Characters in Cujo

… agony; then she was gone, and her niece Abby would find her the following day, her coffee as cold as she was, her cigarette a perfect and delicate tube of ash, her lower plate protruding from her wrinkled mouth like a slot filled with teeth. Just before Tad's bedtime, he …

'Or maybe Alison MacKenzie. She was going to show me some Amway and Avon stuff.' 'oh' Donna ruffled his hair and they went out together. The heat hit them like a hammer wrapped in pillows. Buggardly car probably won't even start, she thought. But it did. It was 3:45 P.m.

They had done it only that once, sticking to the seacoast after that. Vic, Donna, and Roger had had a wonderful time, but Althea Breakstone loathed hiking and had come down with a good, itchy case of poison oak on top of that.

Brett nodded. 'Then we'll call Alva Thornton down on the Maple Sugar tonight,' she said. 'Have him go up and check, okay? My guess is your father already called him and asked him to feed Cujo while he's gone.' 'Do you really think so?' 'Yes, I do.'

Andy Masen was the Maine Attorney General's Wunderkind, and there were those who said that someday - and not too distant a day, either - he would lead the A. G.'s criminal division. Andy Masen's sights were set a good deal higher than that.

As the oldest resident of Castle Rock, Aunt Evvie had held the Boston Post cane for the last two years, ever since Arnold Heebert, who had been one hundred and one and so far gone in senility that talking to him held all the intellectual challenge of talking to an …

The living room was dominated by a big old Zenith black-and-white TV he had rescued from the Naples dump. A big spayed brindle cat, name of Bernie Carbo, slept on top of it like a dead thing. The bedroom was where he worked on his writing.

Bessie Thornton was not a terribly bright woman (her great-aunt, the late Evvie Chalmers, had been fond of screaming to anyone who would listen that Bessie 'wouldn't never pass none of those IQ tests, but she's goodhearted'), her life on Alva's chicken farm was a hard one, and she lived …

'Want you to take a run up to Eighty-three Larch Street,' Billy said. 'Residence of Mr. and Mrs. Victor Trenton. .Check the place out. Over.' 'What am I checking for, base? Over.' 'Trenton's in Boston and no one's answering his calls. He thinks someone should be home. Over.'

Almost happy, in fact. The copy read Simply: BILLY BELLAMY IS NEVER GOING TO BAT CLEANUP. Beneath: BILLY HAS CEREBRAL PALSY. Beneath that, smaller type: Give Us a Hand, Huh? CP donations had taken a noticeable leap. Good for them, good for Vic and Roger.

It burred six times, eight times, ten. Then it was silent. Shortly after, the Trentons' copy of the Castle Rock Call thumped against the front door and Billy Freeman pedaled on up the street on his Raleigh with his canvas sack over his shoulder, whistling.

Monday morning dawned in shades of pearl and dark gray; the fog was so thick that Brett Camber couldn't see the oak in the side yard from his window, and that oak wasn't but thirty yards away.

Her mother looked around, not exactly surprised. Two days before, Marcy's bigger brother had been sent from school with a raging case of stomach flu. Brock was all right now, but he had spent a lousy twenty-four hours, his body enthusiastically throwing off ballast from both ends.

After Gary had his DSC turned into an ashtray by Buddy Torgeson, who did custom welding in his spare time and who worked days down to the Castle Falls Esso (they were all Exxon stations now, and Gary Pervier didn't give a shit), a version of the story found its …

… or Roger flew to Cleveland to confer with Carroll Sharp and his kid - said kid now going decidedly gray around the temples. All the rest of the client-agency intercourse was handled by the U.S. Post Office and Ma Bell. The process was perhaps strange, certainly cumbersome, but it seemed …

He preferred to think about the Golden Years of Retirement, years that he and Cathy would spend together. No more getting up at six thirty. No more heaving around sacks of mad and listening to that asshole Michael Fournier, who was the Castle Rock postmaster.

It was the sound of a madwoman. She lowered her head and cried. Charity Camber sat on the double bed she shared with her husband, Joe, and looked down at something she held in her hands. She had just come back from the store, the same one Donna Trenton patronized.

For Sharp Cookies, Vic and Roger had developed the Cookie Sharpshooter, a bumbling Western peace officer whose six-guns shot cookies instead of bullets, courtesy of the special-effects people - Chocka Chippers in some spots, Ginger Snappies in others, Oh Those Oatmeals in still others.

'It's a chainfall,' she said. She had sent Brett over to play with his buddy Dave Bergeron for the evening. She didn't want him around if this went badly. 'Brett said you wanted one. A Jorgen chainfall, he said.' Joe crossed the room.

When Donna made the mistake of giggling helplessly at the thought of fifteen-year-old myopic Debbie Gehringer shooting anyone, Tad burst into miserable tears and ran into the living room.

A pamphlet leafed through idly back in New York when she had taken the family cat, Dinah, for her distemper shot at the vet's. Excuse me, distemper and rabies shots. Rabies, a disease of the central nervous system, the good old CNS. Causes slow destruction of same - but how?

It was a minor problem, but the manager, whose name was Donovan, fussed around the car like a worried mother while Joe drained the transmission fluid well, refilled it, and tightened the bands. The car was a piece of work, all right, a 1960 T-Bird in cherry condition.

She had finally gotten worried enough - scared enough - to consult with Dr. Gresham (without Joe's knowledge). She wasn't afraid that Brett was losing his mind -anyone who was around him could see he was bright and normal - but she was afraid that he might hurt himself while …

It could be a bowel problem. It could even mean the big C. If it kept up he supposed he would go and see old Dr. Quentin. Dr. Quentin would tell him he was farting a lot because he was getting older and that was it.

Dwight Sampson. Holding Tad in her arms, newborn, then the nurse taking him away; she wanted to tell the nurse not to do that - Give him back, I'm not done with him, those were the words that had come to mind - but she was too weak to talk …

They were on their fourth game when the convulsion struck. Donna had guessed some five questions ago that the subject of the interrogation was Fred Redding, one of Tad's daycamp chums, but had been spinning things out.' 'Does he have red hair?' she asked.

The last time Charity had gone to play Beano down at the Grange, she had tried to pass a friendly word with Kim Milliken, Freddy's daughter, but Kim wouldn't say a word to her; just walked away with her head up as if she hadn't been acting the slut with …

The Sharpshooter bites into a cookie. His expression suggests that he is experiencing the gastronomic equivalent of a boy's first orgasm. Fadeout. For the prepared cakes - sixteen different varieties ranging from pound to crumb to cheese - there was what Vic called the George and Gracie spot.

'Amen,' Roger said. They clinked their glasses together and drank. As he downed the rest of his beer, Vic found himself thinking about Donna and Tad again. George Meara, the mailman, lifted one leg clad in blue-gray Post Office issue and farted. just lately he farted a great deal.

… fact that when the Sharp Cereal Professor (and his cohorts the Cookie Sharpshooter and George and Gracie) had come on the scene, Sharp stock had been three and a quarter points lower than it was now. Never mind all that. Mind this instead: just …

She followed him up into the kitchen, where Holly was making cocoa for the four of them. Jim junior and Gretchen had gone to bed long before. 'You get your man?' Holly asked. 'No, he's probably down chewing the fat with that friend of his,' Charity said. 'We'll try tomorrow.'

But ole Hank Townsend was going to have to listen to a whole morning's worth of Masen's bullshit, so maybe he had gotten off well at that. George Bannerman loafed out Route 117 toward the Maple Sugar Road, siren and flashers off. It surely was a pretty day.

Suddenly she felt both sad and old. When she had called Holly Saturday morning to ask her if they could come, Holly had been delighted, and her delight had made Charity feel young. It was strange that her own son's delight, his almost palpable euphoria, would make her feel old.

… of dead bald tires and telling frenchman jokes, Jim Brooks had been in law school, knocking his brains out to make grades, because when you made the grades you got the diploma, and the diploma was your ticket, you got to ride the merry-go-round. Getting on didn't mean you'd catch …

… been out in the back yard, playing with Jim Junior. There had been no answer. She hadn't a doubt in the world that they were together, wherever they were. 'You haven't eaten much of that Danish.' He picked it up, took a token bite, and put it down ' again.

I thought for just a second there that Joan Brady would come out of Tad's closet, and her head would be gone and there would be blood all over her clothes and she would say, "I died in a car crash when I was nineteen coming back from Sammy's Pizza …

Every now and then we jive it up with a Wheel of fortune session. She could go over and see Joanie Welsh, who had a little girl about Tad's age, but Joanie always made her uneasy. She was three years older than Donna and ten pounds heavier.

Joe Magruder and Ronnie DuBay got the chainfall on the truck's pneumatic Step-Loader, and it whooshed gently down to the dirt driveway on a sigh of air. 'Pretty big order for ole Joe Camber,' Ronnie said. Magruder nodded. 'Put it in the barn, his wife said. That's his garage.

They were going to the dogs, the both of them. John Milliken was out in the side yard, repairing what looked like a harrow. George gave him a wave, and Milliken flicked one finger curtly in return before going back to his work.

On clear days the hole could pass for a shadow; on cloudy days, overgrown with grass as it was, it disappeared altogether. John Mousam, the farm's previous owner, had known about the hole but had never thought to mention it to Joe Camber when Joe bought the place in 1963.

… big Pat feet (the kid jesus her kid is her kid in there?) That made him think of his own daughter, Katrina, who would be going into the seventh grade this year. She was getting breasts now. Becoming quite the little lady. Piano lessons. Wanted a …

The last time Charity had gone to play Beano down at the Grange, she had tried to pass a friendly word with Kim Milliken, Freddy's daughter, but Kim wouldn't say a word to her; just walked away with her head up as if she hadn't been acting the slut with …

AU they would be losing was two weeks' interest. The man from Portland Machine, Lewis Belasco, said he would have the chainfall machine delivered that very afternoon, and he was as good as his word.

'You think we're not hurting now?' 'Sure, we're hurting. But we've got those Book Folks spots to shoot down at Kennebunk Beach 'Lisa can handle that.' 'I'm not entirely convinced that Lisa can handle her own love-life, let along the Book Folks spots,' Vic said.

Her mother looked around, not exactly surprised. Two days before, Marcy's bigger brother had been sent from school with a raging case of stomach flu. Brock was all right now, but he had spent a lousy twenty-four hours, his body enthusiastically throwing off ballast from both ends.

She had left school to marry the boy, who still had pimples at twenty-nine, drank Narragansett straight from the can, and knocked both her and the kid around. Marry had been killed in a car crash over on Route 9 in Durham.

No more heaving around sacks of mad and listening to that asshole Michael Fournier, who was the Castle Rock postmaster. No more freezing his balls off in the winter and going crazy with all the summer people who wanted delivery to their camps and cottages when the warm weather came.

The housecat's name had been Mr. Clean. The Cambers had Lost him two years before and assumed he had been hit by a car or had just run off. but here he was, along with the bones of the good-sized fieldmouse he had chased inside.

The receptionist smiled and nodded when Roger identified himself. 'Mr. Hewitt has just stepped out for a few minutes. Is Mr. Trenton with you?' 'No, he was called home.' 'Well, I have something for you. It just came in this morning.' She handed Roger a telegram in a yellow envelope.

But -' The beers came. The waiter said to Rob, 'Mr. Johnson asked me to tell you that he has several parties of three waiting, Mr. Martin.' 'Well, you run back and tell Mr. Johnson that the boys are on their last round and to keep his undies dry.

'Well, I know he promised Richie Simms he'd pull the motor on his International Harvester. And Mr. Miller from the school was gonna bring over his Ford because the tranny's shot. And -' 'I thought just the two of us would go,' Charity said. 'On the Greyhound from Portland.'

There had been a small life insurance policy. Mr. Shouper at the Casco Bank in Bridgton had explained to her that if the money was put in a special trust account, it plus the lottery money would make nearly all the outstanding mortgage payments over the next five years.

There was not even the sound of old Mr. Steigmeyer, the custodian, rattling around. He would have to sign out in the lobby. He would have to Now there was a sound. At first he didn't know what it was. It came to him in a moment. It was whimpering.

'Well, that's too bad, Ray,' Joe said, 'but I don't work for free. This ain't no charitable organization.' 'Mrs. Beasley just had herself a litter,' Ray said. Mrs. Beasley was a prime bitch Saint Bernard. 'Purebreds. You do the work and I'll give you the pick of the litter.

But some of the kids at daycamp had laughed at him and called him a baby, the same way they laughed at Randy Hofnager for saying 'brefkust' when he meant 'breakfast'. So he began to say it right, scolding himself fiercely inside whenever he forgot. 'Yes, I know.

The customer had been a one-eyed fellow named Ray Crowell from up Fryeburg way. This Crowell spent most of his time working in the woods, although it was acknowledged that he had a fine touch with dogs - he was good at breeding them and good at training them.

… basket of provisions behind and everybody watching); how Red Timmins from up the road was always trying to kiss Holly on their walk back from school (but not how Red had lost an arm when his tractor turned turtle on him in August of 1962). The two of them had …

He smiled at her through a mouthful] of food and reached for the bread. 'You could come with us, if you wanted.' 'Sure. I'll just tell Richie Simms to forget getting in his first cutting this summer. Besides, why do I want to go down and see them two?

Fifteen minutes later Rob Martin, the president of Image-Eye, had bade them a glum good night, adding that his door would be open to them all day tomorrow and Wednesday, if they needed him.

Only Andy Masen and his youngest brother, Marry, had managed to finish high school. For a while it had looked as if Roberta might make it, but she had gotten herself knocked up higher than a kite following a dance her senior year.

'Well, you run back and tell Mr. Johnson that the boys are on their last round and to keep his undies dry. Okay, Rocky?' The waiter smiled, emptied the ashtray, and nodded. He left. Rob turned back to Vic and Roger. 'So what's the bottom line? You're bright boys.

The alarm burred Vic awake at quarter to five. He got up, shut it off, and blundered down to the bathroom, mentally cursing Roger Breakstone, who could never get to the Portland jetport twenty minutes before check-in like any normal air traveler. Not Roger. Roger was a contingency man.

Joe Magruder and Ronnie DuBay got the chainfall on the truck's pneumatic Step-Loader, and it whooshed gently down to the dirt driveway on a sigh of air. 'Pretty big order for ole Joe Camber,' Ronnie said. Magruder nodded. 'Put it in the barn, his wife said. That's his garage.

His first thought. (Rusty?) was of his Irish setter, but he'd had Rusty put down four years ago, not long after the Frank Dodd thing.

It was now four past the hour. 'Well, they probably got freaked out staying there by themselves, Vic. Sometimes Althea takes the girls and goes over to Sally Petrie's when I'm gone. She gets nervous when the wind blows off the lake at night, she says.' 'She would have called.'

… the same satirical tone that could sometimes drive Samantha into a frenzy), the disposal in the kitchen sink had somehow backed up into the bar sink, and when her mother turned the gadget on again in an effort to get rid of everything, green goo had exploded all over the …

'Good morning, children,' the Professor said quietly. 'This is a commercial for cereal. Listen to me carefully, please. I know a lot about cereals, because I'm the Sharp Cereal Professor. Sharp Cereals - Twinkles, Cocoa Bears, Bran- 16, and Sharp All-Grain Blend - are the best-tasting cereals in America.

Then Tad had been scratchy about going off to the daycamp, complaining that a bigger boy had pushed him down last Friday. The bigger boy's name was Stanley Dobson, and Tad was afraid that Stanley Dobson might push him down again today.

'I got to go, Aunt Evvie!' George yelled. 'Got a Special Delivery for Stringer Beaulieu!' Aunt Evvie Chalmers threw her head back and cackled at the spring sky. She cackled until she was fit to choke and more cigarette ashes rolled down the front of her housedress.

… since he and Althea had lost their boy, Timothy, to the crib-death syndrome when the infant was only nine days old. Three weeks after that happened, Roger had broken down and wept, his hands plastered to his fat face in a kind of terrible hopeless sorrow that had squeezed Vic's …

'Fieldmice has all gone outta the root cellars! Tommy Neadeau seen deer out by Moosuntic Pond rubbin velvet off'n their antlers ere the first robin showed up! Grass under the snow when she melted! Green grass, Meara!' 'That so, Evvie?' George replied, since some reply seemed necessary.

She put his hands above his head. She opened his mouth, pinched his nostrils shut, and breathed her voiceless breath into her son's lungs. In the driveway, the somnolent summer flies had found the corpse of Cujo and that of Sheriff Bannerman, husband to Victoria, father to Katrina.

'I'll think about it,' he said. 'Well, don't think too long,' Ray said, bridling. 'I can go see Vin Callahan over in North Conway. He's just as handy as you are, Camber. Handier, maybe.' 'Maybe,' Joe said, unperturbed. Ray Crowell's temper did not scare him in the least.

One day early that June she shuffled out to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, leaning heavily on her Boston Post cane (which would go to Vin Marchant when the loudmouthed old bitch popped off, George Meara thought, and good riddance to you, Evvie) and smoking a Herbert …

It remained unnamed until the following spring, when for no reason either of them could exactly pinpoint, they began to call it Willie. It was a small, lively, short-haired dog, mostly terrier. Somehow it just looked like a Willie. The name stuck.

… hauled around, Roger produced the home number of Yancey Harrington. Harrington was the actor who played the Sharp Cereal Professor. 'Might as well see if he'll do it before we go any further,' Roger said. He had picked up the phone and dialed Harrington, who lived in Westport, Connecticut. Vic …