The Dark Half Read Free Page B

which spat out bits of dialogue such as “Dinner was never cold at my house when he was growing up, dear” and “Your brother never acts like I’m dog-breath when I come to spend a couple of weeks.” The real howler was that, instead of pulling a string in the back of Yo Mamma! to get her to talk, you kicked the fucking thing as hard as you could. “Yo Mamma! is well-padded, guaranteed not to break, and also guaranteed not to chip walls and furniture,” said its proud inventor, Mr. Gaspard Wilmot (who, the piece mentioned in passing, had once been indicted for income tax evasion—charges dropped).
    And on page thirty-three of this amusing and informative issue of America’s premier amusing and informative magazine, was a page headed with a typical People cut-line: punchy, pithy, and pungent. BIO, it said.
    â€œPeople, ” Thad Beaumont told his wife Liz as they sat side by side at the kitchen table, reading the article together for the second time, “likes to get right to the point. BIO. If you don’t want a BIO. move on to IN TROUBLE and read about the girls who are getting greased deep in the heart of Nebraska. ”
    â€œThat’s not that funny, when you really think about it,” Liz Beaumont said, and then spoiled it by snorting a giggle into one curled fist.
    â€œNot ha-ha, but certainly peculiar,” Thad said, and began to leaf through the article again. He rubbed absently at the small white scar high on his forehead as he did so.
    Like most People BIOS, it was the one piece in the magazine where more space was allotted to words than to pictures.
    â€œAre you sorry you did it?” Liz asked. She had an ear cocked for the twins, but so far they were being absolutely great, sleeping like lambs.
    â€œFirst of all,” Thad said, “ I didn’t do it. We did it. Both for one and one for both, remember?” He tapped a picture on the second page of the article which showed his wife holding a pan of brownies out to Thad, who was sitting at his typewriter with a sheet rolled under the platen. It was impossible to tell what, if anything, was written on the paper. That was probably just as well, since it had to be gobbledegook. Writing had always been hard work for him, and it wasn’t the sort of thing he could do with an audience—particularly if one member of the audience happened to be a photographer for People magazine. It had come a lot easier for George, but for Thad Beaumont it was goddam hard. Liz didn’t come near when he was trying—and sometimes actually succeeding—in doing it. She didn’t bring him telegrams, let alone brownies.
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œSecond of all . . . ”
    He looked at the picture of Liz with the brownies and him looking up at her. They were both grinning. These grins looked fairly peculiar on the faces of people who, although pleasant, were careful doling out even such common things as smiles. He remembered back to the time he had spent as an Appalachian Trail Guide in Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont. He’d had a pet raccoon in those dim days, name of John Wesley Harding. Not that he’d made any attempt to domesticate John; the coon had just sort of fallen in with him. He liked his nip on cold evenings, too, did old J. W., and sometimes, when he got more than a single bite from the bottle, he would grin like that.
    â€œSecond of all what?”
    Second of all, there’s something funny about a one-time National Book Award nominee and his wife grinning at each other like a couple of drunk raccoons, he thought, and could hold onto his laughter no longer: it bellowed out of him.
    â€œThad, you’ll wake the twins!”
    He tried, without much success, to muffle the gusts.
    â€œSecond of all, we look like a pair of idiots and I don’t mind a bit,” he said, and hugged her tight and kissed the hollow of her throat.
    In the other room, first William