pzb.lostsouls-第13部分

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at　he　dismissed　as　stupid。
　　If　his　parents　watched　him　with　bewilderment　and　a　little　fear；　if　they　seemed　happier　when　he　asked　to　be　excused　from　supper　and　shut　himself　in　his　room；　that　was　all　right　with　Nothing。　He　was　strange　to　his　parents；　and　they　were　inprehensible　to　him。　He　rejected　their　world。　There　was　not　a　thing　in　it　that　touched　him；　not　a　thing　he　could　claim　as　his　own。　Sometimes　he　wondered　whether　there　was　a　place　for　him　outside　the　elaborate　juju　of　his　room；　whether　there　was　anyone　in　the　world　who　would　belong　to　him；　whether　he　could　ever　belong　to　anyone。　Who　would　want　him？　Not　his　parents；　for　sure。　He　had　never　belonged　to　them。　They　should　never　have　taken　him　in　from　the　doorstep　that　cold　dawn　fifteen　years　ago。
　　Nothing　pulled　the　quilt　around　him　again；　picked　at　the　edges　of　the　burn。　They　didn't　know　he　knew　about　that。　Long　ago　they　had　told　him　he　was　adopted；　making　it　all　sound　proper　and　respectable；　watching　him　for　signs　of　childish　trauma。　Maybe　the　knowledge　that　he　was　not　of　their　blood　assuaged　their　guilt　when　they　saw　their　son　looking　at　them　and　knew　that　he　had　caught　the　distance　in　their　faces。　Maybe　then　they　were　able　to　justify　their　longing　for　a　normal　son　who　would　keep　his　hair　brushed　out　of　his　eyes；　who　would　be　elected　student　council　president　instead　of　sitting　in　his　strange　bedroom　reading　strange　books；　who　would　bring　home　little　fresh…faced　girlfriends　in　clean　skirts　and　pink　blouses。　Maybe　they　looked　at　him　and　thought；　We　did　not　make　this　creature　out　of　our　seed。　He　is　not　our　mistake。　And　they　were　right。
　　They　would　never　show　him　the　adoption　papers。　They　said　he　had　been　left　at　the　orphanage　as　a　newborn；　that　his　parentage　was　unknown。　But　one　day　in　early　June；　when　he　was　twelve；　he　brought　home　an　end…of…term　progress　report　from　school：
　　
　　Jason　is　a　highly　intelligent　child。　His　achievements　in　areas　where　he　chooses　to　apply　himself；　such　as　art　and　creative　writing；　are　considerable。　However；　he　seems　unable　to　relate　well　to　the　other　children；　his　remoteness　and　his　apparent　determination　to　be　〃different〃　keep　him　from　being　a　successful　member　of　the　classroom　munity。　Due　to　this；　though　all　his　marks　are　above　average；　I　cannot　call　his　passage　through　the　sixth　grade　a　fully　satisfactory　one。
　　
　　Yours；
　　Geraldine　Clemmons
　　
　　Two　or　three　years　later　he　could　have　laughed。　But　all　through　his　sixth…grade　year　he　had　had　no　real　friends；　no　one　who　would　e　to　his　house　and　play　games　of　pretend　in　the　woods；　no　one　who　offered　to　trade　sandwiches　at　lunchtime　or　asked　him　to　one　of　the　boy…girl　parties　that　were　beginning　to　be　all　the　rage。　Through　the　girls'　thin　T…shirts　he　saw　their　sore　budding　breasts。　When　he　undressed　for　gym　with　the　other　boys；　he　tried　to　look　at　their　bodies　without　seeming　to　look。　On　some　of　them　he　noticed　those　same　fearfully　secret　hairs　he　had　begun　to　find　upon　himself。
　　He　could　not　laugh　at　Mrs。　Clemmons's　stupid　progress　report　because　he　had　begun　to　know　how　alone　he　was。　All　through　his　childhood　he　had　amused　himself　without　really　thinking　about　it…reading；　playing　alone　or　with　neighborhood　children；　never　noticing　that　they　were　unfortable　with　the　stories　he　liked　to　make　up；　that　they　seldom　came　back　more　than　two　or　three　times。
　　But　at　twelve　he　became　aware　of　himself；　painfully　so。　He　became　aware　that　he　did　not　know　who　he　was。　He　dreamed　often　of　a　strange　boisterous　family　who　laughed　all　the　time　and　cuddled　him　and　took　him　along　wherever　they　went。　He　discovered　how　to　masturbate；　thinking　at　first　that　it　was　something　he　had　made　up。　Then　he　connected　it　with　things　he　had　read；　and　he　learned　how　to　turn　it　into　a　highly　sensual　experience；　biting　himself　at　first　gently　and　then　harder；　thinking　of　other　children　in　his　class；　imagining　how　it　would　be　to　hold　them；　taste　them；　feel　their　flesh　between　his　teeth。　It　did　not　seem　strange　that　he　thought　about　these　things。
　　But　on　the　day　he　brought　the　progress　report　home；　he　knew　that　he　was　alone　and　that　he　might　be　alone　for　a　very　long　time。
　　His　parents　were　both　at　work；　his　mother　counselling　disturbed　children　at　a　day…care　center；　his　father　doing　something　that　had　vaguely　to　do　with　finance。　The　house　was　sunny　and　still；　and　all　that　afternoon　he　searched　through　their　desk　drawers；　through　their　files　and　boxes；　looking　for　his　adoption　papers。　He　had　to　know　who　his　real　parents　were。　He　had　to　know　where　he　had　e　from　and　whether　someday　he　might　find　his　way　back。
　　His　parents'　papers　were　remarkably　dull。　There　were　no　old　love　letters　scented　and　tied　with　pastel　ribbons；　no　scan…dais；　no　bloodstained　lace　handkerchiefs。　There　were　no　adoption　papers。　The　shadows　in　the　house　lengthened。　He　became　frantic；　knowing　with　the　terrible　conviction　of　a　twelve…year…old　that　these　strangers　named　Rodger　and　Marilyn　would　murder　him　if　they　caught　him　going　through　their　things；　they　would　have　an　excuse　at　last。　But　he　opened　one　final　dresser　drawer　in　their　bedroom；　not　really　expecting　to　find　anything；　and　under　his　mother's　old　granny　glasses　and　McGovern　buttons　was　the　note。　It　was　tucked　into　a　corner　of　the　drawer；　not　hidden　very　well。　By　this　time　he　was　sweaty　and　a　little　breathless。　His　hand　shook　as　he　extracted　the　note；　trying　not　to　disturb　the　rest　of　the　mess。
　　The　paper　was　thick　and　cream…colored；　with　two　small　holes　at　the　top　as　if　it　had　been　pinned　to　something。　Slowly　he　deciphered　the　spidery　handwriting：　His　name　is　Nothing。　Care　for　him　and　he　will　bring　you　luck。
　　All　at　once　the　story　fell　into　place　around　him。　A　baby　in　a　basket；　abandoned　on　two　strangers'　doorstep　some　night。　That　was　what　he　had　been。　Surely　this　note　had　been　pinned　to　his　blanket。　But　the　strangers　had　taken　him　in；　changed　his　name；　tried　to　make　him　into　one　of　their　kind。　If　he　had　brought　them　any　luck　at　all；　that　luck　had　surely　been　bad。　It　was　all　so　clear　now。　It　was　all　so　right。
　　He　slept　with　the　note　under　his　pillow　that　night　and　dreamed　of　a　place　where　the　buildings　were　gay　with　scrolled　ironwork　and　the　river　flowed　darkly　past　and　soft　laughter　went　on　all　night；　every　night。　He　roamed　the　streets　and　the　alleyways　and　courtyards；　a　sweet；　rotten；　coppery　taste　on　his　tongue。
　　The　next　day　he　put　the　note　back　in　the　drawer　in　case　Mother　ever　looked　there；　but　when　he　was　alone　in　the　house　he　took　it　out　and　read　it　again　and　again；　holding　the　paper　to　his　face；　pressing　it　against　his　mouth；　trying　to　catch　the　scent　of　the　place　it　had　e　from。　For　that　was　where　he　had　been　born。　He　closed　his　eyes　and　tried　to　imagine　the　hand　that　had　shaped　those　spindling　black　words；　for　that　hand　belonged　to　someone　who　knew　him；　who　had　held　him。　In　the　veins　of　that　hand；　his　blood　might　flow。
　　And　he　ceased　to　be　Jason。　He　became　Nothing；　for　that　was　what　the　note　named　him。　He　still　answered　to　Jason；　but　the　name　was　like　an　echo　of　a　half…forgotten　life。　I　am　Nothing　his　mind　whispered。　I　am　Nothing。　He　liked　the　name。　It　did　not　make　him　feel　worthless；　on　the　contrary；　he　began　to　think　of　himself　as　a　blank　slate　upon　which　anything　could　be　written。　The　words　he　inscribed　on　his　soul　were　up　to　him。
　　He　grew　taller；　and　some　of　the　flesh　of　childhood　melted　from　his　bones。　He　was　truly　Nothing　now；　he　knew　it。　When　in　junior　high　school　he　finally　made　friends…not　friends　who　could　share　his　soul；　but　friends　who　understood　a　little　better　than　anyone　else　ever　had；　other　skinny　pale　kids；　hippie　and　punk　kids；　kids　in　black　T…shirts　and　leather　jackets　and　smudgy　makeup　shoplifted　from　the　drugstore　at　the　mall…he　told　them　to　call　him　by　that　name。
　　The　house　was　cold　tonight。　His　room　was　the　coldest　of　all。　He　shivered　again；　then　threw　off　the　quilt　and　pulled　on　gray　sweatpants　and　an　old　black　sweater　with　holes　at　the　elbows。　The　Tom　Waits　album　had　finished　playing　and　turned　itself　off。　The　hiss　of　the　empty　speakers　filled　the　room；　too　loud　here　in　the　dark。
　　Nothing　rummaged　through　his　backpack　and　found　the　cassette　Julie　had　given　him。　It　came　from　far　away　down　south；　and　only　five　hundred　copies　of　it　had　been　printed…it　was　numbered　on　the　liner；　217　of　500。　But　somehow　one　copy　had　ended　up　in　a　record　store　in　Silver　Spring；　a　nearby　town；　where　Julie　had　picked　it　up。
　　He　put　it　on　now。　The　singer's　voice　wove　in　and　out　of　the　jangly　guitar　line；　now　losing　itself　in　the　music；　now　as　strong　and　golden…green　as　some　Appalachian　summer　mountain　stream。
　　
　　Does　your　road　go　no　place？
　　Does　it　go　someplace　where　you　can't　see？
　　If　you　follow　it　anyway
　　It　just　might　lead　you　here　to　me　。　。　。
　　
　　Nothing　sat　on　the　edge　of　the　bed　and　hummed　the　words　under　his　breath；　his　head　tilted　back；　his　eyes　searching　the　stars　and　planets　on　the　ceiling。　He　thought　of　Julie　taking　the　tape　from　her　purse　and　handing　it　to　him；　he　thought　of　Laine；　sucking　him　off　with　innocent　abandon。
　　Somewhere　in　the　music；　perhaps　outside　the　window　in　the　cold　night；　somewhere　above　the　melody　and　under　the　moon；　those　lonely　little　ghosts　started　whispering　to　him　again：　You've　got　to　get　out　of　here。　You've　got　to　find　flour　place；　your　family；　before　you　rot　and　die。
　　〃All　right；〃　he　said　after　listening　for　a　while。　〃All　right。〃　All　at　once　he　knew　he　had　to　leave。　It　was　inevitable；　and　he　wondered　what　he　had　been　waiting　for。　He　would　go　south；　looking　for　what　he　wanted；　hopefully　knowing　it　when　he　found　it。　Maybe　he　would　even　hook　up　with　the　musicians　from　Lost　Souls？　The　name　of　their　town　was　fascinating：　he　pictured　it　as　a　mysterious　southern　crossroads；　a　hamlet　where　the　ordinary　became　exotic。　He　had　found　it　on　a　map　of　North　Carolina；　a　tiny　dot　between　the　mountains　and　the　sea；　a　town　whose　streets　Nothing　pictured　as　dusty　and　strange；　whose　shops　were　crammed　with　dark　secondhand　treasures；　whose　graveyards　were　haunted；　whose　moon　rose　full　and　honeyed　behind　the　lacework　of　towering　pines。
　　He　said　the　name　to　himself　and　shivered：　Missing　Mile。　
　　Nothing　crossed　his　dark　room　and　let　himself　into　the　hall。　His　parents　were