sk.dreamcatcher-第52部分

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e　hill　toward　the　T…junction　where　the　Deep　Cut　Road　ended。
　　　　This　side　of　the　hill　was　steeper　and　soon　he　was　skiing　rather　than　walking。　He　picked　up　speed；　not　knowing　if　what　he　felt　was　terror；　exhilaration；　or　some　unhealthy　mix　of　the　two。　Certainly　he　was　going　too　fast　for　the　visibility；　which　was　almost　nil；　and　his　abilities；　which　were　as　rusty　as　the　clamps　holding　the　skis　to　his　boots。　The　trees　blurred　past　on　either　side；　and　it　suddenly　occurred　to　him　that　all　his　problems　might　be　solved　at　a　stroke。　Not　the　Hemingway　Solution　after　all。　Call　this　way　out　the　Bono　Solution。
　　　　His　hat　blew　off　his　head。　He　reached　for　it　automatically；　one　of　his　poles　flailing　out　ahead　of　him；　half…seen　in　the　dark；　and　all　at　once　his　balance　was　gone。　He　was　going　to　take　a　tumble。　And　maybe　that　was　good；　as　long　as　he　didn't　break　his　goddam　leg。　Falling　would　stop　him；　at　least。　He　would　just　pick　himself　up；　and…
　　　　Lights　blazed　out；　big　truck…mounted　spotlights；　and　before　his　vision　disappeared　into　dazzle；　Henry　glimpsed　what　might　have　been　a　flatbed　pulp…truck　pulled　across　the　end　of　the　Deep　Cut　Road。　The　lights　were　undoubtedly　motion…sensitive；　and　there　was　a　line　of　men　standing　in　front　of　them；
　　　　'HALT！'　a　terrifying；　amplified　voice　manded。　It　could　have　been　the　voice　of　God。　'HALT　OR　WE'LL　FIRE！'
　　　　Henry　went　down　hard　and　awkwardly。　His　skis　shot　off　his　feet。　One　ankle　bent　painfully　enough　to　make　him　cry　out。　He　lost　one　skipole；　the　other　snapped　off　halfway　up　its　shaft。　The　wind　was　knocked　out　of　him　in　a　large；　frosty　whoop　of　breath。
　　　　He　slid；　snowplowing　with　his　wide…open　crotch；　then　came　to　rest；　bent　limbs　forming　a　shape　something　like　a　swastika。
　　　　His　vision　began　to　e　back；　and　he　heard　feet　crunching　in　the　snow。　He　flailed　and　managed　to　sit　up；　not　able　to　tell　if　anything　was　broken　or　not。
　　　　Six　men　were　standing　about　ten　feet　down　the　hill　from　him；　their　shadows　impossibly　long　and　crisp　on　the　diamond…dusted　new　snow。　They　were　all　wearing　parkas。　They　all　had　clear　plastic　masks　over　their　mouths　and　noses　…　these　looked　more　efficient　than　the　painters'　masks　Henry　had　found　in　the　snowmobile　shed；　but　Henry　had　an　idea　that　the　basic　purpose　was　the　same。
　　　　The　men　also　had　automatic　weapons；　all　of　them　pointed　at　him。　It　now　seemed　rather　lucky　to　Henry　that　he　had　left　Jonesy's　Garand　and　his　own　Winchester　back　at　the　Scout。　If　he'd　had　a　gun；　he　might　have　a　dozen　or　more　holes　in　him　by　now。
　　　　'I　don't　think　I've　got　it；'　he　croaked。　'Whatever　it　is　you're　worried　about；　I　don't　think…'
　　　　'ON　YOUR；　FEET！'　God's　voice　again。　Corning　from　the　truck。　The　men　standing　in　front　of　him　blocked　out　at　least　some　of　the　glare　and　Henry　could　see　more　men　at　the　foot　of　the　hill　where　the　roads　met。　All　of　them　had　weapons；　too；　except　for　the　one　holding　the　bullhorn。
　　　　'I　don't　know　if　I　can　g…'
　　　　'ON　YOUR　FEET　NOW！'　God　manded；　and　one　of　the　men　in　front　of　him　made　an　expressive　little　erking　motion　with　the　barrel　of　his　gun。
　　　　Henry　got　shakily　to　his　feet。　His　legs　were　trembling　and　the　ankle　he'd　bent　was　outraged；　but　everything　was　holding　together；　at　least　for　the　time　being。　Thus　ends　the　eggman's　journey；　he　thought；　and　began　to　laugh。　The　men　in　front　of　him　looked　at　each　other　uneasily；　and　although　they　pointed　their　rifles　at　him　again；　he　was　forted　to　see　even　that　small　demonstration　of　human　emotion。
　　　　In　the　brilliant　glow　of　the　lights　mounted　on　the　pulper's　flatbed；　Henry　saw　something　lying　in　the　snow　…　it　had　fallen　from　his　pocket　when　he　wiped　out。　Slowly；　knowing　they　might　shoot　him　anyway；　he　bent　down。
　　　　'DON'T　TOUCH　THAT！'　God　cried　from　His　loudspeaker　atop　the　cab　of　the　pulp…truck；　and　now　the　men　down　there　also　raised　their　weapons；　a　little　hello　darkness　my　old　friend　peeping　from　the　muzzle　of　each。
　　　　'Bite　shit　and　die；'　Henry　said　…　one　of　the　Beav's　better　efforts　…　and　picked　up　the　package。　He　held　it　out　to　the　armed　and　masked　men　in　front　of　him；　smiling。　'I　e　in　peace　for　all　mankind；'　he　said。　'Who　wants　a　hot　dog？'

CHAPTER　TWELVE

JONESY　IN　THE　HOSPITAL


1

This　was　a　dream。
　　　　It　didn't　feel　like　one；　but　it　had　to　be。　For　one　thing；　he'd　already　been　through　March　fifteenth　once；　and　it　seemed　monstrously　unfair　to　have　to　go　through　it　again。　For　another；　he　could　remember　all　sorts　of　things　from　the　eight　months　between　mid…March　and　mid…November　…　helping　the　kids　with　their　homework；　Carla　on　the　phone　with　her　friends　（many　from　the　Narcotics　Anonymous　program）；　giving　a　lecture　at　Harvard　。　。　。　and　the　months　of　physical　rehab；　of　course。　All　the　endless　bends；　all　the　tiresome　screaming　as　his　joints　stretched　themselves　out　again；　oh　so　reluctantly。　He　telling　Jeannie　Morin；　his　therapist；　that　he　couldn't。　She　telling　him　that　he　could。　Tears　on　his　face；　big　smile　on　hers　（that　hateful　undeniable　junior…miss…smile）；　and　in　the　end　she　had　turned　out　to　be　right。　He　could；　he　was　the　little　engine　that　could；　but　what　a　price　the　little　engine　had　paid。
　　　　He　could　remember　all　those　things　and　more：　getting　out　of　bed　for　the　first　time；　wiping　his　ass　for　the　first　time；　the　night　in　early　May　when　he'd　gone　to　bed　thinking　I'm　going　to　get　through　this　for　the　first　time；　the　night　in　late　May　when　he　and　Carla　had　made　love　for　the　first　time　since　the　accident；　and　afterward　he'd　told　her　an　old　joke：　How　do　porcupines　fuck？　Very　carefully。　He　could　remember　watching　fireworks　on　Memorial　Day；　his　hip　and　upper　thigh　aching　like　a　bastard；　he　could　remember　eating　watermelon　on　the　Fourth　of　July；　spitting　seeds　into　the　grass　and　watching　Carla　and　her　sisters　play　badminton；　his　hip　and　upper　leg　still　aching　but　not　so　fiercely；　he　could　remember　Henry　calling　in　September　…　'Just　to　check　in；'　he'd　said　…　and　talking　about　all　sorts　of　things；　including　the　annual　hunting　trip　to　Hole　in　the　Wall　e　November。　'Sure　I'm　ing；'　Jonesy　had　said；　not　knowing　then　how　little　he　would　like　the　feel　of　the　Garand　in　his　hands。　They　had　talked　about　their　work　（Jonesy　had　taught　the　final　three　weeks　of　summer　session；　hopping　around　pretty　spryly　on　one　crutch　by　then）；　about　their　families；　about　the　books　they　had　read　and　the　movies　they　had　seen；　Henry　had　mentioned　again；　as　he　had　in　January；　that　Pete　was　drinking　too　much。　Jonesy；　having　already　been　through　one　substance…abuse　war　with　his　wife；　hadn't　wanted　to　talk　about　that；　but　when　Henry　passed　along　Beaver's　suggestion　that　they　stop　in　Derry　and　see　Duddits　Cavell　when　their　week　of　hunting　was　over；　Jonesy　had　agreed　enthusiastically。　It　had　been　too　long；　and　there　was　nothing　like　a　shot　of　Duddits　to　cheer　a　person　up。　Also　。　。　。
　　　　'Henry？'　he　had　asked。　'We　made　plans　to　go　see　Duddits；　didn't　we？　We　were　going　on　St　Patrick's　Day。　I　don't　remember　it；　but　it's　written　on　my　office　calendar。'
　　　　'Yeah；'　Henry　had　replied。　'As　a　matter　of　fact；　we　did。'
　　　　'So　much　for　the　luck　of　the　Irish；　huh？'
　　　　As　a　result　of　such　memories；　Jonesy　was　positive　March　fifteenth　had　already　happened。　There　were　all　sorts　of　evidence　supporting　the　thesis；　his　office　calendar　being　Exhibit　A。　Yet　here　they　were　again；　those　troublesome　Ides　。　。　。　and　now；　oh　goddam；　how　was　this　for　unfair；　now　there　seemed　to　be　more　of　the　fifteenth　than　ever。
　　　　Previously；　his　memory　of　that　day　faded　out　at　around　ten　A。M。　He'd　been　in　his　office；　drinking　coffee　and　making　a　stack　of　books　to　take　down　to　the　History　Department　office；　where　there　was　a　FREE　WITH　STUDENT　ID　table。　He　hadn't　been　happy；　but　he　couldn't　for　the　life　of　him　remember　why。　According　to　the　same　office　calendar　on　which　he　had　spied　the　unkept　March　seventeenth　appointment　to　go　see　Duddits；　he'd　had　a　March　fifteenth　appointment　with　a　student　named　David　Defuniak。　Jonesy　couldn't　remember　what　it　had　been　about；　but　he　later　found　a　notation　from　one　of　his　grad　assistants　about　a　make…up　essay　from　Defuniak　…　short…term　results　of　the　Norman　Conquest　…　so　he　supposed　it　had　been　that。　Still；　what　was　there　in　a　make…up　assignment　that　could　possibly　have　made　Associate　Professor　Gary　Jones　feel　unhappy？
　　　　Unhappy　or　not；　he　had　been　humming　something；　humming　and　then　scatting　the　words；　which　were　close　to　nonsense：　Yes　we　can；　yes　we　can…can；　great　gosh　a'mighty　yes　we　can…can。　There　were　a　few　little　shreds　after　that　…　wishing　Colleen；　the　Department　secretary；　a　nice　St　Paddy's　Day；　grabbing　a　Boston　Phoenix　from　the　newspaper　box　outside　the　building；　dropping　a　quarter　into　the　saxophone　case　of　a　skinhead　just　over　the　bridge　on　the　Cambridge　side；　feeling　sorry　for　the　guy　because　he　was　wearing　a　light　sweater　and　the　wind　ing　off　the　Charles　was　sharp　…　but　mostly　what　he　remembered　after　making　that　stack　of　giveaway　books　was　darkness。　Consciousness　had　returned　in　the　hospital；　with　that　droning　voice　from　a　nearby　room：　Please　stop；　I　can't　stand　it；　give　me　a　shot；　where's　Marcy；　I　want　Marcy。　Or　maybe　it　had　been　where's　Jonesy；　I　want　Jonesy。　Old　creeping　death。　Death　pretending　to　be　a　patient。　Death　had　lost　track　of　him　…　sure；　it　was　possible；　it　was　a　big　hospital　stuffed　full　of　pain；　sweating　agony　out　its　very　seams　…　and　now　old　creeping　death　was　trying　to　find　him　again。　Trying　to　trick　him。　Trying　to　make　him　give　himself　away。
　　　　This　time　around；　though；　all　that　merciful　darkness　in　the　middle　is　gone。　This　time　around　he　not　only　wishes　Colleen　a　happy　St。　Paddy's　Day；　he　tells　her　a　joke：　What　do　you　call　a　Jamaican　proctologist？　A　Pokémon。　He　goes　out；　his　future　self　…　his　November　self　…　riding　in　his　March　head　like　a　stowaway。　His　future　self　hears　his　March　self　think　foat　a　beautiful　day　it　turned　out　to　be　as　he　starts　walking　towards　his　appointment　with　destiny　in　Cambridge。　He　tries　to　tell　his　March　self　that　this　is　a　bad　idea；　a　grotesquely　bad　idea；　that　he　can　save　himself　months　of　agony　just　by　hailing　a　Red　Top　or　taking　the　T；　but　he　can't　get　through。　Perhaps　all　the　science…fiction　stories　he　read　about　time　when　he　was　a　teenager　had　it　right：　you　can't　change　the　past；　no　matter　how　you　try。
　　　　He　walks　across　the　bridge；　and　although　the　wind　is　a　l