Sketches of Love and Beauty.
    My dad sat down on the bed. “You really don’t remember what it was about?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œMust have been bad, to make you yell like that, Dennis.” His eyes were on mine, gravely asking if there was something he should know.
    I almost told him—the car, it was Arnie’s goddam car, Christine the Rust Queen, twenty years old, ugly fucking thing. I almost told him. But then somehow it choked in my throat, almost as if to speak would have been to betray my friend. Good old Arnie, whom a fun-loving God had decided to swat with the ugly-stick.
    â€œAll right,” he said, and kissed my cheek. I could feel his beard, those stiff little bristles that only come out at night, I could smell his sweat and feel his love. I hugged him hard, and he hugged me back.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Then they were all gone, and I lay there with the bedtable lamp burning, afraid to go back to sleep. I got a book and lay back down, knowing that my folks were lying awake downstairs in their room, wondering if I was in some kind of a mess, or if I had gotten someone else—the cheerleader with the fantastic body, maybe—in some kind of a mess.
    I decided sleep was an impossibility. I would read until daylight and catch a nap tomorrow afternoon, maybe, during the dull part of the ballgame. And thinking that, I fell asleep and woke up in the morning with the book lying unopened on the floor beside the bed.

8
    First Changes
    I thought Arnie would turn up that Saturday, so I hung around the house—mowed the lawn, cleaned up the garage, even washed all three cars. My mother watched all this industry with some amazement and commented over a lunch of hotdogs and green salad that maybe I should have nightmares more often.
    I didn’t want to phone Arnie’s house, not after all the unpleasantness I had seen there lately, but when the pre-game show came on and he still hadn’t shown, I took my courage in my hands and called. Regina answered, and although she was doing a good facsimile of nothing-has-changed, I thought I detected a new coolness in her voice. It made me feel sad. Her only son had been seduced by a baggy old whore named Christine, and old buddy Dennis must have been an accomplice. Maybe he had even pimped the deal. Arnie wasn’t home,