sk.misery-第45部分

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king；　but　she〃　would　take　each　day's　output　as　soon　as　he　was　done；　ostensibly　to　fill　in　the　missing　letters；　but　actually　…　he　knew　this　by　now；　just　as　sexually　acute　men　know　which　dates　will　put　out　at　the　end　of　the　evening　and　which　ones　will　not　…　to　get　her　fix。　To　get　her　gotta。
　The　chapter…plays。　Yes。　Back　to　that。　Only　for　the　last　few　months　she's　been　going　every　day　instead　of　just　on　Saturday　afternoons；　and　the　Paul　who　takes　her　is　her　pet　writer　instead　of　her　older　brother。
　His　stints　at　the　typewriter　grew　gradually　longer　as　the　pain　slowly　receded　and　some　of　his　endurance　returned　。　。　。　but　ultimately　he　wasn't　able　to　write　fast　enough　to　satisfy　her　demands。
　The　gotta　which　had　kept　them　both　alive　…　and　it　had；　for　without　it　she　surely　would　have　murdered　both　him　and　herself　long　since　…　was　also　what　had　caused　the　loss　of　his　thumb。　It　was　horrible；　but　also　sort　of　funny。　Have　a　little　irony；　Paul　…　it's　good　for　your　blood。
　And　think　how　much　worse　it　could　have　been。
　It　could　have　been　his　penis；　for　instance。
　〃And　I　only　have　one　of　those；〃　he　said；　and　began　to　laugh　wildly　in　the　empty　room　in　front　of　the　hateful　Royal　with　its　gap…toothed　grin。　He　laughed　until　his　gut　and　stump　both　ached。　Laughed　until　his　mind　ached。　At　some　point　the　laughter　turned　to　horrible　dry　sobs　that　awoke　pain　even　in　what　remained　of　his　left　thumb；　and　when　that　happened　he　was　finally　able　to　stop。　He　wondered　in　a　dull　sort　of　way　how　close　he　was　to　going　insane。
　Not　that　it　really　mattered；　he　supposed。
　
　
　9
　
　One　day　not　long　before　the　thumbectomy　…　perhaps　even　less　than　a　week　…　Annie　had　e　in　with　two　giant　dishes　of　vanilla　ice…cream；　a　can　of　Hershey's　chocolate　syrup；　a　pressure　can　of　Reddi…Whip；　and　a　jar　in　which　maraschino　cherries　red　as　heart's　blood　floated　like　biology　specimens。
　〃I　thought　I'd　make　us　sundaes；　Paul；〃　Annie　said。　Her　tone　was　spuriously　jolly。　Paul　didn't　like　it。　Not　her　tone　of　voice；　nor　the　uneasy　look　in　her　eyes。　I'm　being　a　naughty　girl；　that　look　said。　It　made　him　wary；　put　his　wind　up。　It　was　too　easy　for　him　to　imagine　her　looking　exactly　the　same　way　when　she　put　a　heap　of　clothes　on　one　set　of　stairs；　a　dead　cat　on　another。
　〃Why；　thank　you；　Annie。〃　he　said；　and　watched　as　she　poured　the　syrup　and　puffed　two　cumulus　clouds　of　whipped　cream　out　of　the　pressure　can。　She　performed　these　chores　with　the　practiced；　heavy　hand　of　the　long…time　sugar　junkie。
　〃No　need　for　thanks。　You　deserve　it。　You've　been　working　so　hard。〃　She　gave　him　his　sundae。　The　sweetness　became　cloying　after　the　third　bite；　but　he　kept　on。　It　was　wiser。　One　of　the　key　rules　to　survival　here　on　the　scenic　Western　Slope　was；　to　wit；　When　Annie's　treatin；　you　best　be　eatin。　There　was　silence　for　awhile；　and　then　Annie　put　her　spoon　down；　wiped　a　mixture　of　chocolate　syrup　and　melting　ice…cream　off　her　chin　with　the　back　of　her　hand；　and　said　pleasantly：　〃Tell　me　the　rest。〃　Paul　put　his　own　spoon　down。　〃I　beg　your　pardon？〃
　〃Tell　me　the　rest　of　the　story。　I　can't　wait。　I　just　can't。〃　And　hadn't　he　known　this　was　ing？　Yes。　If　someone　had　delivered　all　twenty　reels　of　the　new　Rocket　Man　chapter…play　to　Annie's　house；　would　she　have　waited；　parcelling　out　only　one　a　week；　or　even　one　a　day？
　He　looked　at　the　half…demolished　avalanche　of　her　sundae；　one　cherry　almost　buried　in　whipped　cream；　another　floating　in　chocolate　syrup。　He　remembered　the　way　the　living　room　had　looked；　with　sugar…glazed　dishes　everywhere。
　No。　Annie　was　not　the　waiting　type。　Annie　would　have　watched　all　twenty　episodes　in　one　night；　even　if　they　gave　her　eyestrain　and　a　splitting　headache。
　Because　Annie　loved　sweet　things。
　〃I　can't　do　that；〃　he　said。
　Her　face　had　darkened　at　once；　but　hadn't　there　been　a　shadowy　relief　there；　as　well？　〃Oh？　Why　not？〃　Because　you　wouldn't　respect　me　in　the　morning；　he　thought　of　saying；　and　clamped　down　on　that。　Clamped　down　hard。
　〃Because　I'm　a　rotten　story…teller；〃　he　answered　instead。
　She　slurped　up　the　remainder　of　her　sundae　in　five　huge　spoonfuls　that　would　have　left　Paul's　throat　gray　with　frostbite。　Then　she　set　her　dish　down　and　looked　at　him　angrily；　not　as　if　he　were　the　great　Paul　Sheldon　but　as　if　he　were　someone　who　had　presumed　to　criticize　the　great　Paul　Sheldon。
　〃If　you're　such　a　rotten　story…teller；　how　e　you　have　best…sellers　and　millions　of　people　love　the　books　you　write？〃
　〃I　didn't　say　I　was　a　rotten　story…writer。　I　actually　happen　to　think　I'm　pretty　good　at　that。　But　as　a　story…teller；　I'm　the　pits。〃
　〃You're　just　making　up　a　big　cockadoodie　excuse。〃　Her　face　was　darkening。　Her　hands　were　clenched　into　shiny　fists　on　the　heavy　material　of　her　skirt。　Hurricane　Annie　was　back　in　the　room。　Everything　that　went　around　came　around。　Except　things　no　longer　had　been　quite　the　same；　had　they？　He　was　as　scared　of　her　as　ever；　but　her　hold　over　him　had　nonetheless　diminished。　His　life　no　longer　seemed　like　such　a　big　deal；　gotta　or　no　gotta。　He　was　only　afraid　she　would　hurt　him。
　〃It's　not　an　excuse；〃　he　had　replied。　〃The　two　things　are　like　apples　and　oranges；　Annie。　People　who　tell　stories　usually　can't　write　stories。　If　you　really　think　people　who　can　write　stories　can　talk　worth　a　damn；　you　never　watched　some　poor　slob　of　a　novelist　fumbling　his　way　through　an　interview　on　the　Today　show。〃
　〃Well；　I　don't　want　to　wait；〃　she　sulked。　〃I　made　you　that　nice　sundae　and　the　least　you　could　do　is　tell　me　a　few　things。　It　doesn't　have　to　exactly　be　the　whole　story；　I　guess；　but　。　。　。　did　the　Baron　kill　Calthorpe？〃　Her　eyes　sparkled。　〃That's　one　thing　I　really　want　to　know。　And　what　did　he　do　with　the　body　if　he　did？　Is　it　all　cut　up　in　that　trunk　his　wife　won't　let　out　of　her　sight？　That's　what　I　think。〃　Paul　shook　his　head　…　not　to　indicate　she　had　it　wrong　but　to　indicate　he　would　not　tell。
　She　became　even　blacker。　Yet　her　voice　was　soft。　〃You're　making　me　very　angry　…　you　know　that；　don't　you；　Paul？〃
　〃Of　course　I　know　it。　But　I　can't　help　it。〃
　〃I　could　make　you。　I　could　make　you　help　it。　I　could　make　you　tell。〃　But　she　looked　frustrated；　as　if　knowing　that　she　could　not。　She　could　make　him　say　some　things；　but　she　could　not　make　him　tell。
　〃Annie；　do　you　remember　telling　me　what　a　little　kid　says　to　his　mother　when　she　catches　him　playing　with　the　cleaning　fluid　under　the　sink　and　makes　him　stop？　Mommy；　you're　mean！　Isn't　that　what　you're　saying　now？　Paul；　you're　mean！〃
　〃If　you　make　me　much　madder；　I　don't　promise　to　be　responsible；〃　she　said；　but　he　sensed　the　crisis　was　already　past　…　she　was　strangely　vulnerable　to　these　concepts　of　discipline　and　behavior。
　〃Well；　I'll　have　to　chance　that；〃　he　said；　〃because　I'm　just　like　that　mother　…　I'm　not　saying　no　to　be　mean；　or　to　spite　you　…　I'm　saying　no　because　I　really　want　you　to　like　the　story　。　。　。　and　if　I　give　you　what　you　want；　you　won't　like　it；　and　you　won't　want　it　anymore。〃　And　then　what　will　happen　to　me；　Annie？　he　thought　but　did　not　say。
　〃At　least　tell　me　if　that　nigger　Hezekiah　really　does　know　where　Misery's　father　is！　At　least　tell　me　that！〃
　〃Do　you　want　the　novel；　or　do　you　want　me　to　fill　out　a　questionnaire？〃
　〃Don't　you　take　that　sarcastic　tone　to　me！〃
　〃Then　don't　you　pretend　you　don't　understand　what　I'm　saying！〃　he　shouted　back。　She　recoiled　from　him　in　surprise　and　unease；　the　last　of　that　blackness　going　out　of　her　face；　and　all　that　was　left　was　that　weird　little…girl　look；　that　I've…been…naughty　look。　〃You　want　to　cut　open　the　golden　goose！　That's　what　it　es　down　to！　But　when　the　farmer　in　the　story　finally　did　that；　all　he　had　was　a　dead　goose　and　a　bunch　of　worthless　guts！〃
　〃All　right；〃　she　said。　〃All　right；　Paul。　Are　you　going　to　finish　your　sundae？〃
　〃I　can't　eat　any　more；〃　he　said。
　〃I　see。　I've　upset　you。　I'm　sorry。　I　expect　that　you're　right。　I　was　wrong　to　ask。〃　She　was　perfectly　calm　again。　He　had　half…expected　another　period　of　deep　depression　or　rage　to　follow；　but　none　had。　They　had　simply　gone　back　to　the　old　routine；　Paul　writing；　Annie　reading　each　day's　output；　and　enough　time　had　passed　between　the　argument　and　the　thumbectomy　that　Paul　had　missed　the　connection。　Until　now。
　I　bitched　about　the　typewriter；　he　thought；　looking　at　it　now　and　listening　to　the　drone　of　the　mower。　It　sounded　fainter　now；　and　he　was　marginally　aware　that　wasn't　because　Annie　was　moving　away　but　because　he　was。　He　was　drowsing　off。　He　did　that　a　lot　now；　simply　drowsed　off　like　some　old　fart　in　a　nursing　home。
　Not　a　lot；　I　only　bitched　about　it　that　once。　But　once　was　enough；　wasn't　it？　More　than　enough。　That　was　…　what？　…　a　week　after　she　brought　those　oogy　sundaes？　Just　about　that。　Just　one　week　and　one　bitch。　About　how　the　clunk　of　that　dead　key　was　driving　me　crazy。　I　didn't　even　suggest　she　get　another　used　typewriter　from　Nancy　Whoremonger　or　whoever　that　woman　was；　one　with　all　its　keys　intact。　I　just　said　those　clunks　are　driving　me　crazy；　and　then；　in　almost　no　time　at　all；　presto　chango；　when　it　es　to　Paul's　left　thumb；　now　you　see　it　and　now　you　don't。　Except　she　didn't　really　do　it　because　I　bitched　about　the　typewriter；　did　she？　She　did　it　because　I　told　her　no　and　she　had　to　accept　that。　It　was　an　act　of　rage。　The　rage　was　the　result　of　realization。　What　realization？　Why；　that　she　didn't　hold　all　the　cards　after　all　…　that　I　had　a　certain　passive　hold　over　her。　The　power　of　the　gotta。　I　turned　out　to　be　a　pretty　passable　Scheherazade　after　all。
　It　was　crazy。　It　was　funny。　It　was　also　real。　Millions　might　scoff；　but　only　because　they　failed　to　realize　how　pervasive　the　influence　of　art　…　even　of　such　a　degenerate　sort　as　popular　fiction　…　could　bee。　Housewives　arranged　their　schedules　around　the　afternoon　soaps。　If　they　went　back　into　the　workplace；　they　made　buying　a　VCR　a　top　priority　so　they　could　watch　those　same　soap　operas　at　night。　When　Arthur　Conan　Doyle　killed　Sherlock　Holmes　at　Reichenbach　Falls；　all　of　Victorian　England　rose　as　one　and　demanded　him　back。　The　tone　of　their　protests　had　been　Annie's　exactly　…　not　bereavement　but　outrage。　Doyle　was　berated　by　his　own　mother　when　he　wrote　and　told　her　of　his　intention　to　do　away　with　Holmes。　Her　indignant　reply　had　e　by　return　mail：　〃Kill　that