by Stephen King
No. Oh, no. No, no.
He hung on to the sides of the door, swaying dreamily back and forth. Whatever else he was, he was no asshole, because he saw everything: her gray suede bomber jacket hung over the back of her chair, the one Samsonite suitcase, open, spilling out a collection of jeans and shorts and blouses and underthings. He saw the Greyhound tag on the handle. And he saw more. He saw the roses beside the clock in his and Heidi's bedroom. The roses hadn't been there when he went to bed last night. No ... Linda had brought the roses. As a peace offering. She had come home early to make up with her mother before Billy came home.
The old Gypsy with the rotting nose: No blame, you say. You tell yourself and tell yourself and tell yourself. But there is no poosh, white man from town. Everybody pays, even for things they didn't do. No poosh.
He turned then and ran for the stairs. Terror had made him double-jointed and he shambled like a sailor at sea.
No, not Linda! his mind screamed. Not Linda! God, please, not Linda!
Everybody pays, white man from - town - even for things they didn't do. Because that's what it's really all about.
What remained of the pie stood on the counter, neatly covered with Saran Wrap. Fully a quarter of it was gone. He looked at the kitchen table and saw Linda's purse there - a line of rockstar buttons had been pinned to the strap: Bruce Springsteen, John Cougar Mellancamp, Pat Benatar, Lionel Ritchie, Sting, Michael Jackson.
He went to the sink.
Two plates.
Two forks.
They sat here and ate pie and made up, he thought. When? Right after I went to sleep? Must have been.
He heard the old Gypsy laughing and his knees buckled. He had to clutch at the counter to keep from actually falling over.
When he had some strength, he turned and crossed the kitchen, hearing the board in the middle squeak under his feet as he crossed over it.
The pie was pulsing again - up and down, up and down. Its obscene, persistent warmth had fogged the Saran Wrap. He could hear a faint squelching sound.
He opened the overhead cupboard and got himself a dessert plate, opened the drawer beneath, and got out a knife and fork.
'Why not?' he whispered, and pulled the wrapping off the pie. Now it was still again. Now it was just a strawberry pie that looked extremely tempting in spite of the earliness of the hour.
And as Heidi herself had said, he still needed all the calories he could get.
'Eat hearty,' Billy Halleck whispered in the sunny silence of the kitchen, and cut himself a piece of Gypsy pie.
