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It was a kind of dressing room, with a sink and a mirror. Next to the sink he saw the case, white with pink roses.
He brought it back out to the Warden, and she set it on the glass coffee table in front of her. She unclasped the latch and opened the case.
It was a makeup case. Stanley’s mother had one similar to it. He saw several bottles of nail polish, polish remover, a couple of lipstick tubes, and other jars and powders.
The Warden held up a small jar of dark-red nail polish. “You see this, Caveman?”
He nodded.
“This is my special nail polish. Do you see the dark rich color? You can’t buy that in a store. I have to make it myself.”
Stanley had no idea why she was showing it to him. He wondered why the Warden would ever have the need to wear nail polish or makeup.
“Do you want to know my secret ingredient?”
He raised and lowered one shoulder.
The Warden opened the bottle. “Rattlesnake venom.” With a small paintbrush she began applying it to the nails on her left hand. “It’s perfectly harmless … when it’s dry.”
She finished her left hand. She waved it in the air for a few seconds, then began painting the nails on her right hand. “It’s only toxic while it’s wet.”
She finished painting her nails, then stood up. She reached over and touched Stanley’s face with her fingers. She ran her sharp wet nails very gently down his cheek. He felt his skin tingle.
The nail on her pinkie just barely touched the wound behind his ear. A sharp sting of pain caused him to jump back.
The Warden turned to face Mr. Sir, who was sitting on the fireplace hearth.
“So you think he stole your sunflower seeds?”
“No, he says he stole them, but I think it was—”
She stepped toward him and struck him across the face.
Mr. Sir stared at her. He had three long red marks slanting across the left side of his face. Stanley didn’t know if the redness was caused by her nail polish or his blood.
It took a moment for the venom to sink in. Suddenly, Mr. Sir screamed and clutched his face with both hands. He let himself fall over, rolling off the hearth and onto the rug.
The Warden spoke softly. “I don’t especially care about your sunflower seeds.”
Mr. Sir moaned.
“If you must know,” said the Warden, “I liked it better when you smoked.”
For a second, Mr. Sir’s pain seemed to recede. He took several long, deep breaths. Then his head jerked violently, and he let out a shrill scream, worse than the one before.
The Warden turned to Stanley. “I suggest you go back to your hole now.”
Stanley started to go, but Mr. Sir lay in the way. Stanley could see the muscles on his face jump and twitch. His body writhed in agony.
Stanley stepped carefully over him. “Is he—?”
“Excuse me?” said the Warden.
Stanley was too frightened to speak.
“He’s not going to die,” the Warden said. “Unfortunately for you.”
21
