sk.dreamcatcher-第12部分

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n　to　scramble　some　eggs　and　heat　up　another　can　of　soup。　He　felt　better　about　McCarthy　now　that　Beaver　was　here。　The　truth　was　he　always　felt　better　when　the　Beav　was　around。　Crazy　but　true。


4

By　the　time　he　got　the　eggs　scrambled　and　the　soup　hot；　McCarthy　was　chatting　away　to　Beaver　as　if　the　two　of　them　had　been　friends　for　the　last　ten　years。　If　McCarthy　was　offended　by　the　Beav's　litany　of　mostly　ic　profanity；　that　was　outweighed　by　Beav's　considerable　charm。　'There's　no　explaining　it；'　Henry　had　once　told　Jonesy。　'He's　a　tribble；　that's　all　…　you　can't　help　liking　him。　It's　why　his　bed　is　never　empty　…　it　sure　isn't　his　looks　women　respond　to。'
　　　　Jonesy　brought　his　eggs　and　soup　into　the　living　area；　working　not　to　limp　…　it　was　amazing　how　much　more　his　his　hip　hurt　in　bad　weather；　he　had　always　thought　that　was　an　old　wives'　tale　but　apparently　it　was　not　…　and　sat　in　one　of　the　chairs　at　the　end　of　the　couch。　McCarthy　had　been　doing　more　talking　than　eating；　it　seemed。　He'd　barely　touched　his　soup；　and　had　eaten　only　half　of　his　grilled　cheese。
　　　　'How　you　boys　doin？'　Jonesy　asked。　He　shook　pepper　onto　his　eggs　and　fell　to　with　a　will　…　his　appetite　had　made　a　plete　eback；　it　seemed。
　　　　'We're　two　happy　whoremasters；'　Beaver　said；　but　although　he　sounded　as　chipper　as　ever；　Jonesy　thought　he　looked　worried；　perhaps　even　alarmed。　'Rick's　been　telling　me　about　his　adventures。　It's　as　good　as　a　story　in　one　of　those　men's　magazines　they　had　in　the　barber　shop　when　I　was　a　kid。'　He　turned　back　to　McCarthy；　still　smiling　…　that　was　the　Beav；　always　smiling　…　and　flicked　a　hand　through　the　heavy　fall　of　his　black　hair。　'Old　Man　Castonguay　was　the　barber　on　our　side　of　Derry　when　I　was　a　kid；　and　he　scared　me　so　fuckin　bad　with　those　clippers　of　his　that　I　been　stayin　away　from　em　ever　since。'
　　　　McCarthy　gave　a　weak　little　smile　but　made　no　reply。　He　picked　up　the　other　half　of　his　cheese　sandwich；　looked　at　it；　then　put　it　back　down　again。　The　red　mark　on　his　cheek　glowed　like　a　brand。　Beaver；　meanwhile；　rushed　on；　as　if　he　was　afraid　of　what　McCarthy　might　say　if　given　half　a　chance。　Outside　it　was　snowing　harder　than　ever；　blowing；　too；　and　Jonesy　thought　of　Henry　and　Pete　out　there；　probably　on　the　Deep　Cut　Road　by　now；　in　Henry's　old　Scout。
　　　　'Not　only　did　Rick　here　just　about　get　eaten　up　by　something　in　the　middle　of　the　night　…　a　bear；　he　thinks　it　was　…　he　lost　his　rifle；　too。　A　brand　new　Remington　。30…。30；　fuckin　A；　you　won't　never　see　that　again；　not　a　chance　in　a　hundred　thousand。'
　　　　'I　know；'　McCarthy　said。　The　color　was　fading　out　of　his　cheeks　again；　that　leaden　look　ing　back　in。　'I　don't　even　remember　when　I　put　it　down；　or…'
　　　　There　was　a　sudden　low　rasping　noise；　like　a　locust。　Jonesy　felt　the　hair　on　the　back　of　his　neck　stiffen；　thinking　it　was　something　caught　in　the　fireplace　chimney。　Then　he　realized　it　was　McCarthy。　Jonesy　had　heard　some　loud　farts　in　his　time；　some　long　ones；　too；　but　nothing　like　this。　It　seemed　to　go　on　forever；　although　it　couldn't　have　been　more　than　a　few　seconds。　Then　the　smell　hit。
　　　　McCarthy　had　picked　up　his　spoon；　now　he　dropped　it　back　into　his　barely　touched　soup　and　raised　his　right　hand　to　his　blemished　cheek　in　an　almost　girlish　gesture　of　embarrassment。　'Oh　gosh；　I'm　sorry；'　he　said。
　　　　'Not　a　bit；　more　room　out　than　there　is　in；'　Beaver　said；　but　that　was　just　instinct　running　his　mouth；　instinct　and　the　habits　of　a　lifetime　…　Jonesy　could　see　he　was　as　shocked　by　that　smell　as　Jonesy　was　himself　It　wasn't　the　sulfurous　rotten…egg　odor　that　made　you　laugh　and　roll　your　eyes　and　wave　your　hand　in　front　of　your　face；　yelling　Ah；　Jesus；　who　cut　the　cheese？　Nor　one　of　those　methane　swamp…gas　farts；　either。　It　was　the　smell　Jonesy　had　detected　on　McCarthy's　breath；　only　stronger　…　a　mixture　of　ether　and　overripe　bananas；　like　the　starter…fluid　you　shot　into　your　carburetor　on　a　subzero　morning。
　　　　'Oh　dear；　that's　awful；'　McCarthy　said。　'I　am　so　darned　sorry。'
　　　　'It's　all　right；　really'　Jonesy　said；　but　his　stomach　had　curled　up　into　a　ball；　like　something　protecting　itself　from　assault。　He　wouldn't　be　finishing　his　own　early　lunch；　no　way　in　hell　could　he　finish　it。　He　wasn't　prissy　about　farts　as　a　rule；　but　this　one　really　reeked。
　　　　The　Beav　got　up　from　the　couch　and　opened　a　window；　letting　in　a　swirl　of　snow　and　a　draft　of　blessedly　fresh　air。　'Don't　you　worry　about　it；　partner　。　。　。　but　that　is　pretty　ripe。　What　the　hell　you　been　eatin？　Woodchuck　turds？'
　　　　'Bushes　and　moss　and　other　stuff；　I　don't　know　just　what；'　McCarthy　said。　'I　was　just　so　hungry；　you　know；　I　had　to　eat　something；　but　I　don't　know　much　about　that　sort　of　thing；　never　read　any　of　those　books　by　Euell　Gibbons　。　。　。　and　of　course　it　was　dark。'　He　said　this　last　almost　as　if　struck　by　an　inspiration；　and　Jonesy　looked　up　at　Beaver；　catching　his　eye　to　see　if　the　Beav　knew　what　Jonesy　did　…　McCarthy　was　lying。　McCarthy　didn't　know　what　he'd　eaten　in　the　Woods；　or　if　he　had　eaten　anything　at　all。　He　just　wanted　to　explain　that　ghastly　unexpected　frog's　croak。　And　the　stench　which　had　followed　it。
　　　　The　wind　gusted　again；　a　big；　gaspy　whoop　that　sent　a　fresh　skein　of　snow　in　through　the　open　window；　but　at　least　it　was　turning　the　air　over；　and　thank　God　for　that。
　　　　McCarthy　leaned　forward　so　suddenly　he　might　have　been　propelled　by　a　spring；　and　when　he　hung　his　head　forward　between　his　knees；　Jonesy　had　a　good　idea　of　what　was　ing　next；　so　long　Navajo　rug；　it's　been　good　to　know　ya。　The　Beav　clearly　thought　the　same；　he　pulled　back　his　legs；　which　had　been　splayed　out　before　him；　to　keep　them　from　being　splattered。
　　　　But　instead　of　vomit；　what　came　out　of　McCarthy　was　a　long；　low　buzz　…　the　sound　of　a　factory　machine　which　has　been　put　under　severe　strain。　McCarthy's　eyes　bulged　from　his　face　like　glass　marbles；　and　his　cheeks　were　so　taut　that　little　crescents　of　shadow　appeared　under　the　ers　of　his　eyes。　It　went　on　and　on；　a　rumbling；　rasping　noise；　and　when　it　finally　ceased；　the　genny　out　back　seemed　far　too　loud。
　　　　'I've　heard　some　rm'ghty　belches；　but　that's　the　all…time　blue　ribbon　winner；'　Beav　said。　He　spoke　with　quiet　and　sincere　respect。
　　　　McCarthy　leaned　back　against　the　couch；　eyes　closing；　mouth　downturned　in　what　Jonesy　took　for　embarrassment；　pain；　or　both。　And　once　again　he　could　smell　that　aroma　of　bananas　and　ether；　a　fermenting　active　smell；　like　something　which　has　just　started　to　go　over。
　　　　'Oh　God；　I　am　so　sorry；'　McCarthy　said　without　opening　his　eyes。　'I've　been　doing　that　all　day；　ever　since　light。　And　my　stomach　hurts　again。'
　　　　Jonesy　and　the　Beav　shared　a　silent；　concerned　look。
　　　　'You　know　what　I　think？'　Beaver　asked。　'I　think　you　need　to　lie　down　and　take　you　a　little　sleep。　You　were　probably　awake　all　night；　listening　to　that　pesky　bear　and　God　knows　what　else。　You're　tired　out　and　stressed　out　and　fuck…a…duck　knows　what　else　out。　You　just　need　some　shuteye；　a　few　hours　and　you'll　be　right　as　the　goddam　rain。'
　　　　McCarthy　looked　at　Beaver　with　such　wretched　gratitude　that　Jonesy　felt　a　little　ashamed　to　be　seeing　it。　Although　McCarthy's　plexion　was　still　leaden；　he　had　begun　to　break　a　sweat　…　great　big　beads　that　formed　on　his　brow　and　temples；　and　then　ran　down　his　cheeks　like　clear　oil。　This　in　spite　of　the　cold　air　now　circulating　in　the　room。
　　　　'You　know；'　he　said；　'I　bet　you're　right。　I'm　tired；　that's　all　it　is。　My　stomach　hurts；　but　that　part's　just　stress。　And　I　was　eating　all　sorts　of　things；　bushes　and　just　。　。　。　gosh；　oh　dear；　I　don't　know　。　。　。　all　sorts　of　things。'　He　scratched　his　cheek。　'Is　this　darn　thing　on　my　face　bad？　Is　it　bleeding？'
　　　　'No；'　Jonesy　said。　'Just　red。'
　　　　'It's　a　reaction；'　McCarthy　said　dolefully。　'I　get　the　same　thing　from　peanuts。　I'll　lie　down。　That's　the　ticket；　all　right。'
　　　　He　got　to　his　feet；　then　tottered。　Beaver　and　Jonesy　both　reached　for　him；　but　McCarthy　steadied　on　his　feet　before　either　of　them　could　take　hold。　Jonesy　could　have　sworn　that　what　he　had　taken　for　a　middle…aged　potbelly　was　almost　gone。　Was　it　possible？　Could　the　man　have　passed　that　much　gas？　He　didn't　know。　All　he　knew　for　sure　was　that　it　had　been　a　mighty　fart　and　an　even　mightier　belch；　the　sort　of　thing　you　could　yarn　on　for　twenty　years　or　more；　starting　off　We　used　to　go　up　to　Beaver　Clarendon's　camp　the　first　week　of　hunting　season　every　year；　and　one　November　…　it　was　'01；　the　year　of　the　big　fall　storm　…　this　fella　wandered　into　camp　。　。　。　Yes；　it　would　make　a　good　story；　people　would　laugh　about　the　big　fart　and　the　big　burp；　people　always　laughed　at　stories　about　farts　and　burps。　He　wouldn't　tell　the　part　about　how　he　had　e　within　eight　ounces　of　press　on　a　Garand's　trigger　of　taking　McCarthy's　life；　though。　No；　he　wouldn't　want　to　tell　that　part。　Would　he？
　　　　Pete　and　Henry　were　doubling；　and　so　Beaver　led　McCarthy　to　the　other　downstairs　bedroom；　the　one　Jonesy　had　been　using。　The　Beav　shot　him　a　little　apologetic　look；　and　Jonesy　shrugged。　It　was　the　logical　place；　after　all。　Jonesy　could　double　in　with　Beav　tonight　…　Christ　knew　they'd　done　it　enough　as　kids　…　and　in　truth；　he　wasn't　sure　McCarthy　could　have　managed　the　stairs；　anyway。　He　liked　the　man's　sweaty；　leaden　look　less　and　less。
　　　　Jonesy　was　the　sort　of　man　who　made　his　bed　and　then　buried　it　…　books；　papers；　clothes；　bags；　assorted　toiletries。　He　swept　all　this　off　as　quick　as　he　could；　then　turned　back　the　coverlet。
　　　　'You　need　to　take　a　squirt；　partner？'　the　Beav　asked。
　　　　McCarthy　shook　his　head。　He　seemed　almost　hypnotized　by　the　clean　blue　sheet　Jonesy　had　uncovered。　Jonesy　was　once　again　struck　by　how　glassy　the　man's　eyes　were。　Like　the　eyes　of　a　stuffed　trophy　head。　Suddenly　and　unbidden；　he　saw　his　living　room　back　in　Brookline；　that　upscale　municipality　next　door　to　Boston。　Braided　rugs；　early　American　furniture　。　。　。　and　McCarthy's　head　mounted　over　the　fireplace。　Bagged　that　one　up　in　Maine；　he　would　tell　his　guests　at　cocktail　parties。　Big　bastard；　dressed　out　at　one…seventy。
　　　　He　closed　his　eyes；　and　when　he　opened　them；　the　Beav　was　looking　at　him　with　something　like　alarm。
　　　　'Twinge　in　the　hip；'　he　said。　'Sorry。　Mr　McCarthy　…　Rick　…　you'll　want　to　take　off　your　sweater　and　pants。　Boots