So she braced herself, put on her best it’s-only-eight-thirty-and-I’ve-got-seven-and-a-half-hours-to-go smile, and stood at the counter as Pop approached. She told herself, He’s only looking at you, guys have been doing that since you sprouted, and that was true, but this wasn’t the same. Because Pop Merrill wasn’t like most of the guys who had run their eyes over her trim and eminently watchable superstructure since that time ten years ago. Part of it was that Pop was old, but that wasn’t all of it. The truth was that some guys looked at you and some – a very few – seemed to actually be feeling you up with their eyes, and Merrill was one of those. His gaze actually seemed to have weight; when he fumbled in his creaky old-maid’s purse on its length of incongruously masculine chain, she seemed to actually feel his eyes squirming up and down her front, lashing their way up her hills on their optic nerves like tadpoles and then sliding bonelessly down into her valleys, making her wish she had worn a nun’s habit to work that day. Or maybe a suit of armor.
But her mother had been fond of saying What can’t be cured must be endured, sweet Molly, and until someone discovered a method of weighing gazes so those of dirty men both young and old could be outlawed, or, more likely, until Pop Merrill did everyone in Castle Rock a favor by dying so that eyesore of a tourist trap he kept could be torn down, she would just have to deal with it as best she could.
But today she was in for a pleasant surprise – or so it seemed at first. Pop’s usual hungry appraisal was not even an ordinary patron’s look; it seemed utterly blank. It wasn’t that he looked through her, or that his gaze struck her and bounced off. It seemed to Molly that he was so deep in his thoughts that his usually penetrating look did not even reach her, but made it about halfway and then petered out – like a man trying to locate and observe a star on the far side of the galaxy with just the naked eye.
‘May I help you, Mr Merrill?’ she asked, and her feet were already cocking so she could turn quickly and reach up for where the pouches of tobacco were kept. With Pop, this was a task she always did as quickly as possible, because when she turned and reached, she could feel his eyes crawling busily over her ass, dropping for a quick check of her legs, then rising again to her butt for a final ocular squeeze and perhaps a pinch before she turned back.
‘Yes,’ he said calmly and serenely, and he might as well have been talking to one of those automated bank machines for all the interest in her he showed. That was fine by Molly. ‘I’d like some’ and then either a
word she didn’t hear right or one that was utter gibberish. If it was gobbledegook, she thought with some hope, maybe the first few parts of the complicated network of dykes, levees, and spillways the old crock had constructed against the rising sea of senility were finally giving way.
It sounded as if he had said toefilmacco, which wasn’t a product they stocked … unless it was a prescription drug of some sort.
‘I beg pardon, Mr Merrill?’
‘Film,’ he said, so clearly and firmly that Molly was more than disappointed; she was convinced he must have said it just that way the first time and her ears had picked it up wrong. Maybe she was the one who was beginning to lose her dykes and levees.
‘What kind would you like?’
‘Polaroid,’ he said. ‘Two packs.’ She didn’t know exactly what was going on here, but it was beyond doubt that Castle Rock’s premier dirty old man was not himself today. His eyes would still not focus, and the words … they reminded her of something, something she associated with her five-year-old niece, Ellen, but she couldn’t catch hold of it.
‘For what model, Mr Merrill?’
She sounded brittle and actressy to herself, but Pop Merrill didn’t even come close to noticing. Pop was lost in the ozone.
After a moment’s consideration in which he did not look at her at all but seemed instead to study the racks of cigarettes behind her left shoulder, he jerked out: ‘For a Polaroid Sun camera. Model 660.’ And then it came to her, even as she told him she’d have to get it from the display. Her niece owned a big soft panda toy, which she had, for reasons which would probably make sense only to another little girl, named Paulette. Somewhere inside of Paulette was an electronic circuit-board and a memory chip on which were stored about four hundred short, simple sentences such as ‘I like to hug, don’t you?’ and ‘I wish you’d never go away.’ Whenever you poked Paulette above her fuzzy little navel, there was a brief pause and then one of those lovesome little remarks would come out, almost jerk out, in a somehow remote and emotionless voice that seemed by its tone to deny the content of the words. Ellen thought Paulette was the nuts. Molly thought there was something creepy about it; she kept expecting Ellen to poke the panda-doll in the guts someday and it would surprise them all (except for Aunt Molly from Castle Rock) by saying what was really on its mind. ‘I think tonight after you’re asleep I’ll strangle you dead,’ perhaps, or maybe just ‘I have a knife.’
Pop Merrill sounded like Paulette the stuffed panda this morning. His blank gaze was uncannily like Paulette’s. Molly had thought any change from the old man’s usual leer would be a welcome one. She had been wrong.
Molly bent over the display, for once totally unconscious of the way her rump was poking out, and tried to find what the old man wanted as quickly as she could. She was sure that when she turned around, Pop would be looking at anything but her. This time she was right. When she had the film and started back (brushing a couple of errant fall leaves from one of the boxes), Pop was still staring at the cigarette racks, at first glance appearing to look so closely he might have been inventorying the stock. It took a second or two to see that that expression was no expression at all, really, but a gaze of almost divine blankness.
Please get out of here, Molly prayed. Please, just take your film and go. And whatever else you do, don’t touch me. Please.
If he touched her while he was looking like that, Molly thought she would scream. Why did the place have to be empty? Why couldn’t at least one other customer be in here, preferably Sheriff Pangborn, but since he seemed to be otherwise engaged, anyone at all? She supposed Mr Constantine, the pharmacist, was in the store someplace, but the drug counter looked easily a quarter of a mile away, and while she knew it couldn’t be that far, not really, it was still too far for him to reach her in a hurry if old man Merrill decided to touch her. And suppose Mr Constantine had gone out to Nan’s for coffee with Mr Keeton from the selectmen’s office? The more she thought about that possibility, the more likely it seemed. When something genuinely weird like this happened, wasn’t it an almost foregone conclusion that it should happen while one was alone?
He’s having a mental breakdown of some kind.
She heard herself saying with glassy cheerfulness: ‘Here you are, Mr Merrill.’ She put the film on the counter and scooted to her left and behind the register at once, wanting it between her and him.
The ancient leather purse came out of Pop Merrill’s pants, and her stuttering fingers miskeyed the purchase so she had to clear the register and start again.
He was holding two ten-dollar bills out to her.
She told herself they were only rumpled from being squashed up with the other bills in that little pocketbook, probably not even old, although they looked old. That didn’t stop her galloping mind, however. Her mind insisted that they weren’t just rumpled, they were rumpled and slimy. It further insisted that old wasn’t the right word, that old wasn’t even in the ballpark. For those particular items of currency, not even the word ancient would do. Those were prehistoric tens, somehow printed before Christ was born and Stonehenge was built, before the first low-browed, no-neck Neanderthal had crawled out of his cave. They belonged to a time when even God had been a baby.
She didn’t want to touch them.
She had to touch them.
The man would want his change.
Steeling herself, she took the bills and shoved them into the cash register as fast as she could, banging a finger so hard she ripped most of the nail clear off, an ordinarily exquisite pain she would not notice, in her extreme state of distress, until sometime later … when, that was, she had chivvied her willing mind around enough to scold herself for acting like a whoopsy little girl on the edge of her first menstrual period.