dk.solesurvivor-第39部分

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　　Whoooaaa。　Here　we　go　。　。　Whoooaaa。　Oh；　wow。　Oh；　yeah。
　　Blane's　reaction　to　the　roll　and　plunge　of　the　747　was　like　that　of　a　boy　thrilling　to　the　arrival　of　a　roller　coaster　at　the　crown　of　the　first　hill　on　the　track　and；　then；　to　the　first　stomach…rolling　drop。　According　to　Barbara；　the　captain　had　sounded　unafraid；　and　there　was　no　more　terror　in　his　words　than　in　his　tone　of　voice。
　　Now。　Look。
　　Those　words　were　spoken　three　and　a　half　seconds　before　impact；　as　Blane　watched　the　nightscape　bloom　like　a　black　rose　beyond　the　windscreen。　He　seemed　gripped　not　by　fear　but　by　a　sense　of　wonder。
　　Cool。
　　Joe　stared　at　that　final　word　for　a　long　time；　until　the　shiver　it　caused　had　passed；　until　he　could　consider　all　the　implications　of　it　with　a　measure　of　detachment。
　　Cool。
　　To　the　end；　Blane　reacted　like　a　boy　on　an　amusement…park　ride。　He　had　exhibited　no　more　concern　for　his　passengers　and　crew　than　a　thoughtless　and　arrogant　child　might　exhibit　for　the　insects　that　he　tortured　with　matches。
　　Cool。
　　Even　a　thoughtless　child；　as　selfish　as　only　the　very　young　and　the　incurably　immature　can　be；　would　nonetheless　have　shown　some　fear　for　himself　Even　a　determinedly　suicidal　man；　having　leaped　off　a　high　ledge；　would　cry　out　in　mortal　fear　if　not　regret　as　he　hurtled　toward　the　pavement。　Yet　this　captain；　in　whatever　altered　state　he　occupied；　watched　oblivion　approach　with　no　apparent　concern；　even　with　delight；　as　though　he　recognized　no　physical　threat　to　himself。
　　Cool。
　　Delroy　Blane。　Family　man。　Faithful　husband。　Devout　Mormon。
　　Stable；　loving；　kind；　passionate。　Successful；　happy；　healthy。　Everything　to　live　for。　Cleared　by　the　toxicological　tests。
　　What's　wrong　with　this　picture？
　　Cool。
　　A　useless　anger　rose　in　Joe。　It　was　not　aimed　at　Blane；　who　surely　was　a　victim　too…though　he　didn't　initially　appear　to　be　one。　This　was　the　simmering　anger　of　his　childhood　and　adolescence；　undirected　and　therefore　likely　to　swell　like　the　ever…hotter　steam　in　a　boiler　with　no　pressure…release　valve。
　　He　tucked　the　note　pad　into　his　jacket　pocket。
　　His　hands　curled　into　fists。　Unclenching　them　was　difficult。　He　wanted　to　strike　something。　Anything。　Until　he　broke　it。　Until　his　knuckles　split　and　bled。
　　Such　blind　anger　always　reminded　him　of　his　father。
　　
　　Frank　Carpenter　had　not　been　an　angry　person。　The　opposite。　He　never　raised　his　voice　in　other　than　amusement　and　surprise　and　happy　exclamation。　He　was　a　good　man…inexplicably　good　and　oddly　optimistic；　considering　the　suffering　with　which　fate　saddled　him。
　　Joe；　however；　had　been　perpetually　angry　for　him。
　　He　could　not　remember　his　dad　with　two　legs。　Frank　had　lost　the　left　one　when　his　car　was　broadsided　by　a　pickup　truck　driven　by　a　nineteen…year…old　drunk　with　lapsed　insurance。　Joe　was　not　yet　three　years　old　at　the　time。
　　Frank　and　Donna；　Joe's　mother；　had　been　married　with　little　more　than　two　paycheques　and　their　work　clothes。　To　save　money；　they　carried　only　liability　coverage　with　their　car。　The　drunk　driver　had　no　assets；　and　they　received　no　pensation　from　any　insurance　pany　for　the　loss　of　the　limb。
　　The　leg　was　amputated　halfway　between　knee　and　hip。　In　those　days　there　were　no　highly　effective　prostheses。　Besides；　a　false　leg　with　any　sort　of　functioning　knee　was　expensive。　Frank　became　so　agile　and　quick　with　one　leg　and　a　crutch　that　he　joked　about　entering　a　marathon。
　　Joe　had　never　been　ashamed　of　his　father's　difference。　He　knew　his　dad　not　as　a　one…legged　man　with　a　peculiar　lurching　gait；　but　as　a　bedtime　storyteller；　an　indefatigable　player　of　Uncle　Wiggly　and　other　games；　a　patient　softball　coach。
　　The　first　serious　fight　he'd　gotten　into　was　when　he　was　six；　in　first　grade。　A　kid　named　Les　Olner　had　referred　to　Frank　as　a　'stupid　cripple。'　Although　Olner　was　a　bully　and　bigger　than　Joe；　his　superior　size　was　an　insufficient　advantage　against　the　savage　animal　fury　with　which　he　was　confronted。　Joe　beat　the　shit　out　of　him。　His　intention　was　to　put　out　Olner's　right　eye；　so　he　would　know　what　it　was　like　to　live　with　one　of　two；　but　a　teacher　pulled　him　off　the　battered　kid　before　he　could　half　blind　him。
　　Afterward；　he　felt　no　remorse。　He　still　didn't。　He　was　not　proud　of　this。　It　was　just　the　way　he　felt。
　　Dorma　knew　that　her　husband's　heart　would　break　a　little　if　he　learned　his　boy　had　gotten　into　trouble　over　him。　She　devised　and　enforced　Joe's　punishment　herself；　and　together　they　concealed　the　incident　from　Frank。
　　That　was　the　beginning　of　Joe's　secret　life　of　quiet　rage　and　periodic　violence。　He　grew　up　looking　for　a　fight　and　usually　finding　one；　but　he　chose　the　moment　and　the　venue　to　ensure　that　his　dad　was　unlikely　to　learn　of　it。
　　Frank　was　a　roofer；　but　there　was　no　scrambling　up　ladders　and　hustling　from　eaves　to　ridgeline　with　one　leg。　He　was　loath　to　take　disability　from　the　government；　but　he　accepted　it　for　a　while；　until　he　found　a　way　to　turn　a　talent　for　woodworking　into　an　occupation。
　　He　made　jewellery　boxes；　lamp　bases；　and　other　items　inlaid　with　exotic　woods　in　intricate　patterns；　and　he　found　shops　that　would　carry　his　creations。　For　a　while；　he　cleared　a　few　dollars　more　than　the　disability　payments；　which　he　relinquished。
　　A　seamstress　in　a　bination　tailor's　shop　and　dry…cleaners；　Donna　came　home　from　work　every　day　with　hair　curled　from　the　steam…press　humidity　and　smelling　of　benzene　and　other　liquid　solvents。　To　this　day；　when　Joe　entered　a　dry…cleaning　establishment；　his　first　breath　brought　vividly　to　mind　his　mother's　hair　and　her　honey…brown　eyes；　which　as　a　child　he'd　thought　were　faded　from　a　darker　brown　by　steam　and　chemicals。
　　Three　years　after　losing　the　leg；　Frank　began　suffering　pain　in　his　knuckles　and　then　his　wrists。　The　diagnosis　was　rheumatoid　arthritis。
　　A　vicious　thing；　this　disease。　And　in　Frank；　it　progressed　with　unmon　speed；　a　fire　spreading　through　him：　the　spinal　joints　in　his　neck；　his　shoulders；　hips；　his　one　remaining　knee。
　　He　shut　down　his　woodworking　business。　There　were　government　programs　providing　assistance；　though　never　enough　and　always　with　the　measure　of　humiliation　that　bureaucrats　dished　out　with　a　hateful…and　often　unconscious…generosity。
　　The　Church　helped　too；　and　charity　from　the　local　parish　was　more　passionately　provided　and　less　humbling　to　receive。　Frank　and　Donna　were　Catholics。　Joe　went　to　Mass　with　them　faithfully　but　without　faith。
　　In　two　years；　already　hampered　by　the　loss　of　one　leg；　Frank　was　in　a　wheelchair。
　　Medical　knowledge　has　advanced　dramatically　in　thirty　years；　but　in　those　days；　treatments　were　less　effective　than　they　are　now…especially　in　cases　as　severe　as　Frank's。　Nonsteroidal　anti…inflammatory　drugs；　injections　of　gold　salts；　and　then　much　later　penicillamine。　Still　the　osteoporosis　progressed。　More　cartilage　and　tendon　tissue　were　lost　from　the　chronic　inflammation。　Muscles　continued　to　atrophy。　Joints　ached　and　swelled。　The　quality　of　immunosuppressant　Corticosteroids　available　at　the　time　somewhat　slowed　but　did　not　halt　the　deformation　of　joints；　the　frightening　loss　of　function。
　　By　the　time　Joe　was　thirteen；　his　daily　routine　included　helping　his　dad　dress　and　bathe　when　his　mother　was　at　work。　From　the　first；　he　never　resented　any　tasks　that　fell　to　him；　to　his　surprise；　he　found　within　himself　a　tenderness　that　was　a　counterweight　to　the　omnipresent　anger　that　he　directed　at　God　but　that　he　inadequately　relieved　on　those　unlucky　boys　with　whom　he　periodically　picked　fights。　For　a　long　time　Frank　was　mortified　to　have　to　rely　on　his　son　for　such　private　matters；　but　eventually　the　shared　challenge　of　bathing；　grooming；　and　toilet　brought　them　closer；　deepened　their　feelings　for　each　other。
　　By　the　time　Joe　was　sixteen；　Frank　was　suffering　with　fibrous　ankylosis。　Huge　rheumatoid　nodules　had　formed　at　several　joints；　including　one　the　size　of　a　golf　ball　on　his　right　wrist。　His　left　elbow　was　deformed　by　a　nodule　almost　as　large　as　the　softball　that　he　had　thrown　so　many　hundreds　of　times　in　backyard　practices　when　Joe　had　been　six　years　old　and　getting　into　Little　League。
　　His　dad　lived　now　for　Joe's　achievements；　so　Joe　was　an　honour　student　in　spite　of　a　part…time　job　at　McDonald's。　He　was　a　star　quarterback　on　the　high…school　football　team。　Frank　never　put　any　pressure　on　him　to　excel。　Love　motivated　Joe。
　　In　the　summer　of　that　year；　he　joined　the　YMCA　Youth　Athletics　Program：　the　boxing　league。　He　was　quick　to　learn；　and　the　coach　liked　him；　said　he　had　talent。　But　in　his　first　two　practice　matches；　he　continued　hammering　punches　into　opponents　after　they　were　sagging　on　the　ropes；　beaten　and　defenceless。　He'd　had　to　be　pulled　off。　To　them；　boxing　was　recreation　and　self…defence；　but　to　Joe　it　was　savage　therapy。　He　didn't　want　to　hurt　anyone；　not　any　specific　individual；　but　he　did　hurt　them；　consequently；　he　was　not　permitted　to　pete　in　the　league。
　　Frank's　chronic　pericarditis；　arising　from　the　rheumatoid　arthritis；　led　to　a　virulent　infection　of　the　pericardium；　which　ultimately　led　to　heart　failure。　Frank　died　two　days　before　Joe's　eighteenth　birthday。
　　The　week　following　the　funeral　Mass；　Joe　visited　the　same　church　after　midnight；　when　it　was　deserted。　He'd　had　too　many　beers。　He　sprayed　black　paint　on　all　the　stations　of　the　cross。　He　overturned　a　cast…stone　statue　of　Our　Lady　and　smashed　a　score　of　the　ruby…red　glasses　from　the　votive…candle　rack。
　　He　might　have　done　considerably　more　damage　if　he　had　not　quickly　been　overe　by　a　sense　of　futility。　He　could　not　teach　remorse　to　God。　He　could　not　express　his　pain　with　sufficient　power　to　penetrate　the　steel　veil　between　this　world　and　the　next…if　there　was　a　next。
　　Slumping　in　the　front　pew；　he　wept。
　　He　sat　there　less　than　a　minute；　however；　because　suddenly　he　felt　that　weeping　in　the　church　might　seem　to　be　an　admission　of　his　powerlessness。　Ludicrously；　he　thought　it　important　that　his　tears　not　be　misconstrued　as　an　acceptance　of　the　cruelty　with　which　the　universe　was　ruled。
　　He　left　the　church　and　was　never　apprehended　for　the　vandalism。　He　felt　no　guilt　about　what　he'd　done…and　again；　no　pride。
　　For　a