sk.everythingseventual-第15部分

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nd　once　more　dialled　home。　He　waited　for　his　voice　to　recite　the　useless　cell…phone　number；　then　said；　'Me　again。　Don't　forget　Rambo's　appointment　at　the　vet　day　after　tomorrow；　okay？　Also　the　sea…jerky　strips　at　night。　They　really　do　help　his　hips。　Bye。'
　　He　hung　up　and　raised　the　gun　again。　Before　he　could　put　the　barrel　in　his　mouth；　his　eye　fell　on　the　notebook。　He　frowned　and　put　the　gun　down。　The　book　was　open　to　the　last　four　entries。　The　first　thing　anyone　responding　to　the　shot　would　see　would　be　his　dead　body；　sprawled　across　the　bed　closest　to　the　bathroom；　his　head　hanging　down　and　bleeding　on　the　nubbly　green　rug。　The　second　thing；　however；　would　be　the　Spiral　notebook；　open　to　the　final　written　page。
　　Alfie　imagined　some　cop；　some　Nebraska　state　trooper　who　would　never　be　written　about　on　any　bathroom　wall　due　to　the　disciplines　of　scansion；　reading　those　final　entries；　perhaps　turning　the　battered　old　notebook　toward　him　with　the　tip　of　his　own　pen。　He　would　read　the　first　three　entries…'Trojan　Gum；'　'Poopie　doopie；'　'Save　Russian　Jews'…and　dismiss　them　as　insanity。　He　would　read　the　last　line；　'All　that　you　love　will　be　carried　away；'　and　decide　that　the　dead　guy　had　regained　a　little　rationality　at　the　end；　just　enough　to　write　a　halfway　sensible　suicide　note。
　　Alfie　didn't　like　the　idea　of　people　thinking　he　was　crazy　（further　examination　of　the　book；　which　contained　such　information　as　'Medger　Evers　is　alive　and　well　in　Disneyland；'　would　only　confirm　that　impression）。　He　was　not　crazy；　and　the　things　he　had　written　here　over　the　years　weren't　crazy；　either。　He　was　convinced　of　it。　And　if　he　was　wrong；　if　these　were　the　rantings　of　lunatics；　they　needed　to　be　examined　even　more　closely。　That　thing　about　don't　look　up　here；　you're　pissing　on　your　shoes；　for　instance；　was　that　humor？　Or　a　growl　of　rage？
　　He　considered　using　the　john　to　get　rid　of　the　notebook；　then　shook　his　head。　He'd　end　up　on　his　knees　with　his　shirtsleeves　rolled　back；　fishing　around　in　there；　trying　to　get　the　damn　thing　back　out。　While　the　fan　rattled　and　the　fluorescent　buzzed。　And　although　immersion　might　blur　some　of　the　ink；　it　wouldn't　blur　all　of　it。　Not　enough。　Besides；　the　notebook　had　been　with　him　so　long；　riding　in　his　pocket　across　so　many　flat　and　empty　Midwest　miles。　He　hated　the　idea　of　just　flushing　it　away。
　　The　last　page；　then？　Surely　one　page；　balled　up；　would　go　down。　But　that　would　leave　the　rest　for　them　（there　was　always　a　them）　to　discover；　all　that　clear　evidence　of　an　unsound　mind。　They'd　say；　'Lucky　he　didn't　decide　to　visit　a　schoolyard　with　an　AK…47。　Take　a　bunch　of　little　kids　with　him。'　And　it　would　follow　Maura　like　a　tin　can　tied　to　a　dog's　tail。　'Did　you　hear　about　her　husband？'　they'd　ask　each　other　in　the　supermarket。　'Killed　himself　in　a　motel。　Left　a　book　full　of　crazy　stuff。　Lucky　he　didn't　kill　her。'　Well；　he　could　afford　to　be　a　little　hard　about　that。　Maura　was　an　adult；　after　all。　Carlene；　on　the　other　hand　。　。　。　Carlene　was　。　。　。
　　Alfie　looked　at　his　watch。　At　her　j。…v。　basketball　game；　that's　where　Carlene　was　right　now。　Her　teammates　would　say　most　of　the　same　things　the　supermarket　ladies　would　say；　only　within　earshot　and　acpanied　by　those　chilling　seventh…grade　giggles。　Eyes　full　of　glee　and　horror。　Was　that　fair？　No；　of　course　not；　but　there　was　nothing　fair　about　what　had　happened　to　him；　either。　Sometimes　when　you　were　cruising　along　the　highway；　you　saw　big　curls　of　rubber　that　had　unwound　from　the　recap　tires　some　of　the　independent　truckers　used。　That　was　what　he　felt　like　now：　thrown　tread。　The　pills　made　it　worse。　They　cleared　your　mind　just　enough　for　you　to　see　what　a　colossal　jam　you　were　in。
　　'But　I'm　not　crazy；'　he　said。　'That　doesn't　make　me　crazy。'　No。　Crazy　might　actually　be　better。
　　Alfie　picked　up　the　notebook；　flipped　it　closed　much　as　he　had　flipped　the　cylinder　back　into　the　。38；　and　sat　there　tapping　it　against　his　leg。　This　was　ludicrous。
　　Ludicrous　or　not；　it　nagged　him。　The　way　thinking　a　stove　burner　might　still　be　on　sometimes　nagged　him　when　he　was　home；　nagged　until　he　finally　got　up　and　checked　and　found　it　cold。　Only　this　was　worse。　Because　he　loved　the　stuff　in　the　notebook。　Amassing　graffiti…thinking　about　graffiti…had　been　his　real　work　these　last　years；　not　selling　price…code　readers　or　frozen　dinners　that　were　really　not　much　more　than　Swansons　or　Freezer　Queens　in　fancy　microwavable　dishes。　The　daffy　exuberance　of　'Helen　Keller　fucked　her　feller！'　for　instance。　Yet　the　notebook　might　be　a　real　embarrassment　once　he　was　dead。　It　would　be　like　accidentally　hanging　yourself　in　the　closet　because　you　were　experimenting　with　a　new　way　of　jacking　off　and　got　found　that　way　with　your　shorts　under　your　feet　and　shit　on　your　ankles。　Some　of　the　stuff　in　his　notebook　might　show　up　in　the　newspaper；　along　with　his　picture。　Once　upon　a　time　he　would　have　scoffed　at　the　idea；　but　in　these　days；　when　even　Bible　Belt　newspapers　routinely　speculated　about　a　mole　on　the　President's　penis；　the　notion　was　hard　to　dismiss。
　　Burn　it；　then？　No；　he'd　set　off　the　goddamned　smoke　detector。
　　Put　it　behind　the　picture　on　the　wall？　The　picture　of　the　little　boy　with　the　fishing　pole　and　the　straw　hat？
　　Alfie　considered　this；　then　nodded　slowly。　Not　a　bad　idea　at　all。　The　Spiral　notebook　might　stay　there　for　years。　Then；　someday　in　the　distant　future；　it　would　drop　out。　Someone…perhaps　a　lodger；　more　likely　a　maid…would　pick　it　up；　curious。　Would　flip　through　it。　What　would　that　person's　reaction　be？　Shock？　Amusement？　Plain　old　head…scratching　puzzlement？　Alfie　rather　hoped　for　this　last。　Because　things　in　the　notebook　were　puzzling。　'Elvis　killed　Big　Pussy；'　someone　in　Hackberry；　Texas；　had　written。　'Serenity　is　being　square；'　someone　in　Rapid　City；　South　Dakota；　had　opined。　And　below　that；　someone　had　written；　'No；　stupid；　serenity=（va）2＋b；　if　v=serenity；　a=satisfaction；　and　b=sexual　patibility。'
　　Behind　the　picture；　then。
　　Alfie　was　halfway　across　the　room　when　he　remembered　the　pills　in　his　coat　pocket。　And　there　were　more　in　the　glove　partment　of　the　car；　different　kinds　but　for　the　same　thing。　They　were　prescription　drugs；　but　not　the　sort　the　doctor　gave　you　if　you　were　feeling　。　。　。　well　。　。　。　sunny。　So　the　cops　would　search　this　room　thoroughly　for　other　kinds　of　drugs　and　when　they　lifted　the　picture　away　from　the　wall　the　notebook　would　drop　out　onto　the　green　rug。　The　things　in　it　would　look　even　worse；　even　crazier；　because　of　the　pains　he　had　taken　to　hide　it。
　　And　they'd　read　the　last　thing　as　a　suicide　note；　simply　because　it　was　the　last　thing。　No　matter　where　he　left　the　book；　that　would　happen。　Sure　as　shit　sticks　to　the　ass　of　America；　as　some　East　Texas　turnpike　poet　had　once　written。
　　'If　they　find　it；'　he　said；　and　just　like　that　the　answer　came　to　him。
　　
　　The　snow　had　thickened；　the　wind　had　grown　even　stronger；　and　the　spark　lights　across　the　field　were　gone。　Alfie　stood　beside　his　snow…covered　car　at　the　edge　of　the　parking　lot　with　his　coat　billowing　out　in　front　of　him。　At　the　farm；　they'd　all　be　watching　TV　by　now。　The　whole　fam'　damly。　Assuming　the　satellite　dish　hadn't　blown　off　the　barn　roof；　that　was。　Back　at　his　place；　his　wife　and　daughter　would　be　arriving　home　from　Carlene's　basketball　game。　Maura　and　Carlene　lived　in　a　world　that　had　little　to　do　with　the　interstates；　or　fast…food　boxes　blowing　down　the　breakdown　lanes　and　the　sound　of　semis　passing　you　at　seventy　and　eighty　and　even　ninety　miles　an　hour　like　a　Doppler　whine。　He　wasn't　plaining　about　it　（or　hoped　he　wasn't）；　he　was　just　pointing　it　out。　'Nobody　here　even　if　there　is；'　someone　in　Chalk　Level；　Missouri；　had　written　on　a　shithouse　wall；　and　sometimes　in　those　rest…area　bathrooms　there　was　blood；　mostly　just　a　little；　but　once　he　had　seen　a　grimy　basin　under　a　scratched　steel　mirror　half　filled　with　it。　Did　anyone　notice？　Did　anyone　report　such　things？
　　In　some　rest　areas　the　weather　report　fell　constantly　from　overhead　speakers；　and　to　Alfie　the　voice　giving　it　sounded　haunted；　the　voice　of　a　ghost　running　through　the　vocal　cords　of　a　corpse。　In　Candy；　Kansas；　on　Route　283；　in　Ness　County；　someone　had　written；　'Behold；　I　stand　at　the　door　and　knock；'　to　which　someone　else　had　added；　'If　your　not　from　Pudlishers　Cleering　House　go　away　you　Bad　Boy。'
　　Alfie　stood　at　the　edge　of　the　pavement；　gasping　a　little　because　the　air　was　so　cold　and　full　of　snow。　In　his　left　hand　he　held　the　Spiral　notebook；　bent　almost　double。　There　was　no　need　to　destroy　it；　after　all。　He　would　simply　throw　it　into　Farmer　John's　east　field；　here　on　the　west　side　of　Lincoln。　The　wind　would　help　him。　The　notebook　might　carry　twenty　feet　on　the　fly；　and　the　wind　could　tumble　it　even　farther　before　it　finally　fetched　up　against　the　side　of　the　furrow　and　was　covered。　It　would　lie　there　buried　all　winter；　long　after　his　body　had　been　shipped　home。　In　the　spring；　Farmer　John　would　e　out　this　way　on　his　tractor；　the　cab　filled　with　the　music　of　Patty　Loveless　or　George　Jones　or　maybe　even　Clint　Black；　and　he　would　plow　the　Spiral　notebook　under　without　seeing　it　and　it　would　disappear　into　the　scheme　of　things。　Always　supposing　there　was　one。　'Relax；　it's　all　just　the　rinse　cycle；'　someone　had　written　beside　a　pay　phone　on　I…35　not　far　from　Cameron；　Missouri。
　　Alfie　drew　the　book　back　to　throw　it；　then　lowered　his　arm。　He　hated　to　let　it　go；　that　was　the　truth　of　it。　That　was　the　bottom　line　everyone　was　always　talking　about。　But　things　were　bad；　now。　He　raised　his　arm　again　and　then　lowered　it　again。　In　his　distress　and　indecision　he　began　to　cry　without　being　aware　of　it。　The　wind　rushed　around　him；　on　its　way　to　wherever。　He　couldn't　go　on　living　the　way　he　had　been　living；　he　knew　that　much。　Not　one　more　day。　And　a　shot　in　the　mouth　would　be　easier　than　any　living　change；　he　knew　that；　too。　Far　easier　than　struggling　to　write　a　book　few　people　（if　any　at　all）　were　likely　to　read。　He　raised　his　arm　again；　cocked　the　hand　with　the　notebook　in　it　back　to　his　ear　like　a　pitcher　preparing　to　throw　a　fastball；　then　stood　like　that。　An　idea　had　occurred　to　him。　He　would　count　to　sixty。　If　the　spark　lights　of　the　farmhouse　reappeared　at　any　time　during