sk.misery-第30部分

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s　and　decided　it　might　be　better　not　to　ask）；　and　Paul　began　to　work　his　way　through　the　twenty…odd　volumes　that　prised　Maugham's　oeuvre；　fascinated　by　the　man's　canny　grasp　of　story　values。　Over　the　years　Paul　had　grown　more　and　more　resigned　to　the　fact　that　he　could　not　read　stories　as　he　had　when　he　was　a　kid；　by　being　a　writer　of　them　himself；　he　had　condemned　himself　to　a　life　of　dissection。　But　Maugham　first　seduced　him　and　then　made　him　a　child　again；　and　that　was　wonderful。　At　five　o'clock　she　would　serve　him　a　light　supper；　and　at　seven　she　would　roll　in　the　black…and…white　television　and　they　would　watch　M*A*S*H*　and　WKRP　in　Cincinnati。　When　these　were　over；　Paul　would　write。　When　he　was　done；　he　would　roll　the　wheelchair　slowly　（he　could　have　gone　much　faster；　but　it　was　just　as　well　that　Annie　should　not　know　that）　over　to　the　bed。　She　would　hear　e　in；　and　help　him　back　into　bed。　More　medication。　Boom。　Out　like　a　light。　And　the　next　day　would　be　just　the　same。　And　the　next。　And　the　next。
　Being　such　a　straight　arrow　was　part　of　the　reason　for　this　amazing　fecundity；　but　Annie　herself　was　a　bigger　one。　After　all；　it　was　her　single　hesitant　suggestion　about　the　bee…sting　which　had　shaped　the　book　and　given　it　its　urgency　when　Paul　had　firmly　believed　he　could　never　feel　urgent　about　Misery　again。
　He'd　been　sure　of　one　thing　from　the　start：　there　really　was　no　Misery's　Retum。　His　attention　had　been　focused　only　on　finding　a　way　to　get　the　bitch　out　of　her　grave　without　cheating　before　Annie　decided　to　inspire　him　by　giving　him　an　enema　with　a　handful　of　Ginsu　knives。　Minor　matters　such　as　what　the　fucking　book　was　supposed　to　be　about　would　have　to　wait。
　During　the　two　days　following　Annie's　trip　to　town　to　pay　her　tax…bill；　Paul　tried　to　forget　his　failure　to　take　advantage　of　what　could　have　been　a　golden　opportunity　to　escape　and　concentrated　on　getting　Misery　back　to　Mrs　Ramage's　cottage　instead。　Taking　her　to　Geoffrey's　home　was　no　good。　The　servants　…　most　notably　Geoffrey's　gossipy　butler；　Tyler　…　would　see　and　talk。　Also；　he　needed　to　establish　the　total　amnesia　which　had　been　caused　by　the　shock　of　being　buried　alive。　Amnesia？　Shit；　the　chick　could　barely　talk。　Sort　of　a　relief；　given　Misery's　usual　burblings。
　So　…　what　next？　The　bitch　was　out　of　her　grave；　now　where　was　the　fucking　story？　Should　Geoffrey　and　Mrs　Ramage　tell　Ian　that　Misery　was　still　alive？　Paul　didn't　think　so　but　he　wasn't　sure　…　not　being　sure　of　things；　he　knew；　was　a　charmless　corner　of　purgatory　reserved　for　writers　who　were　driving　fast　with　no　idea　at　all　where　they　were　going。
　Not　Ian；　he　thought；　looking　out　at　the　barn。　Not　Ian；　not　yet。　The　doctor　first。　That　old　asshole　with　all　the　n's　in　his　name；　Shinebone。
　The　thought　of　the　doctor　brought　Annie's　ment　about　bee…stings　to　mind；　and　not　for　the　first　time。　It　kept　recurring　at　odd　moments。　One　person　in　every　dozen　。　。　。
　But　it　just　wouldn't　play。　Two　unrelated　women　in　neighboring　townships；　both　allergic　to　stings　in　the　same　rare　way？
　Three　days　following　the　Great　Annie　Wilkes　Tax　Bailout；　Paul　had　been　drowsing　his　way　into　his　afternoon　nap　when　the　guys　in　the　sweatshop　weighed　in；　and　weighed　in　heavy。　This　time　it　wasn't　a　flare；　this　time　it　was　an　H…bomb　explosion。
　He　sat　bolt　upright　in　bed；　ignoring　the　flare　of　pain　which　shot　up　his　legs。
　〃Annie！〃　he　bawled。　〃Annie；　e　in　here！〃　He　heard　her　thump　down　the　stairs　two　at　a　time　and　then　run　down　the　hallway。　Her　eyes　were　wide　and　scared　when　she　came　in。
　〃Paul！　What's　wrong？　Are　you　cramping？　Are　you　…　〃
　〃No　〃he　said；　but　of　course　he　was；　his　mind　was　cramping。　〃No。　Annie；　I'm　sorry　if　I　scared　you；　but　you　gotta　help　me　into　the　chair。　Mighty　fuck！　I　got　it！〃　The　dreaded　effword　was　out　before　he　could　help　it；　but　this　time　it　didn't　seem　to　matter　…　she　was　looking　at　him　respectfully；　and　with　not　a　little　awe。　Here　was　the　secular　version　of　the　Pentecostal　fire；　burning　before　her　very　eyes。
　〃Of　course；　Paul。〃　She　got　him　into　the　chair　as　quickly　as　she　could。　She　began　to　roll　him　toward　the　window　and　Paul　shook　his　head　impatiently。　〃This　won't　take　long；〃　he　said；　〃but　it's　very　important。〃
　〃Is　it　about　the　book？〃
　〃It　is　the　book。　Be　quiet。　Don't　talk　to　me。〃　Ignoring　the　typewriter　…　he　never　used　the　typewriter　to　make　notes　…　he　seized　one　of　the　ballpoints　and　quickly　covered　a　single　sheet　of　paper　with　a　scrawl　that　probably　no　one　but　himself　could　have　read。
　
　They　WERE　related。　It　was　bees　and　it　affected　them　both　the　same　way　because　they　WERE　related。　Misery's　an　orph。　And　guess　what？　The　Evelyn…Hyde　babe　was　MISERY'S　SISTER！　Or　maybe　half…sister。　That　would　probably　work　better。　Who　gets　the　first　hint？　Shinny？　No。　Shinny's　a　ninny。　Mrs　R。　She　can　go　to　see　Charl。　E…H's　mommy　and
　
　And　now　he　was　struck　by　an　idea　of　such　intense　loveliness　…　in　terms　of　the　plot　at　least　…　that　he　looked　up；　mouth　open；　eyes　wide。
　〃Paul？〃　Annie　asked　anxiously。
　〃She　knew；〃　Paul　whispered。　〃Of　course　she　did。　At　least　strongly　suspected。　But　…　〃　He　bent　to　his　notes　again。
　
　she　…　Mrs　R。　realizes　at　once　that　Mrs　E…H　has　got　to　know　M。　is　related　to　her　daught。　Same　hair　or　something。　Remember　E…H's　mom　is　starting　to　look　like　a　maj。　character。　You'll　need　to　work　her　up。　Mrs　R。　starts　to　realize　Mrs　E…H　MAY　EVEN　HAVE　KNOWN　MISERY　WAS　BURIED　ALIVE！！　SHIT　ON　A　SHINGLE！　LOVE　IT！　Suppose　the　ole　lady　guessed　Misery　was　a　leftover　of　her　fuck…'em…and…leave…'em　days　and
　
　He　put　the　pen　down；　looked　at　the　paper；　then　slowly　picked　the　pen　up　again　and　scrawled　a　few　more　lines。
　Three　necessary　points。
　
　1。　How　does　Mrs　E…H　react　to　Mrs　R's　suspicions？　She　should　be　either　murderous　or　puke…up　scared。　I　prefer　scared　but　think　A。W。　would　like　murderous；　so　OK　murd。
　2。　How　does　Ian　get　into　this？
　3。　Misery's　amnesia？
　
　Oh　and　here's　one　to　grow　on。　Does　Misery　find　out　her　mom　lived　with　the　possibility　that　not　just　one　but　two　of　her　daughters　had　been　buried　alive　rather　than　speak　up？
　
　Why　not？
　〃You　could　help　me　back　into　bed　now　if　you　wanted；〃　Paul　said。　〃If　I　sounded　mad；　I'm　sorry。　I　was　just　excited。〃
　〃That's　all　right；　Paul。〃　She　still　sounded　awed。
　Since　then　the　work　had　driven　on　famously。　Annie　was　right；　the　story　was　turning　out　to　be　a　good　deal　more　gruesome　than　the　other　Misery　books　…　the　first　chapter　had　not　been　a　fluke　but　a　harbinger。　But　it　was　also　more　richly　plotted　than　any　Misery　novel　since　the　first；　and　the　characters　were　more　lively。　The　latter　three　Misery　novels　had　been　little　more　than　straightforward　adventure　tales　with　a　fair　amount　of　piquantly　described　sex　thrown　in　to　please　the　ladies。　This　book；　he　began　to　understand；　was　a　gothic　novel；　and　thus　was　more　dependent　on　plot　than　on　situation。　The　challenges　were　constant。　It　was　not　just　a　question　of　Can　You？　to　begin　the　book　…　for　the　first　time　in　years；　it　was　Can　You？　almost　every　day　。　。　。　and　he　was　finding　he　could。
　Then　the　rain　came　and　things　changed。
　
　
　13
　
　From　the　eighth　of　April　until　the　fourteenth　they　enjoyed　an　unbroken　run　of　fine　weather。　The　sun　beamed　down　from　a　cloudless　sky　and　temperatures　sometimes　rose　into　the　mid…sixties。　Brown　patches　began　to　a　appear　in　the　field　behind　Annie's　neat　red　barn。　Paul　hid　behind　his　work　and　tried　not　to　think　about　his　car；　the　discovery　of　which　was　already　overdue。　His　work　did　not　suffer；　but　his　mood　did；　he　felt　more　and　more　that　he　was　living　in　a　cloud　chamber；　breathing　an　atmosphere　thick　with　uncoalesced　electricity。　Whenever　the　Camaro　stole　into　his　mind；　he　immediately　called　the　Brain　Police　and　had　the　thought　led　away　in　handcuffs　and　leg…irons。　Trouble　was；　the　nasty　thing　had　a　way　of　escaping　and　ing　back　time　after　time；　in　one　form　or　another。
　One　night　he　dreamed　that　Mr　Rancho　Grande　returned　to　Annie's　place。　He　got　out　of　his　well…kept　Chevrolet　Bel　Air；　holding　part　of　the　Camaro's　bumper　in　one　hand　and　its　steering　wheel　in　the　other。　Do　these　belong　to　you？　he　asked　Annie　in　this　dream。
　Paul　had　awakened　in　a　less…than…cheery　frame　of　mind。
　Annie；　on　the　other　hand；　had　never　been　in　better　spirits　than　she　was　during　that　sunny　early…spring　week。　She　cleaned；　she　cooked　ambitious　meals　（although　everything　she　cooked　came　out　tasting　strangely　industrial；　as　if　years　of　eating　in　hospital　cafeterias　had　somehow　corrupted　any　culinary　talent　she　might　once　have　had）；　each　afternoon　she　bundled　Paul　up　in　a　huge　blue　blanket；　jammed　a　green　hunting　cap　on　his　head；　and　rolled　him　out　onto　the　back　porch。
　On　those　occasions　he　would　take　Maugham　along；　but　rarely　read　him　…　being　outside　again　was　too　great　an　experience　to　allow　much　concentration　on　other　things。　Mostly　he　just　sat；　smelling　sweet　cool　air　instead　of　the　bedroom's　stale　indoor　smell；　sly　with　sickroom　undertones；　listened　to　the　drip　of　the　icicles；　and　watched　the　cloud…shadows　roll　slowly　and　steadily　across　the　melting　field。　That　was　somehow　best　of　all。
　Annie　sang　in　her　on…pitch　but　queerly　tuneless　voice。　She　giggled　like　a　child　at　the　jokes　on　M*A*S*H*　and　WKRP；　laughing　especially　hard　at　the　jokes　which　were　mildly　off…color　（which；　in　the　case　of　WKRP；　was　most　of　them。）。　She　filled　in　n　s　tirelessly　as　Paul　finished　Chapters　9　and　10。
　The　morning　of　the　fifteenth　dawned　windy　and　dull　with　clouds；　and　Annie　changed。　Perhaps；　Paul　thought；　it　was　the　falling　barometer。　It　was　as　good　an　explanation　as　any。
　She　did　not　show　up　with　his　medication　until　nine　o'clock；　and　by　then　he　needed　it　quite　badly　…　so　badly　that　he　had　been　thinking　of　going　to　his　stash。　There　was　no　breakfast。　just　the　pills。　When　she　came　in　she　was　still　in　her　pink　quilted　housecoat。　He　noted　with　deepening　misgivings　that　there　were　red　marks　like　weals　on　her　cheeks　and　arms。　He　also　saw　gooey　splatters　of　food　on　the　housecoat；　and　she　had　only　managed　to　get　on　one　of　her　slippers。　Thud…slush；　went　Annie's　feet　as　she　approached　him。　Thud…slush；　thud…slush；　thud…slush。　Her　hair　hung　around　her　face。　Her　eyes　were　dull。　i　〃Here。〃　She　threw　the　pills　at　him。　Her　hands　were　also　covered　with　mixed　streaks　of　goo。　Red　stuff；　brown　stuff