sk.dreamcatcher-第77部分

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hen　the　big　storm　blew　through　。　。　。　but　Jonesy　discovered　he　didn't　want　to　speak　Duddits's　name。
　　　　Mr　Gray　said　nothing；　but　Jonesy　got　a　clear　sense　of　his　impatience。　Mr　Gray　cared　only　about　the　Standpipe。　And　how　Jonesy　had　fooled　him。
　　　　'Listen；　Mr　Gray　…　if　there　was　any　fooling　going　on；　you　did　it　to　yourself　I　got　a　few　of　the　DERRY　boxes；　that's　all；　and　brought　them　in　here　while　you　were　busy　killing　that　poor　soldier。'
　　　　'The　poor　soldiers　came　in　ships　from　the　sky　and　massacred　all　of　my　kind　that　they　could　find。'
　　　　'Spare　me。　You　guys　didn't　e　here　to　wele　us　into　the　Galactic　Book　Circle。'
　　　　'Would　things　have　been　any　different　if　we　had？'
　　　　'You　can　also　spare　me　the　hypotheticals；'　Jonesy　said。　'After　what　you　did　to　Pete　and　the　Army　guy；　I　could　care　less　about　having　an　intellectual　discussion　with　you。'
　　　　'We　do　what　we　have　to　do。'
　　　　'That　might　be；　but　if　you　expect　me　to　help　you；　you're　mad。'
　　　　The　dog　was　looking　at　Jonesy　with　even　more　unease　apparently　not　used　to　masters　who　held　animated　conversations　with　themselves。
　　　　'The　Standpipe　fell　over　in　1985　…　sixteen　years　ago　…　but　you　stole　this　memory？'
　　　　'Basically；　yeah；　although　I　don't　think　you'd　have　much　luck　with　that　in　a　court　of　law；　since　the　memories　were　mine　to　begin　with。'
　　　　'What　else　have　you　stolen？'
　　　　'That's　for　me　to　know　and　you　to　think　about。'
　　　　There　was　a　hard　and　ill…tempered　thump　at　the　door。　Jonesy　was　once　more　reminded　of　the　story　about　The　Three　Little　Pigs。　Huff　and　puff；　Mr　Gray；　enjoy　the　dubious　pleasures　of　rage。
　　　　But　Mr　Gray　had　apparently　left　the　door。
　　　　'Mr　Gray？　'Jonesy　called。　'Hey；　don't　go　'way　mad；　okay？'　Jonesy　guessed　that　Mr　Gray　might　be　off　on　another　information　search。　The　Standpipe　was　gone　but　Derry　was　still　here；　ergo；　the　town's　water　had　to　be　ing　from　somewhere。　Did　Jonesy　know　the　location　of　that　somewhere？　　　　
　　　　Jonesy　didn't。　He　had　a　vague　memory　of　drinking　a　lot　of　bottled　water　after　ing　back　from　college　for　the　summer；　but　that　was　all。　Eventually　water　had　started　ing　out　of　their　taps　again；　but　what　was　that　to　a　twenty…one…year…old　whose　biggest　concern　had　been　getting　into　Mary　Shratt's　pants？　The　water　came；　you　drank　it。　You　didn't　worry　about　where　it　came　from　as　long　as　it　didn't　give　you　the　heaves　or　the　squatters。
　　　　A　sense　of　frustration　from　Mr　Gray？　Or　was　that　just　his　imagination？　Jonesy　most　sincerely　hoped　not。
　　　　This　had　been　a　good　one　。　。　。　what　the　four　of　them；　in　the　days　of　their　misspent　youth；　would　undoubtedly　have　called　'a　fuckin　pisser'。


9

Roberta　Cavell　woke　up　from　some　unpleasant　dream　and　looked　to　her　right；　half…expecting　to　see　only　darkness。　But　the　forting　blue　numbers　were　still　glowing　from　the　clock　by　her　bed；　so　the　power　hadn't　gone　out。　That　was　pretty　amazing；　considering　the　way　the　wind　was　howling。
　　　　1：04　A。M。；　the　blue　numbers　said。　Roberta　turned　on　the　bedside　lamp　…　might　as　well　use　it　while　she　could　…　and　drank　some　water　from　her　glass。　Was　it　the　wind　that　had　awakened　her？　The　bad　dream？　It　had　been　bad；　all　right；　something　about　aliens　with　deathrays　and　everyone　running；　but　she　didn't　think　that　was　it；　either。
　　　　Then　the　wind　dropped；　and　she　heard　what　had　waked　her：　Duddits's　voice　from　downstairs。　Duddits　。　。　。　singing？　Was　that　possible？　She　didn't　see　how；　considering　the　terrible　afternoon　and　evening　the　two　of　them　had　put　in。
　　　　'Eeeyer…eh！''　for　most　of　the　hours　between　two　and　five　…　Beaver's　dead！　Duddits　seemingly　inconsolable；　finally　bringing　on　a　nosebleed。　She　feared　these。　When　Duddits　started　bleeding；　it　was　sometimes　impossible　to　get　him　stopped　without　taking　him　to　the　hospital。　This　time　she　had　been　able　to　stop　it　by　pushing　cotton…wads　into　his　nostrils　and　then　pinching　his　nose　high　up；　between　the　eyes。　She　had　called　Dr　Briscoe　to　ask　if　she　could　give　Duddits　one　of　his　yellow　Valium　tablets；　but　Dr　Briscoe　was　off　in　Nassau；　if　you　please。　Some　other　doctor　was　on　call；　some　whitecoat　johnny　who　had　never　seen　Duddits　in　his　life；　and　Roberta　didn't　even　bother　to　call　him。　She　just　gave　Duddits　the　Valium；　painted　his　poor　dry　lips　and　the　inside　of　his　mouth　with　one　of　the　lemon…flavored　glycerine　swabs　that　he　liked　…　the　inside　of　his　mouth　was　always　developing　cankers　and　ulcers。　Even　when　the　chemo　was　over；　these　persisted。　And　the　chemo　was　over。　None　of　the　doctors　…　not　Briscoe；　not　any　of　them　…　would　admit　it；　and　so　the　plastic　catheter　stayed　in；　but　it　was　over。　Roberta　would　not　let　them　put　her　boy　through　that　hell　again。
　　　　Once　he'd　taken　his　pill；　she　got　in　bed　with　him；　held　him　（being　careful　of　his　left　side；　where　the　indwelling　catheter　hid　under　a　bandage）；　and　sang　to　him。　Not　Beaver's　lullaby；　though。　Not　today。
　　　　At　last　he　had　begun　to　quiet；　and　when　she　thought　he　was　asleep；　she　had　gently　pulled　the　cotton　wads　from　his　nostrils。　The　second　one　stuck　a　little；　and　Duddits's　eyes　had　opened　…　that　beautiful　flash　of　green。　His　eyes　were　his　true　gift；　she　sometimes　thought；　and　not　that　other　business　。　。　。　seeing　the　line　and　all　that　went　with　it。
　　　　'Urnma？'
　　　　'Yes；　Duddie。'
　　　　'Eeeyer　in　hen？'
　　　　She　felt　such　sorrow　at　that；　and　at　the　thought　of　Beaver's　absurd　leather　jacket；　which　he　had　loved　so　much　and　finally　worn　to　tatters。　If　it　had　been　someone　else；　anyone　else　but　one　of　his　four　childhood　friends；　she　would　have　doubted　Duddie's　premonition。　But　if　Duddits　said　Beaver　was　dead；　then　Beaver　almost　certainly　was。
　　　　'Yes；　honey；　I'm　sure　he's　in　heaven。　Now　go　to　sleep。'
　　　　For　another　long　moment　those　green　eyes　had　looked　into　hers；　and　she　had　thought　he　would　start　crying　again　…　indeed；　one　tear；　large　and　perfect；　did　roll　down　his　stubbly　cheek。　It　was　so　hard　for　him　to　shave　now；　sometimes　even　the　Norelco　started　little　cuts　that　dribbled　for　hours。　Then　his　eyes　had　closed　again　and　she　had　tiptoed　out。
　　　　After　dark；　while　she　was　making　him　oatmeal　（all　but　the　blandest　foods　were　now　apt　to　set　off　vomiting；　another　sign　that　the　end　was　nearing）；　the　whole　nightmare　started　again。　Terrified　already　by　the　increasingly　strange　news　ing　out　of　the　Jefferson　Tract；　she　had　raced　back　to　his　room　with　her　heart　hammering。　Duddits　was　sitting　upright　again；　whipping　his　head　from　side　to　side　in　a　child's　gesture　of　negation。　The　nosebleed　had　re…started；　and　at　each　jerk　of　his　head；　scarlet　drops　flew。　They　spattered　his　pillowcase；　his　signed　photograph　of　Austin　Powers　（'Groovy；baby！'　was　written　across　the　bottom）；　and　the　bottles　on　the　table：　mouthwash；　pazine；　Percocet；　the　multi…vitamins　that　seemed　to　do　absolutely　no　good；　the　tall　jar　of　lemon　swabs。
　　　　This　time　it　was　Pete　he　claimed　was　dead；　sweet　（and　not　terribly　bright）　Peter　Moore。　Dear　God；　could　it　be　true？　Any　of　it？　All　of　it？
　　　　The　second　bout　of　hysterical　grief　hadn't　gone　on　as　long；　probably　because　Duddits　was　already　exhausted　from　the　first。　She　had　gotten　the　nosebleed　stanched　again　…　lucky　her　…　and　had　changed　his　bed；　first　helping　him　to　his　chair　by　the　window。　There　he'd　sat；　looking　out　into　the　renewing　storm；　occasionally　sobbing；　sometimes　heaving　great；　watery　sighs　that　hurt　her　inside。　Just　looking　at　him　hurt　her：　how　thin　he　was；　how　pale　he　was；　how　bald　he　was。　She　gave　him　his　Red　Sox　hat；　signed　across　the　visor　by　the　great　Pedro　Martinez　（you　get　so　many　nice　things　when　you're　dying；　she　sometimes　mused）；　thinking　his　head　would　be　cold　there；　so　close　to　the　glass；　but　for　once　Duddits　wouldn't　put　it　on。　He　only　held　it　on　his　lap　and　looked　out　into　the　dark；　his　eyes　big　and　unhappy。
　　　　At　last　she　had　gotten　him　back　into　bed；　where　once　again　her　son's　green　eyes　looked　up　at　her　with　all　their　terrible　dying　brilliance。
　　　　'Eeet　in　hen；　ooo？'
　　　　'I'm　sure　he　is。'　She　hadn't　wanted　to　cry；　desperately　hadn't　wanted　to　…　it　might　set　him　off　again　…　but　she　could　feel　the　tears　brimming。　Her　head　was　pregnant　with　them；　and　the　inside　of　her　nose　tasted　of　the　sea　each　time　she　pulled　in　breath。
　　　　'In　hen　wif　Eeeyer？'
　　　　'Yes；　honey。'
　　　　'I　eee　Eeeyer　n　Eeet　in　hen？'
　　　　'Yes；　you　will。　Of　course　you　will。　But　not　for　a　long　while。'
　　　　His　eyes　had　closed。　Roberta　had　sat　beside　him　on　the　bed；　looking　down　at　her　hands；　feeling　sadder　than　sad；　more　alone　than　lonely。
　　　　Now　she　hurried　downstairs　and　yes；　it　was　singing；　all　right。　Because　she　spoke　such　fluent　Duddits　（and　why　not？　it　had　been　her　second　language　for　over　thirty　years）；　she　translated　the　rolling　syllables　without　even　thinking　much　about　them：　Scooby…Dooby…Doo；where　are　you？　We　got　some　work　to　do　now。　I've　been　telling　you；　Scooby…Doo；　we　need　a　helping　hand；　now。
　　　　She　went　into　his　room；　not　knowing　what　to　expect。　Certainly　not　what　she　found：　every　light　blazing；　Duddits　fully　dressed　for　the　first　time　since　his　last　（and　very　likely　final；　according　to　Dr　Briscoe）　remission。　He　had　put　on　his　favorite　corduroy　pants；　his　down　vest　over　his　Grinch　tee…shirt；　and　his　Red　Sox　hat。　He　was　sitting　in　his　chair　by　the　window　and　looking　out　into　the　night。　No　frown　now；　no　tears；　either。　He　looked　out　into　the　storm　with　a　bright…eyed　eagerness　that　took　her　back　to　long　before　the　disease；　which　had　announced　itself　with　such　stealthy；　easy…to…overlook　symptoms：　how　tired　and　out　of　breath　he　got　after　just　a　short　game　of　Frisbee　in　the　back　yard；　how　big　the　bruises　were　from　even　little　thumps　and　bumps；　and　how　slowly　they　faded。　This　was　the　way　he　used　to　look　when　。　。　。
　　　　But　she　couldn't　think。　She　was　too　flustered　to　think。
　　　　'Duddits！　Duddle；　what…'
　　　　'Umma！　Ere　I　unnox？'
　　　　Mumma！　Where's　my　lunchbox？
　　　　'In　the　kitchen；　but　Duddie；　it's　the　middle　of　the　night。　It's　snowing！　You　aren't　。　。　。'
　　　　Going　anywhere　was　the　way　that　one　ended；　of　course；　but　the　words　wouldn't　cross　her　tongue。　His　eyes　were　so　brilliant；　so　alive。　Perhaps　she　should　have　been　glad　to　see　that　light　so　strongly　in　his　eyes；　that　energy；　but　instead　she　was　terrified。
　　　　'I　eed　I　unnox！　I　eed　I　unch！'
　　　　I　need　my　lunchbox；　I　need　my　lunch。
　　　　'No；　Duddits。'　Trying　to　be　firm。　'You　need　to　take　off　your　clothes