Gwendy’s Final Task

Trying hard to remain calm, Gwendy checked the alarm system (the panel display was back to reading READY TO ARM; no big surprise there) and turned on the coffee-maker in the kitchen before heading out to the garage.

Using the old wooden stepladder her father had passed down to her the previous summer, Gwendy slowly ascended the rungs until she was able to reach the highest row of metal shelving that ran along the length of the garage’s cluttered back wall. She scooted aside an old Tupperware container labeled FISHING TACKLE & BOBBERS, and—breathing heavy with the effort; at fifty-seven, she wasn’t nearly as spry as she once was—carefully took down a cardboard box marked SEWING SUPPLIES. Once she was safely down, she placed the box on the cold concrete floor at her feet, dropped to a knee and opened the flaps. Gooseflesh immediately broke out across her forearms.

The button box, snug in its canvas bag, was waiting for her inside.

She felt the short hairs on the back of her neck begin to tingle, and heard that familiar faint whisper of something in the far corner of her brain. She quickly closed up the box, got to her feet and backed away.

This goddamned thing. How I hate it. How I loathe it.

She shivered, listening to the echo of Farris’s voice in the dim silence of the garage, remembering his pale sickly face, scarecrow limbs, rotting and missing teeth.

And then his final words came to her, practically pleading by then: It’s the only place they won’t come for it. You have to try, Gwendy, before it’s too late. You’re the only one I trust.

“Why me?” she asked, barely recognizing the sound of her own voice.

She waited for an answer, but none came. Certainly not God, asking her if she was there when He made the world.

Summoning her courage, she climbed the ladder again and returned the cardboard box to its hiding place on the top shelf. Locking the garage door—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that—she went back inside to the kitchen and poured herself a mug of hot coffee. She sipped it staring out the window above the sink at the snow-covered back yard, once again promising herself that she was going to tell Ryan everything. She was too old and too frightened to go it alone this time around—third time’s a charm, she thought—but it was more than that. She owed her husband the truth after all these years, and it would feel good to finally tell it. Damn good.

But that conversation would have to wait until later tonight.

She had a busy day to get through first.

Every year, bright and early on Black Friday morning, her old friend Brigette Desjardin would swing by the house and pick her up. They’d grab a quick breakfast at the Castle Rock Diner before heading off on a ninety-minute road trip to Portland. Once there, they’d lace up their Reeboks and spend the day braving the overflow crowds at not one, not two, but all three of the city’s massive shopping malls. They usually returned home late in the evening, the trunk and back seat of Brigette’s bright red BMW crammed full with shopping bags and gift boxes, bragging about the great deals they’d gotten and complaining about swollen feet from all the walking and chapped lips from all the talking. And all of the greeting: that, too, because a surprising number of people still recognized Gwendy from her stint in the House. For some of those folks, Gwendy Peterson was practically an old family friend; she’d been part of their lives for that long. Political demi-celebrity aside, Christmas shopping with Brigette was a holiday tradition Gwendy always enjoyed and looked forward to. And she liked people, for the most part.

This year would obviously be a different story. All of a sudden, thanks to the man in the little black hat, she had more important matters to worry about than shoe sales and triple value coupons.

She considered bailing out altogether—in fact, she picked up the telephone and went so far as to punch in half of Brigette’s number, only to hang up. A last-minute cancellation would give rise to more questions than she was prepared to answer. No, she told herself, she’d just have to “suck it up, buttercup,” as her father liked to say.