sk.everythingseventual-第87部分

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ine　with　me　under　the　hot　summer　sun　in　a　dusty　little　New　Hampshire　amusement　park；　and　in　the　end　I　had　hardly　hesitated。　Take　her；　don't　take　me。　Chickenshit；　chickenshit；　you　fucking　chickenshit。
　　When　the　elevator　door　opened　I　stepped　out；　took　the　lid　off　the　litter…basket；　and　there　it　was；　lying　in　someone's　almost…empty　paper　coffee　cup：　I　RODE　THE　BULLET　AT　THRILL　VILLAGE；　LACONIA。
　　I　bent；　plucked　the　button　out　of　the　cold　puddle　of　coffee　it　was　lying　in；　wiped　it　on　my　jeans；　put　it　in　my　pocket。　Throwing　it　away　had　been　the　wrong　idea。　It　was　my　button　now…good…luck　charm　or　bad…luck　charm；　it　was　mine。　I　left　the　hospital；　giving　Yvonne　a　little　wave　on　my　way　by。　Outside；　the　moon　rode　the　roof　of　the　sky；　flooding　the　world　with　its　strange　and　perfectly　dreamy　light。　I　had　never　felt　so　tired　or　so　dispirited　in　my　whole　life。　I　wished　I　had　the　choice　to　make　again。　I　would　have　made　a　different　one。　Which　was　funny…if　I'd　found　her　dead；　as　I'd　expected　to；　I　think　I　could　have　lived　with　it。　After　all；　wasn't　that　the　way　stories　like　this　one　were　supposed　to　end？
　　
　　Nobody　wants　to　give　a　fella　a　ride　in　town；　the　old　man　with　the　truss　had　said；　and　how　true　that　was。　I　walked　all　the　way　across　Lewiston…three　dozen　blocks　of　Lisbon　Street　and　nine　blocks　of　Canal　Street；　past　all　the　bottle　clubs　with　the　jukeboxes　playing　old　songs　by　Foreigner　and　Led　Zeppelin　and　AC/DC　in　French…without　putting　my　thumb　out　a　single　time。　It　would　have　done　no　good。　It　was　well　past　eleven　before　I　reached　the　DeMuth　Bridge。　Once　I　was　on　the　Harlow　side；　the　first　car　I　raised　my　thumb　to　stopped。　Forty　minutes　later　I　was　fishing　the　key　out　from　under　the　red　wheelbarrow　by　the　door　to　the　back　shed；　and　ten　minutes　after　that　I　was　in　bed。　It　occurred　to　me　as　I　dropped　off　that　it　was　the　first　time　in　my　life　I'd　slept　in　that　house　all　by　myself。
　　
　　It　was　the　phone　that　woke　me　up　at　quarter　past　noon。　I　thought　it　would　be　the　hospital；　someone　from　the　hospital　saying　my　mother　had　taken　a　sudden　turn　for　the　worse　and　had　passed　away　only　a　few　minutes　ago；　so　sorry。　But　it　was　only　Mrs。　McCurdy；　wanting　to　be　sure　I'd　gotten　home　all　right；　wanting　to　know　all　the　details　of　my　visit　the　night　before　（she　took　me　through　it　three　times；　and　by　the　end　of　the　third　recitation　I　had　begun　to　feel　like　a　criminal　being　interrogated　on　a　murder　charge）；　also　wanting　to　know　if　I'd　like　to　ride　up　to　the　hospital　with　her　that　afternoon。　I　told　her　that　would　be　great。
　　When　I　hung　up；　I　crossed　the　room　to　the　bedroom　door。　Here　was　a　full…length　mirror。　In　it　was　a　tall；　unshaven　young　man　with　a　small　potbelly；　dressed　only　in　baggy　undershorts。　'You　have　to　get　it　together；　big　boy；'　I　told　my　reflection。　'Can't　go　through　the　rest　of　your　life　thinking　that　every　time　the　phone　rings　it's　someone　calling　to　tell　you　your　mother's　dead。'
　　Not　that　I　would。　Time　would　dull　the　memory；　time　always　did　。　。　。　but　it　was　amazing　how　real　and　immediate　the　night　before　still　seemed。　Every　edge　and　corner　was　sharp　and　clear。　I　could　still　see　Staub's　good…looking　young　face　beneath　his　turned…around　cap；　and　the　cigarette　behind　his　ear；　and　the　way　the　smoke　had　seeped　out　of　the　incision　on　his　neck　when　he　inhaled。　I　could　still　hear　him　telling　the　story　of　the　Cadillac　that　was　selling　cheap。　Time　would　blunt　the　edges　and　round　the　corners；　but　not　for　awhile。　After　all；　I　had　the　button；　it　was　on　the　dresser　by　the　bathroom　door。　The　button　was　my　souvenir。　Didn't　the　hero　of　every　ghost…story　e　away　with　a　souvenir；　something　that　proved　it　had　all　really　happened？
　　There　was　an　ancient　stereo　system　in　the　corner　of　the　room；　and　I　shuffled　through　my　old　tapes；　hunting　for　something　to　listen　to　while　I　shaved。　I　found　one　marked　FOLK　MIX　and　put　it　in　the　tape　player。　I'd　made　it　in　high　school　and　could　barely　remember　what　was　on　it。　Bob　Dylan　sang　about　the　lonesome　death　of　Hat…tie　Carroll；　Tom　Paxton　sang　about　his　own　ramblin'　pal；　and　then　Dave　Van　Ronk　started　to　sing　about　the　cocaine　blues。　Halfway　through　the　third　verse　I　paused　with　my　razor　by　my　cheek。　Got　a　headful　of　whiskey　and　a　bellyful　of　gin；　Dave　sang　in　his　rasping　voice。　Doctor　say　it　kill　me　but　he　don't　say　when。　And　that　was　the　answer；　of　course。　A　guilty　conscience　had　led　me　to　assume　that　my　mother　would　die　immediately；　and　Staub　had　never　corrected　that　assumption…how　could　he；　when　I　had　never　even　asked？…but　it　clearly　wasn't　true。
　　Doctor　say　it　kill　me　but　he　don't　say　when。
　　What　in　God's　name　was　I　beating　myself　up　about？　Didn't　my　choice　amount　to　no　more　than　the　natural　order　of　things？　Didn't　children　usually　outlive　their　parents？　The　son　of　a　bitch　had　tried　to　scare　me…to　guilt…trip　me…but　I　didn't　have　to　buy　what　he　was　selling；　did　I？　Didn't　we　all　ride　the　Bullet　in　the　end？
　　You're　just　trying　to　let　yourself　off。　Trying　to　find　a　way　to　make　it　okay。　Maybe　what　you're　thinking　is　true　。　。　。　but　when　he　asked　you　to　choose；　you　chose　her。　There's　no　way　to　think　your　way　around　that；　buddy…you　chose　her。
　　I　opened　my　eyes　and　looked　at　my　face　in　the　mirror。　'I　did　what　I　had　to；'　I　said。　I　didn't　quite　believe　it；　but　in　time　I　supposed　I　would。
　　
　　Mrs。　McCurdy　and　I　went　up　to　see　my　mother　and　my　mother　was　a　little　better。　I　asked　her　if　she　remembered　her　dream　about　Thrill　Village；　in　Laconia。　She　shook　her　head。　'I　barely　remember　you　ing　in　last　night；'　she　said。　'I　was　awful　sleepy。　Does　it　matter？'
　　'Nope；'　I　said；　and　kissed　her　temple。　'Not　a　bit。'
　　
　　My　Ma　got　out　of　the　hospital　five　days　later。　She　walked　with　a　limp　for　a　little　while；　but　that　went　away　and　a　month　later　she　was　back　at　work　again…only　half　shifts　at　first　but　then　full…time；　just　as　if　nothing　had　happened。　I　returned　to　school　and　got　a　job　at　Pat's　Pizza　in　downtown　Orono。　The　money　wasn't　great；　but　it　was　enough　to　get　my　car　fixed。　That　was　good；　I'd　lost　what　little　taste　for　hitchhiking　I'd　ever　had。
　　My　mother　tried　to　quit　smoking　and　for　a　little　while　she　did。　Then　I　came　back　from　school　for　April　vacation　a　day　early；　and　the　kitchen　was　just　as　smoky　as　it　had　ever　been。　She　looked　at　me　with　eyes　that　were　both　ashamed　and　defiant。　'I　can't；'　she　said。　'I'm　sorry；　Al…I　know　you　want　me　to　and　I　know　I　should；　but　there's　such　a　hole　in　my　life　without　it。　Nothing　fills　it。　The　best　I　can　do　is　wish　I'd　never　started　in　the　first　place。'
　　
　　Two　weeks　after　I　graduated　from　college；　my　Ma　had　another　stroke…just　a　little　one。　She　tried　to　quit　smoking　again　when　the　doctor　scolded　her；　then　put　on　fifty　pounds　and　went　back　to　the　tobacco。　'As　a　dog　returneth　to　its　vomit；'　the　Bible　says；　I've　always　liked　that　one。　I　got　a　pretty　good　job　in　Portland　on　my　first　try…lucky；　I　guess…and　started　the　work　of　convincing　her　to　quit　her　own　job。　It　was　a　tough　sled　at　first。　I　might　have　given　up　in　disgust；　but　I　had　a　certain　memory　that　kept　me　digging　away　at　her　Yankee　defenses。
　　'You　ought　to　be　saving　for　your　own　life；　not　taking　care　of　me；'　she　said。　'You'll　want　to　get　married　someday；　Al；　and　what　you　spend　on　me　you　won't　have　for　that。　For　your　real　life。'
　　'You're　my　real　life；'　I　said；　and　kissed　her。　'You　can　like　it　or　lump　it；　but　that's　just　the　way　it　is。'　And　finally　she　threw　in　the　towel。
　　We　had　some　pretty　good　years　after　that…seven　of　them　in　all。　I　didn't　live　with　her；　but　I　visited　her　almost　every　day。　We　played　a　lot　of　gin　rummy　and　watched　a　lot　of　movies　on　the　video　recorder　I　bought　her。　Had　a　bucketload　of　laughs；　as　she　liked　to　say。　I　don't　know　if　I　owe　those　years　to　George　Staub　or　not；　but　they　were　good　years。　And　my　memory　of　the　night　I　met　Staub　never　faded　and　grew　dreamlike；　as　I　always　expected　it　would；　every　incident；　from　the　old　man　telling　me　to　wish　on　the　harvest　moon　to　the　fingers　fumbling　at　my　shirt　as　Staub　passed　his　button　on　to　me；　remained　perfectly　clear。　And　there　came　a　day　when　I　could　no　longer　find　that　button。　I　knew　I'd　had　it　when　I'd　moved　into　my　little　apartment　in　Fal…mouth…I　kept　it　in　the　top　drawer　of　my　bedside　table；　along　with　a　couple　of　bs；　my　two　sets　of　cufflinks；　and　an　old　political　button　that　said　BILL　CLINTON；　THE　SAFE　SAX　PRESIDENT…but　then　it　came　up　missing。　And　when　the　telephone　rang　a　day　or　two　later；　I　knew　why　Mrs。　McCurdy　was　crying。　It　was　the　bad　news　I'd　never　quite　stopped　expecting；　fun　is　fun　and　done　is　done。
　　
　　When　the　funeral　was　over；　and　the　wake；　and　the　seemingly　endless　line　of　mourners　had　finally　e　to　its　end；　I　went　back　to　the　little　house　in　Harlow　where　my　mother　had　spent　her　final　few　years；　smoking　and　eating　powdered　doughnuts。　It　had　been　Jean　and　Alan　Parker　against　the　world；　now　it　was　just　me。
　　I　went　through　her　personal　effects；　putting　aside　the　few　papers　that　would　have　to　be　dealt　with　later；　boxing　up　the　things　I'd　want　to　keep　on　one　side　of　the　room　and　the　things　I'd　want　to　give　away　to　the　Goodwill　on　the　other。　Near　the　end　of　the　job　I　got　down　on　my　knees　and　looked　under　her　bed　and　there　it　was；　what　I'd　been　looking　for　all　along　without　quite　admitting　it　to　myself：　a　dusty　button　reading　I　RODE　THE　BULLET　AT　THRILL　VILLAGE；　LACONIA。　I　curled　my　fist　tight　around　it。　The　pin　dug　into　my　flesh　and　I　squeezed　my　hand　even　tighter；　taking　a　bitter　pleasure　in　the　pain。　When　I　rolled　my　fingers　open　again；　my　eyes　had　filled　with　tears　and　the　words　on　the　button　had　doubled；　overlaying　each　other　in　a　shimmer。　It　was　like　looking　at　a　3…D　movie　without　the　glasses。
　　'Are　you　satisfied？'　I　asked　the　silent　room。　'Is　it　enough？'　There　was　no　answer；　of　course。　'Why　did　you　even　bother？　What　was　the　goddam　point？'
　　Still　no　answer；　and　why　would　there　be？　You　wait　in　line；　that's　all。　You　wait　in　line　beneath　the　moon　and　make　your　wishes　by　its　infected　light。　You　wait　in　line　and　listen　to　them　screaming…they　pay　to　be　terrified；　and　on　the　Bullet　they　always　get　their　money's　worth。　Maybe　when　it's　your　turn　you　ride；　maybe　you　run。　Either　way　it　es　to　the　same；　I　think。　There　ought　to　be　more　to　it；　but　there's　really　not…fun　is　fun　and　done　is　done。