sk.dreamcatcher-第4部分

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　　　　'Go　on；'　he　says；　smile　fading　a　little。　'Take　them。　It　wasn't　anything　too　spooky；　you　know。　Mostly　just　deduction。　I'm　good　at　stuff　like　that。　Hey；　you　should　have　me　in　the　car　sometime　when　you're　lost。　I'm　great　at　getting　unlost。'
　　　　She　takes　the　keys；　then。　Quickly；　being　careful　not　to　touch　his　fingers；　and　he　knows　right　then　that　she　isn't　going　to　meet　him　later。　It　doesn't　take　any　special　gift　to　figure　that；　he　only　has　to　look　in　her　eyes；　which　are　more　frightened　than　grateful。
　　　　'Thank。　。　。　thank　you；'　she　says。　All　at　once　she's　measuring　the　space　between　them；　not　wanting　him　to　use　too　much　of　it　up。
　　　　'Not　a　problem。　Now　don't　forget。　The　West　Wharf；　at　five…thirty。　Best　fried　clams　in　this　part　of　the　state。'　Keeping　up　the　fiction。　You　have　to　keep　it　up；　sometimes；　no　matter　how　you　feel。　And　although　some　of　the　joy　has　gone　out　of　the　afternoon；　some　is　still　there；　he　has　seen　the　line；　and　that　always　makes　him　feel　good。　It's　a　minor　trick；　but　it's　nice　to　know　it's　still　there。
　　　　'Five…thirty；'　she　echoes；　but　as　she　opens　her　car　door；　the　glance　she　throws　back　over　her　shoulder　is　the　kind　you'd　give　to　a　dog　that　might　bite　if　it　got　off　its　leash。　She　is　very　glad　she　won't　be　riding　up　to　Fryeburg　with　him。　Pete　doesn't　need　to　be　a　mind…reader　to　know　that；　either。
　　　　He　stands　there　in　the　rain；　watching　her　back　out　of　the　slant　parking　space；　and　when　she　drives　away　he　tosses　her　a　cheerful　car…salesman's　wave。　She　gives　him　a　distracted　little　flip　of　the　fingers　in　return；　and　of　course　when　he　shows　up　at　The　West　Wharf　（at　five…fifteen；　just　to　be　Johnny　on　the　spot；　Just　in　case）　she　isn't　there　and　an　hour　later　she's　still　not　there。　He　stays　for　quite　awhile　just　the　same；　sitting　at　the　bar　and　drinking　beer；　watching　the　traffic　out　on　302。　He　thinks　he　sees　her　go　by　without　slowing　at　about　five…forty；　a　green　Taurus　busting　past　in　a　rain　which　has　now　bee　heavy；　a　green　Taurus　that　might　or　might　not　be　pulling　a　light　yellow　nimbus　behind　it　that　fades　at　once　in　the　graying　air。
　　　　Same　shit；　different　day；　he　thinks；　but　now　the　joy　is　gone　and　the　sadness　is　back；　the　sadness　that　feels　like　something　deserved；　the　price　of　some　not…quite…forgotten　betrayal。　He　lights　a　cigarette　…　in　the　old　days；　as　a　kid；　he　used　to　pretend　to　smoke　but　now　he　doesn't　have　to　pretend　anymore　…　and　orders　another　beer。
　　　　Milt　brings　it；　but　says；　'You　ought　to　lay　some　food　on　top　of　that；　Peter。'
　　　　So　Pete　orders　a　plate　of　fried　clams　and　even　eats　a　few　dipped　in　tartar　sauce　while　he　drinks　another　couple　of　beers；　and　at　some　point；　before　moving　on　up　the　line　to　some　other　joint　where　he　isn't　so　well…known；　he　tries　to　call　Jonesy；　down　there　in　Massachusetts。　But　Jonesy　and　Carla　are　enjoying　the　rare　night　out；　he　only　gets　the　baby…sitter；　who　asks　him　if　he　wants　to　leave　a　message。　　　　
　　　　Pete　almost　says　no；　then　reconsiders。　'Just　tell　him　Pete　called。　Tell　him　Pete　said　SSDD。'
　　　　　'S　。　。　。　S　。　。　。　D　。　。　。　D。'　She　is　writing　it　down。　'Will　he　know　what…'
　　　　'Oh　yeah；'　Pete　says；　'he'll　know。'
　　　　By　midnight　he's　drunk　in　some　New　Hampshire　dive；　the　Muddy　Rudder　or　maybe　it's　the　Ruddy　Mother；　he's　trying　to　tell　some　chick　who's　as　drunk　as　he　is　that　once　he　really　believed　he　was　going　to　be　the　first　man　to　set　foot　on　Mars；　and　although　she's　nodding　and　saying　yeah…yeah…yeah；　he　has　an　idea　that　all　she　understands　is　that　she'd　like　to　get　outside　of　one　more　coffee　brandy　before　closing。　And　that's　okay。　It　doesn't　matter。　Tomorrow　he'll　wake　up　with　a　headache　but　he'll　go　in　to　work　just　the　same　and　maybe　he'll　sell　a　car　and　maybe　he　won't　but　either　way　things　will　go　on。　Maybe　he'll　sell　the　burgundy　Thunderbird；　goodbye；　sweetheart。　Once　things　were　different；　but　now　they're　the　same。　He　reckons　he　can　live　with　that；　for　a　guy　like　him；　the　rule　of　thumb　is　just　SSDD；　and　so　fucking　what。　You　grew　up；　became　a　man；　had　to　adjust　to　taking　less　than　you　hoped　for；　you　discovered　the　dream…machine　had　a　big　OUT　OF　ORDER；　sign　on　it。
　　　　In　November　he'll　go　hunting　with　his　friends；　and　that's　enough　to　took　forward　to　。　。　。　that；　and　maybe　a　big　old　sloppy…lipstick　blowjob　from　this　drunk　chick　out　in　his　car。　Wanting　more　is　just　a　recipe　for　heartache。
　　　　Dreams　are　for　kids。

1998：　Henry　Treats　a　Couch　Man

The　room　is　dim。　Henry　always　keeps　it　that　way　when　he's　seeing　patients。　It's　interesting　to　him　how　few　seem　to　notice　it。　He　thinks　it's　because　their　states　of　mind　are　so　often　dim　to　start　with。　Mostly　he　sees　neurotics　（The　wood's　are　full　of　em；　as　he　once　told　Jonesy　while　they　were　in；　ha…ha；　the　woods）　and　it　is　his　assessment　…　pletely　unscientific　…　that　their　problems　act　as　a　kind　of　polarizing　shield　between　them　and　the　rest　of　the　world。　As　the　neurosis　deepens；　so　does　the　interior　darkness。　Mostly　what　he　feels　for　his　patients　is　a　kind　of　distanced　sympathy。　Sometimes　pity。　A　very　few　of　them　make　him　impatient。　Barry　Newman　is　one　of　those。
　　　　Patients　who　enter　Henry's　office　for　the　first　time　are　presented　with　a　choice　they　usually　don't　register　as　a　choice。　When　they　e　in　they　see　a　pleasant　（if　rather　dim）　room；　with　a　fireplace　to　the　left。　It's　equipped　with　one　of　those　everlasting　logs；　steel　disguised　as　birch　with　four　cunningly　placed　gas　jets　beneath。　Beside　the　fireplace　is　a　wing　chair；　where　Henry　always　sits　beneath　an　excellent　reproduction　of　Van　Gogh's　'Marigolds'。　（Henry　sometimes　tells　colleagues　that　every　psychiatrist　should　have　at　least　one　Van　Gogh　in　his　or　her　consulting　space。）　Across　the　room　is　an　easy　chair　and　a　couch。　Henry　is　always　interested　to　see　which　one　a　new　patient　will　choose。　Certainly　he　has　been　plying　the　trade　long　enough　to　know　that　what　a　patient　chooses　the　first　time　is　what　he　or　she　will　choose　almost　every　time。　There　is　a　paper　in　this。　Henry　knows　there　is；　but　he　cannot　isolate　the　thesis。　And　in　any　case；　he　finds　he　has　less　interest　these　days　in　such　things　as　papers　and　journals　and　conventions　and　colloquia。　They　used　to　matter；　but　now　things　have　changed。　He　is　sleeping　less；　eating　less；　laughing　less；　too。　A　darkness　has　e　into　his　own　life　that　polarizing　filter　…　and　Henry　finds　he　has　no　objection　to　this。　Less　glare。
　　　　Barry　Newman　was　a　couch　man　from　the　first；　and　Henry　has　never　once　made　the　mistake　of　believing　this　has　anything　to　do　with　Barry's　mental　condition。　The　couch　is　simply　more　fortable　for　Barry；　although　Henry　sometimes　has　to　give　him　a　hand　to　get　Barry　up　from　it　when　his　fifty　minutes　have　expired。　Barry　Newman　stands　five…seven　and　weighs　four　hundred　and　twenty　pounds。　This　makes　the　couch　his　friend。
　　　　Barry　Newman's　sessions　tend　to　be　long；　droning　accounts　of　each　week's　adventures　in　gastronomy。　Not　that　Barry　is　a　discriminating　eater；　oh；　no；　Barry　is　the　antithesis　of　that。　Barry　eats　anything　that　happens　to　stray　into　his　orbit。　Barry　is　an　eating　machine。　And　his　memory；　on　this　subject；　at　least；　is　eidetic。　He　is　to　food　what　Henry's　old　friend　Pete　is　to　directions　and　geography。
　　　　Henry　has　almost　given　up　trying　to　drag　Barry　away　from　the　trees　and　make　him　examine　the　forest。　Partly　this　is　because　of　Barry's　soft　but　implacable　desire　to　discuss　food　in　its　specifics；　partly　it's　because　Henry　doesn't　like　Barry　and　never　has。　Barry's　parents　are　dead。　Dad　went　when　Barry　was　sixteen；　Morn　when　he　was　twenty…two。　They　left　a　very　large　estate；　but　it　is　in　trust　until　Barry　is　thirty。　He　can　get　the　principal　then　。　。　。　if　he　continues　in　therapy。　If　not；　the　principal　will　remain　in　trust　until　he　is　fifty。
　　　　Henry　doubts　Barry　Newman　will　make　fifty。
　　　　Barry's　blood　pressure　（he　has　told　Henry　this　with　some　pride）　is　one…ninety　over　one…forty。
　　　　Barry's　whole　cholesterol　number　is　two　hundred　and　ninety；　he　is　a　lipid　goldmine。
　　　　I'm　a　walking　stroke；　I'm　a　walking　heart　attack；　he　has　told　Henry；　speaking　with　the　gleeful　solemnity　of　one　who　can　state　the　hard；　cold　truth　because　he　knows　in　his　soul　that　such　ends　are　not　meant　for　him；　not　for　him；　no；　not　for　him。
　　　　'I　had　two　of　those　Burger　King　X…tras　for　lunch；'　he　is　saying　now。　'I　love　those；　because　the　cheese　is　actually　hot。'　His　fleshy　lips　…　oddly　small　lips　for　such　a　large　man；　the　lips　of　a　perch　…　tighten　and　tremble；　as　if　tasting　that　exquisitely　hot　cheese。　'I　also　had　a　shake；　and　on　my　way　back　home　I　had　a　couple　of　Mallomars。　I　took　a　nap；　and　when　I　got　up　I　microwaved　a　whole　package　of　those　frozen　waffles。　〃Leggo　my　Eggo！〃'　he　cries；　then　laughs。　It　is　the　laugh　of　a　man　in　the　grip　of　fond　recall　…　the　sight　of　a　sunset；　the　firm　feel　of　a　woman's　breast　through　a　thin　silk　shirt　（not　that　Barry　has；　in　Henry's　estimation；　ever　felt　such　a　thing）；　or　the　packed　warmth　of　beach　sand。
　　　　'Most　people　use　the　toaster　oven　for　their　Eggo　waffles；'　Barry　continues；　'but　I　find　that　makes　them　too　crispy。　The　microwave　just　gets　them　hot　and　soft。　Hot　。　。　。　and　soft。'　He　smacks　his　little　perch　lips。　'I　had　a　certain　amount　of　guilt　about　eating　the　whole　package。'　He　throws　this　last　in　almost　as　an　aside；　as　if　remembering　Henry　has　a　job　to　do　here。　He　throws　out　similar　little　treats　four　or　five　times　in　every　session　。　。　。　and　then　it's　back　to　the　food。
　　　　Barry　has　now　reached　Tuesday　evening。　Since　this　is　Friday；　there　are　plenty　of　meals　and　snacks　still　to　go。　Henry　lets　his　mind　drift。　Barry　is　his　last　appointment　of　the　day。　When　Barry　has　finished　taking　caloric　inventory；　Henry　is　going　back　to　his　apartment　to　pack。　He'll　be　up　tomorrow　at　Six　A。M。；　and　sometime　between　seven　and　eight；　Jonesy　will　pull　into　his　driveway。　They　will　pack　their　stuff　into　Henry's　old　Scout；　which　he　now　keeps　around　solely　for　their　autumn　hunting　trips；　and　by　eight…thirty　the　two　of　them　will　be　on　their　way　north。　Along　the　way　they　will　pick　up　Pete　in　Bridgton；　and　then　the　Beav；　who　still　lives　close　to　Derry。　By　evening　they　will　be　at　Hole　in　the　Wall　up　in　the　Jefferson　Tract；　playing　cards　in　the　living　room　and　listening　to　the　wind　hoot　around　the　eaves。　Their　guns　will　be　leaning　in　the　corner　of　the　kitchen；　their　hunting　licenses　hung　over　the　hook　on