Dolores Claiborne

    By the time we'd had our pie and I'd seen her upstairs for her afternoon nap, the could-do part of it was clear in my mind. I wanted to be shut of Joe, I wanted my kids” money back, and most of all, I wanted to make him pay for all he'd put us through especially for all he'd put Selena through. If the son of a bitch had an accident-the right kind of accident-all those things'd happen. The money I couldn't get at while he was alive would come to me when he died. He might've snuck off to get the money in the first place, but he hadn't ever snuck off to make a will cuttin me out. It wasn't a question of brains-the way he got the money showed me he was quite a bit slyer'n I'd given him credit for-but just the way his mind worked. I'm pretty sure that down deep, Joe St George didn't think he was ever gonna die.

    And as his wife, everything would come right back to me.

    By the time I left Pinewood that afternoon the rain had stopped, and I walked home real slow. I wasn't even halfway there before I'd started to think of the old well behind the woodshed.

    I had the house to myself when I got back-the boys were off playin, and Selena had left a note sayin she'd gone over to Mrs Devereaux's to help her do a laundry… she did all the sheets from The Harborside Hotel in those days, you know. I didn't have any idear where Joe was and didn't care. The important thing was that his truck was gone, and with the muffler hangin by a thread the way it was, I'd have plenty of warnin if he came back.

    I stood there a minute, lookin at Selena's note. It's funny, the little things that finally push a person into makin up her mind-sendin her from could-do to might-do to will-do, so's to speak. Even now I'm not sure if I really meant to kill Joe when I came home from Vera Donovan's that day. I meant to check on the well, yes, but that could have been no more than a game, the way kids play Let's Pretend. If Selena hadn't left that note, I might never have done it… and no matter what else comes of this, Andy, Selena must never know that.

    The note went somethin like this: “Mom-I have gone over to Mrs Devereaux's with Cindy Babcock to help do the hotel wash-they had lots more people over the holiday weekend than they expected, and you know how bad Mrs D's arthritis has gotten. The poor dear sounded at her wits” end when she called. I will be back to help with supper. Love and kisses, Sel.”

    I knew Selena'd come back with no more'n five or seven dollars, but happy as a lark to have it. She'd be happy to go back if Mrs Devereaux or Cindy called again, too, and if she got offered a job as a part-time chambermaid at the hotel next summer, she'd prob'ly try to talk me into lettin her take it. Because money is money, and on the island in those days, tradin back n forth was still the most common way of life and cash a hard commodity to come by. Mrs Devereaux would call again, too, and be delighted to write a hotel reference for Selena if Selena ast her to, because Selena was a good little worker, not afraid to bend her back or get her hands dirty.

    She was just like me when I was her age, in other words, n look how I turned out-just another cleanin-witch with a permanent stoop in her walk and a bottle of pain-pills in the medicine cabinet for my back. Selena didn't see nothing wrong with that, but she'd just turned fifteen, and at fifteen a girl don't know what the hell she's seem even when she's lookin spang at it. I read that note over n over and I thought, Frig it-she ain't gonna end up like me, old n damn near used up at thirty-five. She ain't gonna do that even if I have to die to keep her from it. But you know something, Andy? I didn't think things'd have to go that far. I thought maybe Joe was gonna do all the dyin that needed to be done around our place.

    I put her note back on the table, did up the snaps on my slicker again, and pulled on my gumrubber boots. Then I walked around back n stood by the big white stone where me'n Selena sat the night I told her she didn't have to be afraid of Joe anymore, that he'd promised to let her alone. The rain'd stopped, but I could still hear the water drippin deep in the blackberry tangle behind the house, and see drops of water hangin off the bare branches. They looked like Vera Donovan's diamond-drop earrings, only not so big.

    That patch covered better'n half an acre, and by the time I'd pushed my way in, I was damned glad I had on my slicker and tall boots. The wet was the least of it; those thorns were murder. In the late forties, that patch had been flowers and field-grass, with the well-head sittin on the shed side of it, but about six years after me n Joe were married and moved onto the place-which his Uncle Freddy left him when he died-the well went dry. Joe got Peter Doyon to come over and dowse us a new one, on the west side of the house. We've never had a spot of water-trouble since.