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A Good Marriage Stephen King Pdf

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But, honey, if you don't feel your pain, you'll never be able to -- " That's when she grabbed the object nearest at hand, which happened to be a paperback copy of The Memory Keeper's Daughter. This was a book she had tried and rejected, but Henry had picked it up and was now about three quarters of the way through, judging from the bookmark. He even has the reading tastes of a Dorset gray, she thought, and hucked it at him.

It struck him on the shoulder. He stared at her with wide, shocked eyes, then grabbed at her. Probably just to hug her, but who knew? Who really knew anything? If he had grabbed a moment earlier, he might have caught her by the arm or the wrist or maybe just the back of her T-shirt. But that moment of shock undid him.

He missed, and she was running, slowing only to snatch her fanny pack off the table by the front door. Down the driveway, to the sidewalk.

Then down the hill, where she had briefly pushed a pram with other mothers who now shunned her. This time she had no intention of stopping or even slowing. She put her fanny pack around her waist and snapped the catch as she pelted down the hill.

And the feeling? Pure pow. She ran downtown two miles, twenty-two minutes , not even stopping when the light was against her; when that happened, she jogged in place. A couple of boys in a top-down Mustang -- it was just getting to be top-down weather -- passed her at the corner of Main and Eastern. One whistled. Em gave him the finger. He laughed and applauded as the Mustang accelerated down Main. She didn't have much cash, but she had a pair of credit cards. The American Express was the prize, because with it she could get traveler's checks.

She realized she wasn't going home, not for a while. And when the realization caused a feeling of relief -- maybe even fugitive excitement -- instead of sorrow, she suspected this was not a temporary thing. She went into the Morris Hotel to use the phone, then decided on the spur of the moment to take a room. Did they have anything for just the one night? They did. She gave the desk clerk her AmEx card. She took the key he slid to her and hurried across the wide lobby to the elevators, restraining the urge to run.

Todd Hido You sound like you might be crying. She wanted to download some clothes -- a couple of skirts, a couple of shirts, two pairs of jeans, another pair of shorts -- but before shopping she had calls to make: one to Henry and one to her father.

Her father was in Tallahassee. She decided she had better call him first. She couldn't recall the number of his office phone in the motor pool but had his cell-phone number memorized. He answered on the first ring. She could hear engines revving in the background.

How are you? But I'm in the Morris Hotel. I guess I've left Henry. She imagined him going into his office, closing the door, perhaps picking up the picture of her that stood on his cluttered desk.

Right now it doesn't look too good. You know how sometimes a thing is about something else? Or a whole bunch of something elses? Now it was always just the baby. Which is not the way Henry wants me to. It occurred to me that I'd like to handle things in my own way. No doubt. He agreed.

She knew he would, but not until he heard her all the way out. The hearing out was the most important part, and Rusty Jackson was good at it. He hadn't risen from one of three mechanics in the motor pool to maybe one of the four most important people at the Tallahassee campus and she hadn't heard that from him; he'd never say something like that to her or anyone else by not listening.

I can clean. Damn place has been closed up for almost a year. I don't get down to Vermillion much since your mother died. Seems like I can always find some more to do up here. Since the funeral ovarian cancer , she was just your mother. Em almost said, Are you sure you don't mind this? Or a different kind of father. She could hear a smile in his voice. As you well know. And you won't have to elbow people out of your way. Between now and October, Vermillion is as quiet as it ever gets. In , Bob got a promotion.

It was successful from the start, and in , he added baseball trading cards and old movie memorabilia. He kept no stock of posters, one-sheets, or window cards, but when people queried him on such items, he could almost always find them. Actually it was Darcy who found them, using her overstuffed Rolodex in those pre-computer days to call collectors all over the country.

The business never got big enough to become full-time, and that was all right. Neither of them wanted such a thing. They agreed on that as they did on the house they eventually bought in Pownal, and on the children when it came time to have them.

Stephen King

They agreed. But mostly they agreed. They saw eye-to-eye.

It was good. A good marriage. He experimented with different ways of combing what was left, which only made the bald spot more conspicuous, in her opinion. And he irritated her by trying two of the magical grow-it-all-back formulas, the kind of stuff sold by shifty-looking hucksters on high cable late at night Bob Anderson became something of a night owl as he slipped into middle age. And there they were: Of course magic never is, she remembered thinking.

But, irritated or not, she had held her peace about the magic potions, and also about the used Chevy Suburban he for some reason just had to download in the same year that gas prices really started to climb. As he had held his, she supposed as she knew, actually , when she had insisted on good summer camps for the kids, an electric guitar for Donnie he had played for two years, long enough to get surprisingly good, and then had simply stopped , horse rentals for Petra.

A Good Marriage

A successful marriage was a balancing act—that was a thing everyone knew. A successful marriage was also dependent on a high tolerance for irritation—this was a thing Darcy knew. As the Stevie Winwood song said, you had to roll widdit, baby. In , Donnie went off to college in Pennsylvania. In , Petra went to Colby, just up the road in Waterville.

By then, Darcy Madsen Anderson was forty-six years old. Bob was forty-nine, and still doing Cub Scouts with Stan Morin, a construction contractor who lived half a mile down the road. She thought her balding husband looked rather amusing in the khaki shorts and long brown socks he wore for the monthly Wildlife Hikes, but never said so. His bald spot had become well entrenched; his glasses had become bifocals; his weight had spun up from one-eighty into the two-twenty range.

They had traded the starter home in Pownal for a more expensive one in Yarmouth.

It was, she supposed, the satisfaction of knowing they were still together when so many others were not; the satisfaction of knowing that as they approached their Silver Anniversary, the course was still steady as she goes. There were over fifty guests, champagne the good stuff , steak tips, a four-tier cake. Well it should have; he had grown a paunch to go with the embarrassing bald spot embarrassing to him, at least , but he was still extremely light on his feet for an accountant.

But all of that was just history, the stuff of obituaries, and they were still too young to be thinking of those. It ignored the minutiae of marriage, and such ordinary mysteries, she believed firmly believed , were the stuff that validated the partnership.

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He had been warming up the car to take her to the Emergency Room at six the next morning when the horrible nausea had finally begun to abate. She had sat with him in the waiting room at St.

The biopsy had been negative, the diagnosis an infected lymph node. The lump had lingered for another month or so, then went away on its own. The sight of a crossword book on his knees glimpsed through the half-open bathroom door as he sat on the commode.

The sight of his old black suitcase, the one he would never give up no matter how much she nagged, in the front hall. His slippers at the end of the bed, one always tucked into the other.

How he always said, More room out than there is in after belching and Look out, gas attack! His coat on the first hook in the hall.

The way he dabbed his lips with his napkin after every second or third bite of food. The look of his nails, always short and clean. The taste of Dentyne on his breath when they kissed. These things and ten thousand others comprised the secret history of the marriage. Now it was twenty-seven years, or—she had amused herself figuring this one day using the calculator function on her computer—nine thousand eight hundred and fifty-five days.

Almost a quarter of a million hours and over fourteen million minutes. Did she know everything about him? Of course not. No more than he knew everything about her—how she sometimes mostly on rainy days or on those nights when the insomnia was on her gobbled Butterfingers or Baby Ruths, for instance, eating the candybars even after she no longer wanted them, even after she felt sick to her stomach. Or how she thought the new mailman was sort of cute.

There was no knowing everything, but she felt that after twenty-seven years, they knew all the important things. It was a good marriage, one of the fifty percent or so that kept working over the long haul. She believed that in the same unquestioning way she believed that gravity would hold her to the earth when she walked down the sidewalk. The TV controller stopped working, and there were no double-A batteries in the kitchen cabinet to the left of the sink.

There were D-cells and C-cells, even an unopened pack of the teeny tiny triple-As, but no goddarn frigging double-As. When Darcy wakes up the next morning, she finds that Bob has deduced her discovery and returned home early. He calmly explains his insanity to his horrified wife, recounting how he and a sadistic friend named Brian Delahanty — nicknamed "BD", from which Beadie's name was derived — planned a school shooting as teenagers.

Delahanty was hit by a truck before they could carry it out, but Bob claims he had "infected" him with "certain ideas," resulting in his homicidal urges. He pleads to Darcy to put the matter behind them, for the sake of herself and their family. After mulling it over, Darcy feigns an agreement to do so, on the condition that he bury Duvall's ID cards deep in the woods. Bob believes Darcy has put the truth behind her; however, she is trying to think of a way to stop him from killing again.

A few months after Darcy's discoveries, an elated Bob finds a rare doubled die cent , and the couple goes out to Portland to celebrate. When Bob becomes drunk from champagne, Darcy devises a plan to murder him. However, when Bob arrives, Darcy pushes him down the stairs, breaking his arm, neck, and back.Maybe eventually she would be able to find some for herself. See More Categories. She had done it like a little lady; never a peep from the baby monitor.

In , Bob got a promotion. If he had grabbed a moment earlier, he might have caught her by the arm or the wrist or maybe just the back of her T-shirt.

I happily sigh and dig in. Damn site. A couple of boys in a top-down Mustang -- it was just getting to be top-down weather -- passed her at the corner of Main and Eastern. Silence seemed like the best option.

She was tied with heavy ropes that bit into her breasts and belly.