绿里奇迹(英文版)-第22部分

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sure　if　he　did；　or　if　he　did；　how　much）；　he　must　have　thought　that　the　space　was　too　small　and　the　numbers　too　great　to　cause　a　satisfactory　hooraw。　So　on　went　the　chains；　one　set　running　between　his　ankles　and　another　set　too　long；　it　turned　out；　between　his　wrists。　
The　drive　to　Cold　Mountain　took　an　hour。　During　that　whole　time；　Wharton　sat　on　the　lefthand　bench　up　by　the　cab；　head　lowered；　cuffed　hands　dangling　between　his　knees。　Every　now　and　then　he　hummed　a　little；　Harry　said；　and　Percy　roused　himself　enough　from　his　funk　to　say　that　the　lugoon　dripped　spittle　from　his　lax　lower　lip；　a　drop　at　a　time；　until　it　had　made　a　puddle　between　his　feet。　Like　a　dog　dripping　off　the　end　of　its　tongue　on　a　hot　summer　day。　
They　drove　in　through　the　south　gate　when　they　got　to　the　pen；　right　past　my　car；　I　guess。　The　guard　on　the　south　pass　tan　back　the　big　door　between　the　lot　and　the　exercise　yard；　and　the　stagecoach　drove　through。　It　was　a　slack　time　in　the　yard；　not　many　men　out　and　most　of　them　hoeing　in　the　garden。　Pumpkin　time；　it　would　have　been。　They　drove　straight　across　to　E　Block　and　stopped。　The　driver　opened　the　door　and　told　them　he　was　going　to　take　the　stagecoach　over　to　the　motor…pool　to　have　the　oil　changed；　it　had　been　good　working　with　them。　The　extra　guards　went　with　the　vehicle；　two　of　them　sitting　in　the　back　eating　apples；　the　doors　now　swinging　open。　
That　left　Dean；　Harry　and　Percy　with　one　shackled　prisoner。　It　should　have　been　enough；　would　have　been　enough；　if　they　hadn't　been　lulled　by　the　stick　thin　country　boy　standing　head…down　there　in　the　dirt　with　chains　on　his　wrists　and　ankles。　They　marched　him　the　twelve　or　so　paces　to　the　door　that　opened　into　E　Block；　falling　into　the　same　formation　we　used　when　escorting　prisoners　down　the　Green　Mile。　Harry　was　on　his　left；　Dean　was　on　his　right；　and　Percy　was　behind；　with　his　baton　in　his　hand。　No　one　told　me　that；　but　I　know　damned　well　he　had　it　out；　Percy　loved　that　hickory　stick。　As　for　me；　I　was　sitting　in　what　would　be　Wharton's　home　until　it　came　time　for　him　to　check　into　the　hot　place…first　cell　on　the　right　as　you　headed　down　the　corridor　toward　the　restraint　room。　I　had　my　clipboard　in　my　hands　and　was　thinking　of　nothing　but　making　my　little　set　speech　and　getting　the　hell　out。　The　pain　in　my　groin　was　building　up　again；　and　all　I　wanted　was　to　go　into　my　office　and　wait　for　it　to　pass。　
Dean　stepped　forward　to　unlock　the　door。　He　selected　the　right　key　from　the　bunch　on　his　belt　and　slid　it　into　the　lock。　Wharton　came　alive　just　as　Dean　turned　the　key　and　pulled　the　handle。　He　voiced　a　screaming；　gibbering　cry　…　a　kind　of　Rebel　yell　…　that　froze　Harry　to　temporary　immobility　and　pretty　much　finished　Percy　Wetmore　for　the　entire　encounter。　I　heard　that　scream　through　the　partly　opened　door　and　didn't　associate　it　with　anything　human　at　first；　I　thought　a　dog　had　gotten　into　the　yard　somehow　and　had　been　hurt；　that　perhaps　some　mean　tempered　con　had　hit　it　with　a　hoe。　
Wharton　lifted　his　arms；　dropped　the　chain　which　hung　between　his　wrists　over　Dean's　head；　and　menced　to　choke　him　with　it。　Dean　gave　a　strangled　cry　and　lurched　forward；　into　the　cool　electric　light　of　our　little　world。　Wharton　was　happy　to　go　with　him；　even　gave　him　a　shove；　all　the　time　yelling　and　gibbering；　even　laughing。　He　had　his　arms　cocked　at　the　elbows　with　his　fists　up　by　Dean's　ears；　yanking　the　chain　as　tight　as　he　could；　whipsawing　it　back　and　forth。　
Harry　landed　on　Wharton's　back；　wrapping　one　hand　in　our　new　boy's　greasy　blond　hair　and　slamming　his　other　fist　into　the　side　of　Wharton's　face　as　hard　as　he　could。　He　had　both　a　baton　of　his　own　and　a　sidearm　pistol；　but　in　his　excitement　drew　neither。　We'd　had　trouble　with　prisoners　before；　you　bet；　but　never　one　who'd　taken　any　of　us　by　surprise　the　way　that　Wharton　did。　The　man's　slyness　was　beyond　our　experience。　I　had　never　seen　its　like　before；　and　have　never　seen　it　again。　
And　he　was　strong。　All　that　slack　looseness　was　gone。　Harry　said　later　that　it　was　like　jumping　onto　a　coiled　nest　of　steel　springs　that　had　somehow　e　to　life。　Wharton；　now　inside　and　near　the　duty　desk；　whirled　to　his　left　and　flung　Harry　off。　Harry　hit　the　desk　and　went　sprawling。　
〃Whoooee；　boys！〃　Wharton　laughed。　〃Ain't　this　a　party；　now？　Is　it；　or　what？〃　
Still　screaming　and　laughing；　Wharton　went　back　to　choking　Dean　with　his　chain。　Why　not？　Wharton　knew　what　we　all　knew：　they　could　only　fry　him　once。　
〃Hit　him；　Percy；　hit　him！〃　Harry　screamed；　struggling　to　his　feet。　But　Percy　only　stood　there；　hickory　baton　in　hand；　eyes　as　wide　as　soup…plates。　Here　was　the　chance　he'd　been　looking　for；　you　would　have　said；　his　golden　opportunity　to　put　that　tallywhacker　of　his　to　good　use；　and　he　was　too　scared　and　confused　to　do　it。　This　wasn't　some　terrified　little　Frenchman　or　a　black　giant　who　hardly　seemed　to　be　in　his　own　body；　this　was　a　whirling　devil。　
I　came　out　of　Wharton's　cell；　dropping　my　clipboard　and　pulling　my　。38。　I　had　forgotten　the　infection　that　was　heating　up　my　middle　for　the　second　time　that　day。　I　didn't　doubt　the　story　the　others　told　of　Wharton's　blank　face　and　dull　eyes　when　they　told　it；　but　that　wasn't　the　Wharton　I　saw。　What　I　saw　was　the　face　of　an　animal　…　not　an　intelligent　animal；　but　one　filled　with　cunning　。。。　and　meanness　。。。　and　joy。　Yes。　He　was　doing　what　he　had　been　made　to　do。　The　place　and　the　circumstances　didn't　matter。　The　other　thing　I　saw　was　Dean　Stanton's　red；　swelling　face。　He　was　dying　in　front　of　my　eyes。　Wharton　saw　the　gun　and　turned　Dean　toward　it；　so　that　I'd　almost　certainly　have　to　hit　one　to　hit　the　other。　From　over　Dean's　shoulder；　one　blazing　blue　eye　dared　me　to　shoot。　


Part　Three：
Coffey's　Hands　
1。　
Looking　back　through　what　I've　written；　I　see　that　I　called　Georgia　Pines；　where　I　now　live；　a　nursing　home。　The　folks　who　run　the　place　wouldn't　be　very　happy　with　that！　According　to　the　brochures　they　keep　in　the　lobby　and　send　out　to　prospective　clients；　its　a　〃State…of…the…art　retirement　plex　for　the　elderly。〃　It　even　has　a　Resource　Center　…　the　brochure　says　so。　The　folks　who　have　to　live　here　（the　brochure　doesn't　call　us　〃inmates；〃　but　sometimes　I　do）　just　call　it　the　TV　room。　
Folks　think　I'm　stand…offy　because　I　don't　go　down　to　the　TV　room　much　in　the　day；　but　it's　the　programs　I　can't　stand；　not　the　folks。　Oprah；　Ricki　Lake；　Carnie　Wilson；　Rolanda　…　the　world　is　falling　down　around　our　ears；　and　all　these　people　care　for　is　talking　about　fucking　to　women　in　short　skirts　and　men　with　their　shirts　hanging　open。　Well；　hell　…　judge　not；　lest　ye　be　judged；　the　Bible　says；　so　I'll　get　down　off　my　soapbox。　It's　just　that　if　I　wanted　to　spend　time　with　trailer　trash；　I'd　move　two　miles　down　to　the　Happy　Wheels　Motor　Court；　where　the　police　cars　always　seem　to　be　headed　on　Friday　and　Saturday　nights　with　their　sirens　screaming　and　their　blue　lights　flashing。　My　special　friend；　Elaine　Connelly；　feels　the　same　way。　Elaine　is　eighty；　tall　and　slim；　still　erect　and　clear…eyed；　very　intelligent　and　refined。　She　walks　very　slowly　because　there's　something　wrong　with　her　hips；　and　I　know　that　the　arthritis　in　her　hands　gives　her　terrible　misery；　but　she　has　a　beautiful　long　neck　…　a　swan　neck；　almost　…　and　long；　pretty　hair　that　falls　to　her　shoulders　when　she　lets　it　down。　
Best　of　all；　she　doesn't　think　I'm　peculiar；　or　stand…offy。　We　spend　a　lot　of　time　together；　Elaine　and　I。　If　I　hadn't　reached　such　a　grotesque　age；　I　suppose　I　might　speak　of　her　as　my　ladyfriend。　Still；　having　a　special　friend　…　just　that　…　is　not　so　bad；　and　in　some　ways；　it's　even　better。　A　lot　of　the　problems　and　heartaches　that　go　with　being　boyfriend　and　girlfriend　have　simply　burned　out　of　us。　And　although　I　know　that　no　one　under　the　age　of；　say；　fifty　would　believe　this；　sometimes　the　embers　are　better　than　the　campfire。　It's　strange；　but　it's　true。　
So　I　don't　watch　TV　during　the　day。　Sometimes　I　walk；　sometimes　I　read；　mostly　what　I've　been　doing　for　the　last　month　or　so　is　writing　this　memoir　among　the　plants　in　the　solarium。　I　think　there's　more　oxygen　in　that　room；　and　it　helps　the　old　memory。　It　beats　the　hell　out　of　Geraldo　Rivera；　I　can　tell　you　that。　
But　when　I　can't　sleep；　I　sometimes　creep　downstairs　and　put　on　the　television。　There's　no　Home　Box　Office　or　anything　at　Georgia　Pines　…　I　guess　that's　a　resource　just　a　wee　bit　too　expensive　for　our　Resource　Center　…　but　we　have　the　basic　cable　services；　and　that　means　we　have　the　American　Movie　Channel。　That's　the　one　（just　in　case　you　don't　have　the　basic　cable　services　yourself）　where　most　of　the　films　are　in　black　and　white　and　none　of　the　women　take　their　clothes　off。　For　an　old　fart　like　me；　that's　sort　of　soothing。　There　have　been　a　good　many　nights　when　I've　slipped　right　off　to　sleep　on　the　ugly　green　sofa　in　front　of　the　TV　while　Francis　the　Talking　Mule　once　more　pulls　Donald　O'Connor's　skillet　out　of　the　fire；　or　John　Wayne　cleans　up　Dodge；　or　Jimmy　Cagney　calls　someone　a　dirty　rat　and　then　pulls　a　gun。　Some　of　them　are　movies　I　saw　with　my　wife；　Janice　（not　just　my　ladyfriend　but　my　best　friend）；　and　they　calm　me。　The　clothes　they　wear；　the　way　they　walk　and　talk；　even　the　music　on　the　soundtrack　…　all　those　things　calm　me。　They　remind　me；　I　suppose；　of　when　I　was　a　man　still　walking　on　the　skin　of　the　world；　instead　of　a　moth…eaten　relic　mouldering　away　in　an　old　folks'　home　where　many　of　the　residents　wear　diapers　and　rubber　pants。　
There　was　nothing　soothing　about　what　I　saw　this　morning；　though。　Nothing　at　all。　
Elaine　sometimes　joins　me　for　AMC's　so…called　Early　Bird　Matinee；　which　starts　at　4：00　a。m。　…　she　doesn't　say　much　about　it；　but　I　know　her　arthritis　hurts　her　something　terrible；　and　that　the　drugs　they　give　her　don't　help　much　anymore。　
When　she　came　in　this　morning；　gliding　like　a　ghost　in　her　white　terrycloth　robe；　she　found　me　sitting　on　the　lumpy　sofa；　bent　over　the　scrawny　sticks　that　used　to　be　legs；　and　clutching　my　knees　to　try　and　still　the　shakes　that　were　running　through　me　like　a　high　wind。　I　felt　cold　all　over；　except　for　my　groin；　which　seemed　to　burn　with　the　ghost　of　the　urinary　infection　which　had　so　troubled　my　life　in　the　fall　of　1932　…　the　fall　of　John　Coffey；　Percy　Wetmore；