sk.cujo-第7部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


of　children　afflicted　with　vomiting　or　diarrhea；　had　rushed　the　kids　to　the　hospital；　believing　them　to　be　suffering　internal　bleeding。　After　that；　the　cases　had　skyrocketed　…　first　into　the　hundreds；　then　into　the　thousands。　In　none　of　these　cases　had　the　vomiting　and/or　diarrhea　been　caused　by　the　cereal；　but　that　was　generally　overlooked　in　the　growing　furor。
Nope；　not　a　single　thing　wrong　here。
The　cases　had　spread　west　to　east。　The　problem　was　the　food　dye　that　gave　Zingers　its　zingy　red　color。　The　dye　itself　was　harmless；　but　that　was　also　mostly　overlooked。　Something　had　gone　wrong；　and　instead　of　assimilating　the　red　dye；　the　human　body　simply　passed　it　along。　The　goofed…up　dye　had　only　gotten　into　one　batch　of　cereal；　but　it　had　been　a　whopper　of　a　batch。　A　doctor　told　Vic　that　if　a　child　who　had　just　died　after　ingesting　a　big　bowl　of　Red　Razberry　Zingers　were　the　subject　of　an　autopsy；　the　postmortem　would　reveal　a　digestive　tract　as　red　as　a　stop　sign。　The　effect　was　strictly　temporary；　but　that　had　been　overlooked　too。
Roger　wanted　them　to　go　down　with　all　guns　firing；　if　they　were　to　go　down。　He　had　proposed　marathon　conferences　with　the　Image…Eye　people　in　Boston；　who　actually　did　the　spots。　He　wanted　to　talk　with　the　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　himself；　who　had　gotten　so　involved　with　his　role　that　he　was　mentally　and　emotionally　torn　up　over　what　had　happened。　Then　on　to　New　York；　to　talk　to　the　marketing　people。　Most　important；　it　would　be　almost　two　weeks　at　Boston's　Ritz…Carlton　and　at　New　York's　UN　Plaza；　two　
weeks　Vic　and　Roger　would　spend　mostly　in　each　other's　hip　pockets；　digesting　the　input　and　brainstorming　as　they　had　in　the　old　days。　What　Roger　hoped　would　e　out　of　it　was　a　rebound　campaign　that　would　blow　the　socks　off　both　old　man　Sharp　and　the　kid。　Instead　of　going　to　Cleveland　with　their　necks　shaved　for　the　drop　of　the　guillotine　blade；　they　would　show　up　with　battle　plans　drawn　to　reverse　the　effects　of　the　Zingers　snafu。　That　was　the　theory。　In　practice；　they　both　realized　that　their　chances　were　about　as　good　as　they　were　for　a　pitcher　who　deliberately　sets　out　to　throw　a　no…hitter。
Vic　had　other　problems。　For　the　last　eight　months　or　so；　he　had　sensed　that　he　and　his　wife　were　drifting　slowly　apart。　He　still　loved　her；　and　he　damn　near　idolized　Tad；　but　things　had　gone　from　a　little　uneasy　to　bad；　and　he　sensed　that　there　were　worse　things　…　and　worse　times　…　waiting。　just　over　the　horizon；　maybe。　This　trip；　a　grand　tour　from　Boston　to　New　York　to　Cleveland；　ing　at　what　should　have　been　their　at…home　season；　their　doing…things…together　season；　was　maybe　not　such　a　hot　idea。　When　he　looked　at　her　face　lately　he　saw　a　stranger　lurking　just　below　its　planes　and　angles　and　curves。
And　the　question。　It　played　over　and　over　in　his　mind　on　nights　when　he　wasn't　able　to　sleep；　and　such　nights　had　bee　more　mon　lately。　Had　she　taken　a　lover？　They　sure　didn't　sleep　together　much　any　more。　Had　she　done　it？　He　hoped　it　wasn't　so；　but　what　did　he　think？　Really？　Tell　the　truth；　Mr。　Trenton；　or　you'll　be　forced　to　pay　the　consequences。
He　wasn't　sure。　He　didn't　want　to　be　sure。　He　was　afraid　that　if　he　became　sure；　the　marriage　would　end。　He　was　still　pletely　gone　on　her；　had　never　so　much　as　considered　an　extramarital　fling；　and　he　could　forgive　her　much。　But　not　being　cuckolded　in　his　own　home。　You　don't　want　to　wear　those　horns；　they　grow　out　of　your　ears；　and　kids　laugh　at　the　funny　man　on　the　street。　He　
'What？'　Vic　said；　emerging　from　his　reverie。　'I　missed　it；　Rog。'
'I　said；　〃That　goddam　red　cereal。〃　Unquote。　My　exact　words。'
'Yeah；'　Vic　said。　'I'll　drink　to　that。'
Roger　raised　his　pilsner　glass。　'Do　it；'　he　said。
Vic　did。
Gary　Pervier　sat　out　on　his　weedy　front　lawn　at　the　bottom　of　Seven　Oaks　Hill　on　Town　Road　No。　3　about　a　week　after　Vic　and　Roger's　depressing　luncheon　meeting　at　the　Yellow　Sub；　drinking　a　screwdriver　that　was　25　percent　Bird's　Eye　frozen　orange　juice　and　75　percent　Popov　vodka。　He　sat　in　the　shade　of　an　elm　that　was　in　the　last　stages　of　rampant　Dutch　elm　disease；　his　bottom　resting　against　the　frayed　straps　of　a　Sears；　Roebuck　mail…order　lawn　chair　that　was　in　the　last　stages　of　useful　service。　He　was　drinking　Popov　because　Popov　was　cheap。　Gary　had　purchased　a　large　supply　of　it　in　New　Hampshire；　where　booze　was　cheaper；　on　his　last　liquor　run。　Popov　was　cheap　in　Maine；　but　it　was　dirt　cheap　in　New　Hampshire；　a　state　which　took　its　stand　for　the　finer　things　in　life　…　a　fat　state　lottery；　cheap　booze；　cheap　cigarettes；　and　tourist　attractions　like　Santa's　Village　and　Six…Gun　City。　New　Hampshire　was　a　great　'Old　place。　The　lawn　chair　had　slowly　settled　into　his　run…to…riot　lawn；　digging　deep　divots。　The　house　behind　the　lawn　had　also　run　to　riot；　it　was　a　gray；　paint…peeling；　roof…sagging　shambles。　Shutters　hung。　The　chimney　hooked　at　the　sky　like　a　drunk　trying　to　get　up　from　a　tumble。　Singles　blown　off　in　the　previous　winter's　last　big　storm　still　hung　limply　from　some　of　the　branches　of　the　dying　elm。　It　ain't　the　Taj　Mahal；　Gary　sometimes　said；　but　who　gives　a　shit？
Gary　was；　on　this　swelteringly　hot　late…June　day；　as　drunk　as　a　coot。　This　was　not　an　unmon　state　of　affairs　with　him。　He　did　not　know　Roger　Breakstone　from　shit。　He　did　not　know　Vic　Trenton　from　shit。　He　didn't　know　Donna　Trenton　from　shit；　and　if　he　had　known　her；　he　wouldn't　have　given　a　shit　if　the　visiting　team　was　throwing　line　drives　into　her　catcher's　mitt。　He　did　know　the　Cambers　and　their　dog　Cujo；　the　family　lived　up　the　hill；　at　the　end　of　Town　Road　No。　3。　He　and　Joe　Camber　did　a　good　deal　of　drinking　together；　and　in　a　rather　foggy　fashion　Gary　realized　that　Joe　Camber　was　already　a　goodly　way　down　the　road　to　alcoholism。　It　was　a　road　Gary　himself　had　toured　extensively。
'Just　a　good…for…nothing　drunk　and　I　don't　give　a　shit！'　Gary　told　the　birds　and　the　singles　in　the　diseased　elm。　He　tipped　his　glass。　He　fatted。　He　swatted　a　bug。　Sunlight　and　shadow　dappled　his　face。　Behind　the　house；　a　number　of　disemboweled　cars　had　almost　disappeared　in　the　tall　weeds。　The　ivy　which　grew　on　the　west　side　of　his　house　had　gone　absolutely　apeshit；　almost　covering　it。　One　window　peeked　out　…　barely　…　and　on　sunny　days　it　glittered　like　a　dirty　diamond。　Two　years　ago；　in　a　drunken　frenzy；　Gary　had　uprooted　a　bureau　from　one　of　the　upstairs　rooms　and　had　thrown　it　out　a　window　…　he　could　not　remember　why　now。　He　had　reglazed　the　window　himself　because　it　had　let　in　one　crotch　of　a　draft　e　winter；　but　the　bureau　rested　；exactly　where　it　had　fallen。　One　drawer　was　popped　out　like　a　tongue。
In　1944；　when　Gary　Pervier　had　been　twenty；　he　had　single…handedly　taken　a　German　pillbox　in　France　and；　following　that　exploit；　had　led　the　remains　of　his　squad　ten　miles　farther　before　collapsing　with　the　six　bullet　wounds　he　had　suffered　in　his　charge　of　the　machine…gun　emplacement。　For　this　he　had　been　awarded　one　of　his　grateful　country's　highest　honors；　the　Distinguished　Service　Cross。　In　1968　he　had　gotten　Buddy　Torgeson　down　in　Castle　Falls　to　rum　the　medal　into　an　ashtray。　Buddy　had　been　shocked。　Gary　told　Buddy　he　would　have　gotten　him　to　make　it　into　a　toilet　bowl　so　he　could　shit　in　it；　but　it　wasn't　big　enough。　Buddy　spread　the　story；　and　maybe　that　had　been　Gary's　intention；　or　maybe　it　hadn't。
Either　way；　it　had　driven　the　local　hippies　crazy　with　admiration。　In　the　summer　of　'68　most　of　these　hippies　were　on　vacation　in　the　Lakes　Region　with　their　wealthy　parents　before　returning　to　their　colleges　in　September；　where　they　were　apparently　studying　up　on　Protest；　Pot；　and　Pussy。
After　Gary　had　his　DSC　turned　into　an　ashtray　by　Buddy　Torgeson；　who　did　custom　welding　in　his　spare　time　and　who　worked　days　down　to　the　Castle　Falls　Esso　（they　were　all　Exxon　stations　now；　and　Gary　Pervier　didn't　give　a　shit）；　a　version　of　the　story　found　its　way　into　the　Castle　Rock　Call。　The　story　was　written　by　a　local…yokel　reporter　who　construed　the　act　as　an　antiwar　gesture。　That　was　when　the　hippies　started　to　show　up　at　Gary's　place　on　Town　Road　No。　3。　Most　of　them　wanted　to　tell　Gary　he　was　'far　out'。　Some　of　them　wanted　to　tell　him　he　was　'some　kind　of　heavy'。　A　few　wanted　to　tell　him　that　he　was　'too　fucking　much'。
Gary　showed　them　all　the　same　thing；　which　was　his　Winchester　。30…。06。　He　told　them　to　get　off　his　property。　As　far　as　he　was　concerned　they　were　all　a　bunch　of　long…haired　muff…diving　crab…crawling　asshole　pinko　fucksticks。　He　told　them　he　didn't　give　a　shit　if　he　blew　their　guts　from　Castle　Rock　to　Fryeburg。　After　a　while　they　stopped　ing；　and　that　was　the　end　of　the　DSC　affair。
One　of　those　German　bullets　had　taken　Gary　Pervier's　right　testicle　off；　a　medic　had　found　most　of　it　splattered　across　the　seat　of　his　GI…issue　underwear。　Most　of　the　other　one　survived；　and　sometimes　he　could　still　get　a　pretty　respectable　bone…on。　Not；　he　had　frequently　told　Joe　Camber；　that　he　gave　much　of　a　shit　one　way　or　the　other。　His　grateful　country　had　given　him　the　Distinguished　Service　Cross。　A　grateful　hospital　staff　in　Paris　had　discharged　him　in　February　1945　with　an　80…percent　disability　pension　and　a　gold…plated　monkey　on　his　back。　A　grateful　hometown　gave　him　a　parade　on　the　Fourth　of　July　1945　（by　then　he　was　twenty…one　instead　of　twenty；　able　to　vote；　his　hair　graying　around　the　temples；　and　he　felt　all　of　seven　hundred；　thank　you　very　much）。　The　grateful　town　selectmen　had　remanded　the　property　taxes　on　the　Pervier　place　in　perpetuity。　That　was　good；　because　he　would　have　lost　it　twenty　years　ago　otherwise。　He　had　replaced　the　morphine　he　could　no　longer　obtain　with　high…tension　booze　and　had　then　proceeded　to　get　about　his　life's　work；　which　was　killing　himself　as　slowly　and　as　pleasantly　as　he　could。
Now；　in　1980；　he　was　fifty…six　years　old；　totally　gray；　and　meaner　than　a　bull　with　a　jackhandle　up　its　ass。　About　the　only　three　living　creatures　he　could　stand　were　Joe　Camber；　his　boy　Brett；　and　Brett's　big　Saint　Bernard；　Cujo。
He　tilted　back　in　the　decaying　lawn　chair；　almost　went　over　on　his　back；　and　used　up　some　more　of　his　screwdriver。　The　screwdriver　was　in　a　glass　he　had　gotten　free　from　a　McDonald's　restaurant。　There　was　some　sort　of　purple　animal　on　the　glass。　Something　called　a　Grimace。　Gary　ate　a　lot　of　his