A GOOD MARRIAGE STEPHEN KING PDF
A Good Marriage by Stephen King - Now a major motion picture, Stephen King's brilliant and terrifying story of a marriage with truly deadly sppn.info Get Free Read & Download Files A Good Marriage Stephen King PDF. A GOOD MARRIAGE STEPHEN KING. Download: A Good Marriage Stephen King. Read A Good Marriage by Stephen King for free with a 30 day free trial. A successful marriage was a balancing act—that was a thing.
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STEPHEN KING A GOOD MARRIAGE PDF - In this site isn`t the same as a solution manual you download in a book store or download off the web. Our. Over Editorial Reviews. About the Author. Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes The. A Simon & Schuster eBook. Simon & Schuster has a great book for every reader., ISBN
She didn't let it concern her. That was pain that would go away. Besides, she was exhausted and felt as if she could sleep for a while. She did -- all afternoon. On the same bed where Amy had been made and Henry had cried. When she woke up, she could see ghostly circles floating in the air, a sure sign that she was getting one of what she liked to call Em's Famous Headaches. She took one of her new pills, and to her surprise -- almost shock -- the headache turned tail and slunk away.
First to the back of her head, then gone. She thought there ought to be a pill like that for the death of a child. She thought she needed to explore the limits of her endurance, and she suspected the exploration would be a long one. There was a JuCo with a cinder track not too far from the house. She began to drive over there in the early mornings just after Henry left for work. Henry didn't understand the running.
Jogging, sure -- lots of women jogged. Keep those extra four pounds off the old fanny, keep those extra two inches off the old waistline.
But Em didn't have an extra four pounds on her backside, and besides, jogging was no longer enough. She had to run, and fast. Only fast running would do.
She parked at the track and ran until she could run no more, until her sleeveless FSU sweatshirt was dark with sweat down the front and back and she was shambling and sometimes puking with exhaustion.
Henry found out. Someone saw her there, running all by herself at eight in the morning, and told him. They had a discussion about it. The discussion escalated into a marriage-ending argument. She was afraid you'd had a heart attack. That's not a hobby, Em.
Not even a fetish.
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It's an obsession. It would be a little while yet before she picked up the book and threw it at him, but that was what really tore it. That reproachful look. She could no longer stand it. Given his rather long face, it was like having a sheep in the house. I married a Dorset gray, she thought, and now it's just baa-baa-baa, all day long.
But she tried one more time to be reasonable about something she knew in her heart had no reasonable core. There was magical thinking; there was also magical doing. Running, for instance. Out the window, at the driveway. The driveway called her.
The driveway led to the sidewalk, and the sidewalk led to the world. You have no plans to run in a marathon. During the six years of their marriage he had always been perfectly aware of what she was thinking, feeling, planning. I comforted you, she thought -- not furious yet but beginning to be furious. You lay there on the bed, leaking, and I comforted you.
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?
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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. 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. Upon arriving home, Darcy has Bob fetch some Perrier while she waits for him upstairs, ostensibly for sex. However, when Bob arrives, Darcy pushes him down the stairs, breaking his arm, neck, and back.
She then manages to shove a plastic bag and a dishwiper down his throat, killing him. Darcy manages to convince the authorities and the children that Bob had died in a drunken accident, and isn't suspected of committing any foul play. Darcy assumes the ordeal is over. However, not long after Bob is buried, a retired detective named Holt Ramsey visits the house.
Ramsey investigated the Beadie murders and had questioned Bob after the death of another victim, Stacey Moore , who worked at a restaurant that Bob frequented on his business trips. The overhead fluorescents buzzed on. The floor was a concrete slab painted battleship gray.
There were no oilstains; Bob said that oil-stains on a garage floor either meant the people who owned the garage were running junk or were careless about maintenance. The year-old Prius he used for his weekday commutes into Portland was there; he had taken his high-mileage SUV dinosaur to Vermont. Her Volvo was parked outside. Just use the door opener on the visor.
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I like it where I can see it, she always replied, although the real reason was her fear of clipping the garage bay door while backing out. She hated backing. And she supposed he knew it. She walked to the bench, where several square tins were lined up, each neatly labeled: There was a calendar on the wall featuring a Sports Illustrated swimsuit girl who looked depressingly young and sexy; to the left of the calendar two photos had been tacked up.
She tottered, then grabbed the workbench at the last possible second. She broke off a fingernail—painful and annoying—but saved herself a potentially nasty fall, which was good.
Very good, considering there was no one in the house to call , had she cracked her skull on the floor—greaseless and clean, but extremely hard. She could simply have pushed the box back under with the side of her foot—later she would realize this and ponder it carefully, like a mathematician going over an abstruse and complicated equation.
She was in a hurry, after all. But she saw a Patternworks knitting catalogue on top of the box, and knelt down to grab it and take it in with the batteries.
And when she lifted it out, there was a Brookstone catalogue she had misplaced just underneath. And beneath that Paula Young.
Because, really, she could read him like a book. He thought she ordered too much from the mail-order catalogues, had once gone so far as to declare she was addicted to them which was ridiculous, it was Butterfingers she was addicted to. That little psychological analysis had earned him a two-day cold shoulder. So he had gathered up her catalogues, the sneak, and stowed them out here.
Probably the next stop would have been the recycling bin. Computer Outlet. Monkey Ward. Layla Grace. The deeper she went, the more exasperated she became. But first, she intended to take all these catalogues right back into the goddarn house, which would take three or possibly four trips, because the stack was at least two feet high, and those slick catalogues were heavy.
Death by catalogues, she thought. Now that would be an ironic way to g—. The thought broke off as clean as a dry branch.
No, not a catalogue at all. It was a magazine called Bondage Bitches. But finding it here, stashed in a pile of what had to be at least two hundred catalogues.
The woman on the cover was bound to a chair and naked except for a black hood, but the hood only covered the top half of her face and you could see she was screaming. She was tied with heavy ropes that bit into her breasts and belly. There was fake blood on her chin, neck, and arms. Across the bottom of the page, in screaming yellow type, was this unpleasant come-on: Darcy had no intention of turning to page 49, or to any other page.
She was already explaining to herself what this was: A woman had. This action might not be possible to undo.
Are you sure you want to continue? Upload Sign In Join. Save For Later. Create a List. A Good Marriage by Stephen King. Summary Now a major motion picture, Stephen King's brilliant and terrifying story of a marriage with truly deadly secrets. Read on the Scribd mobile app Download the free Scribd mobile app to read anytime, anywhere.
Scribner Released: Sep 30, ISBN: His greatest hope was to some day come across a double-date, which was— But she knew that, too.
A valuable mistake. No coin collections? Especially wheat pennies? Teasing, but just a little.So he had gathered up her catalogues, the sneak, and stowed them out here. Emmy, are you okay? It might even have been in the DNA of the marriage.
He answered on the first ring. My friend promised that this is not the Stephen King of gore or the supernatural. 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 no oilstains; Bob said that oil-stains on a garage floor either meant the people who owned the garage were running junk or were careless about maintenance. But mostly they agreed. And did.