'What's with you？' Roger asked。
'What do you mean； what's with me？'
'You know what I mean。 I never even saw you drink a beer before noon before。 Usually not before five。'
'I'm launching the boat；' Vic said。
'What boat？'
'The R。M。S。 Titanic；' Vic said。
Roger frowned。 'That's sort of poor taste； don't you think？'
He did； as a matter of fact。 Roger deserved something better； but this morning； with the depression still on him like a foul…smelling blanket； he just couldn't think of anything better。 He managed a rather bleak smile instead。 But Roger went on frowning at him。
'Look；' Vic said； 'I've got an idea on this Zingers thing。 It's going to he a bitch convincing old man Sharp and the kid； but it might work。'
Roger looked relieved。 It was the way it had always worked with them； Vic was the raw idea man； Roger the shaper and implementer。 They had always worked as a team when it came to translating the ideas into media； and in the matter of presentation。
'What is it？'
'Give me a little while；' Vic said。 'Until tonight； maybe。 Then we'll run it up the flagpole …'
'…and see who drops their pants；' Roger finished with a grin。 He shook his paper open to the financial page again。 'Okay。 As long as I get it by tonight。 Sharp stock went up another eighth last week。 Were you aware of that？'
'Dandy；' Vic murmured； and looked out the window again。 No fog now； the day was as clear as a bell。 The beaches at Kennebunk and Ogunquit and York formed a panoramic picture postcard … cobalt blue sea； khaki sand； and then the Maine landscape of low hills； open fields； and thick bands of fir stretching west and out of sight。 Beautiful。 And it made his depression even worse。
If I have to cry； I'm damn well going into the crapper to do it； he thought grimly。 Six sentences on a sheet of cheap paper had done this to him。 It was a goddam fragile world； as fragile as one of those Easter eggs that were all pretty colors on the outside but hollow on the inside。 Only last week he had been thinking of just taking Tad and moving out。 Now he wondered if Tad and Donna would still be there when he and Roger got back。 Was it possible that Donna might just take the kid and decamp； maybe to her mother's place in the Poconos？
Sure it was possible。 She might decide that ten days apart wasn't enough； not for him； not for her。 Maybe a six months' separation would be better。 And she had Tad now。 Possession was nine points of the law； wasn't it？
And maybe； a crawling； insinuating voice inside spoke up； maybe she knows where Kemp is。 Maybe she'll decide to go to him。 Try it with him for a while。 They can search for their happy pasts together Now there's a nice crazy Monday morning thought； he told himself uneasily。
But the thought wouldn't go away。 Almost； but not quite。
He managed to finish every drop of his screwdriver before the plane touched down at Logan。 It gave him acid indigestion that he knew would last all morning long … like the thought of Donna and Steve Kemp together； it would e creeping back even if he gobbled a whole roll of Turns … but the depression lifted a little and so maybe it was worth it。
Maybe。
Joe Camber looked at the patch of garage floor below his big vise damp with something like wonder。 He pushed his green felt hat back on his forehead； stared at what was there awhile longer； then put his fingers between his teeth and whistled piercingly。
'Cujo！ Hey； boy！ e； Cujo！'
He whistled again and then leaned over； hands on his knees。 The dog would e； he had no doubt of that。 Cujo never went far。 But how was he going to handle this？
The dog had shat on the garage floor。 He had never known Cujo to do such a thing； not even as a pup。 He had piddled around a few times； as puppies will； and he had tom the bejesus out of a chair cushion or two； but there had never been anything like this。 He wondered briefly if maybe some other dog had done it； and then dismissed the thought。 Cujo was the biggest dog in Castle Rock； so far as he knew。 Big dogs ate big； and big dogs crapped big。 No poodle or beagle or Heinz Fifty…seven Varieties had done this mess。 Joe wondered if the dog could have sensed that Charity and Brett were going away for a sped。 If so； maybe this was his way of showing just how that idea set with him。 Joe had heard of such things。
He had taken the dog in payment for a job he had done in 1975。 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。 He could have made a decent living doing what New England country people sometimes called 'dog farming'； but his temper was not good； and he drove many customers away with his sullenness。
'I need a new engine in my truck；' Crowell had told Joe that spring。
'Ayuh；' Joe had said。
'I got the motor； but I can't pay you nothing。 I'm tapped out。'
They had been standing just inside Joe's garage； chewing on stems of grass。 Brett； then five； had been goofing around the dooryard while Charity hung out clothes。
'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。 What do you say？ You'd be ing out ahead； but I can't cut no pulp if I don't have a truck to haul it in。'
'Don't need a dog；' joe said。 'Especially a big one like that。 Goddam Saint Bernards ain't nothing but eatin machines。'
'You don't need a dog；' Ray said； casting an eye out at Brett； who was now just sitting on the grass and watching his mother； 'but your boy might appreciate one。'
Joe opened his mouth and then closed it again。 He and Charity didn't use any protection but there had been no more kids since Brett； and Brett himself had been a long while ing。 Sometimes； looking at him； a vague question would form itself in Joe's head： Was the boy lonely？ Perhaps he was。 And perhaps Ray Crowell was right。 Brett's birthday was ing up。 He could give him the pup then。
'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。
Later that week； the manager of the Shop'n Save drove his Thunderbird up to Joe's to get the transmission looked at。 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。 And as he finished the job； listening to Donovan talk about how his wife wanted him to sell the car； Joe had； had an idea。
'I'm thinking about getting my boy a dog；' he told this Donovan as he let the T…Bird down off the jacks。
Oh； yes？' Donovan asked politely。
Ayuh。 Saint Bernard。 It's just a pup now； but it's gonna eat big when it grows。 Now I was just thinking that we might make a little deal； you and me。 If you was to guarantee me a discount on that dry dog food； Gaines Meal； Ralston…Purina； whatever you sell； I'd guarantee you to work on your Bird here every once in a while。 No labor charges。'
Donovan had been delighted and the two of them had shaken on it。 Joe had called Ray Crowell and said he'd decided to take the pup if Crowell was still agreeable。 Crowell was； and when his son's birthday rolled around that year； Joe had astounded both Brett and Charity by putting the squirming； wriggling puppy into the boy's arms。
'Thank you； Daddy； thank you； thank you！' Brett had cried； hugging his father and covering his cheeks with kisses。
'Sure；' joe said。 'But you take care of him； Brett。 He's your dog； not mine。 I guess if he does any piddling or cropping around； IT take him out in back of the barn and shoot him for a stranger。'
'I will； Daddy 。。。 I promise！'
He had kept his promise； pretty much； and on the few occasions he forgot； either Charity or Joe himself had cleaned up after the dog with no ment。