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Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 185 из 425In fact I’d pretty much forgotten about Jo’s mystery date.” A lie, but in what seemed to me to be a good cause. “That’s probably for the best. I won’t keep you—go on back to work. It’s what you want to do, isn’t it?” I was startled. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know, I just. .” She stopped. And I suddenly knew two things: What she had been about to say, and that she wouldn’t say it. I dreamed about you last night. I dreamed about us together. were going to make love and one of us said “Do what you want.”
Or maybe, I don’t know, maybe we both said it. Perhaps sometimes ghosts were alive—minds and desires divorced from their bodies, unlocked impulses floating unseen. Ghosts from the id, spooks from low places.
“Mattie? Still there?”
“Sure, you bet. Do you want me to stay in touch?
Or will you hear all you need from John Storrow?"
“If you don’t stay in touch, I’ll be pissed at you. Royally.” She laughed. “I will, then. But not when you’re working. Goodbye, Mike. And thanks again. So much.” I told her goodbye, then stood there for a moment looking at the old fashioned Bakelite phone handset after she had hung up. She’d call and keep me updated, but not when I was working. How would she know when that was? She just would. As I’d known last night that she was lying when she said Jo and the man with the elbow patches on the sleeves of his sportcoat had walked off toward the parking lot. Mattie had been wearing a pair of white shorts and a halter top when she called me, no dress or skirt required today because it was Wednesday and the library was closed on Wednesday. You don’t know any of that. IOU ’re just making it up. But I wasn’t. If I’d been making it up, I probably would have put her in something a little more suggestive—a Merry Widow from Victoria’s Secret, perhaps. That thought called up another. Do what you want, they had said. Both of them. Do what you want. And that was a line I knew.
While on Key Largo I’d read an Atlantic Monthly essay on pornography by some feminist. I wasn’t sure which one, only that it hadn’t been Naomi Wolf or Camille Paglia. This woman had been of the conservative stripe, and she had used that phrase. Sally Tisdale, maybe? Or was my mind just hearing echo-distortions of Sara Tidwell? Whoever it had been, she’d claimed that “do what I want” was the basis of erotica which appealed to women and “do what you want” was the basis of pornography which appealed to men. Women imagine speaking the former line in sexual situations; men imagine having the latter line spoken to them.
“I don’t know, I just. .” She stopped. And I suddenly knew two things: What she had been about to say, and that she wouldn’t say it. I dreamed about you last night. I dreamed about us together. were going to make love and one of us said “Do what you want.”
Or maybe, I don’t know, maybe we both said it. Perhaps sometimes ghosts were alive—minds and desires divorced from their bodies, unlocked impulses floating unseen. Ghosts from the id, spooks from low places.
“Mattie? Still there?”
“Sure, you bet. Do you want me to stay in touch?
Or will you hear all you need from John Storrow?"
“If you don’t stay in touch, I’ll be pissed at you. Royally.” She laughed. “I will, then. But not when you’re working. Goodbye, Mike. And thanks again. So much.” I told her goodbye, then stood there for a moment looking at the old fashioned Bakelite phone handset after she had hung up. She’d call and keep me updated, but not when I was working. How would she know when that was? She just would. As I’d known last night that she was lying when she said Jo and the man with the elbow patches on the sleeves of his sportcoat had walked off toward the parking lot. Mattie had been wearing a pair of white shorts and a halter top when she called me, no dress or skirt required today because it was Wednesday and the library was closed on Wednesday. You don’t know any of that. IOU ’re just making it up. But I wasn’t. If I’d been making it up, I probably would have put her in something a little more suggestive—a Merry Widow from Victoria’s Secret, perhaps. That thought called up another. Do what you want, they had said. Both of them. Do what you want. And that was a line I knew.
While on Key Largo I’d read an Atlantic Monthly essay on pornography by some feminist. I wasn’t sure which one, only that it hadn’t been Naomi Wolf or Camille Paglia. This woman had been of the conservative stripe, and she had used that phrase. Sally Tisdale, maybe? Or was my mind just hearing echo-distortions of Sara Tidwell? Whoever it had been, she’d claimed that “do what I want” was the basis of erotica which appealed to women and “do what you want” was the basis of pornography which appealed to men. Women imagine speaking the former line in sexual situations; men imagine having the latter line spoken to them.