sk.cujo-第22章

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Gary　got　shakily　to　his　feet。　He　backed　up　the　last　two　steps　of　the　porch。　He　backed　across　the　porch's　width　and　felt　behind　him　for　the　handle　of　the　screen　door。　His　shoulder　felt　as　if　raw　gasoline　had　been　poured　under　the　skin。　His　mind　raved　at　him；　Rabies！　I　got　the　rabies！
Never　mind。　One　thing　at　a　time。　His　shotgun　was　in　the　hall　closet。　Thank　Christ　Charity　and　Brett　Camber　were　gone　from　up　on　the　hill。　That　was　God's　mercy　at　work。
He　found　the　screen　door's　handle　and　pulled　the　door　open。　He　kept　his　eyes　locked　on　Cujo's　until　he　had　backed　in　and　pulled　the　screen　door　shut　behind　him。　Then　a　great　relief　swept　through　him。　His　legs　went　rubbery。　For　a　moment　the　world　swam　away；　and　he　pulled　himself　back　by　sticking　his　tongue　out　and　biting　down　on　it。　This　was　no　time　to　swoon　like　a　girl。　He　could　do　that　after　the　dog　was　dead；　if　he　wanted。　Christ；　but　it　had　been　close　out　there；　he　had　thought　he　was　going　to　punch　out　for　sure。
He　turned　and　headed　down　the　darkened　hallway　to　the　Closet；　and　that　was　when　Cujo　smashed　through　the　lower　half　of　the　screen　door；　muzzle　wrinkled　back　from　his　teeth　in　a　kind　of　sneer；　a　dry　volley　of　barking　sounds　ing　from　his　chest。
Gary　screamed　again　and　whirled　just　in　time　to　catch　Cujo　in　both　arms　as　the　dog　leaped　again；　driving　him　back　down　the　hall；　bouncing　from　side　to　side　and　trying　to　keep　his　feet。　For　a　moment　they　almost　seemed　to　waltz。　Then　Gary；　who　was　fifty　pounds　lighter；　went　down。　He　was　dimly　aware　of　Cujo's　muzzle　burrowing　in　under　his　chin；　was　dimly　aware　that　Cujo's　nose　was　almost　sickeningly　hot　and　dry。　He　tried　getting　his　hands　up　and　was　thinking　that　he　would　have　to　go　for　Cujo's　eyes　with　his　thumbs　when　Cujo　seized　his　throat　and　tore　it　open。　Gary　screamed　and　the　dog　savaged　him　again。　Gary　felt　warm　blood　sheet　across　his　face　and　thought；　Dear　God；　that's　mine！　His　hands　beat　weakly　and　ineffectually　at　Cujo's　upper　body；　doing　no　damage。　At　last　they　fell　away。
Faintly；　sick　and　cloying；　he　smelled　honeysuckle。
'What　do　you　see　out　there？'
Brett　turned　a　little　toward　the　sound　of　his　mothers　voice。　Not　all　the　way　…　he　did　not　want　to　lose　sight　of　the　steadily　unrolling　view　even　for　a　little　while。　The　bus　had　been　on　the　road　for　almost　an　hour。　They　had　crossed　the
Million　Dollar　Bridge　into　South　Portland　（Brett　had　stared　with　fascinated；　wondering　eyes　at　the　two　scum…caked；　rustbucket　freighters　in　the　harbor）；　joined　the　Turnpike　going　south；　and　were　now　approaching　the　New　Hampshire　border。
Everything；'　Brett　said。　'What　do　you　see；　Mom？'
'She　thought。　Your　reflection　in　the　glass　…　very　faint。　That's　what　I　see。
Instead　she　answered；　'Why；　the　world；　I　guess。　I　see　the　world　unrolling　in　front　of　us。'
'Mom？　I　wish　we　could　ride　all　the　way　to　California　on　this　bus。　See　everything　there　is　in　the　geography　books　at　school。'
She　laughed　and　ruffled　his　hair。　'You'd　get　damn　tired　of　scenery；　Brett。'
'No。　No；　I　wouldn't。'
And　he　probably　wouldn't；　she　thought。　Suddenly　she　felt　both　sad　and　old。　When　she　had　called　Holly　Saturday　morning　to　ask　her　if　they　could　e；　Holly　had　been　delighted；　and　her　delight　had　made　Charity　feel　young。　It　was　strange　that　her　own　son's　delight；　his　almost　palpable　euphoria；　would　make　her　feel　old。　Nevertheless　。。。
What　exactly　is　there　going　to　be　for　him？　she　asked　herself；　studying　his　ghostlike　face；　which　was　superimposed　over　the　moving　scenery　like　a　camera　trick。　He　was　bright；　brighter　than　she　was　and　much　brighter　than　Joe。
He　ought　to　go　to　college；　but　she　knew　that　when　he　got　to　high　school　Joe　would　press　him　to　sign　up　for　the　shop　and　automotive　maintenance　courses　so　he　could　be　more　help　around　the　place。　Ten　years　ago　he　wouldn't　have　been　able　to　get　away　with　it；　the　guidance　counselors　wouldn't　have　allowed　a　bright　boy　like　Brett　to　opt　for　all　manual　trades　course；　but　in　these　days　of　phase　electives　and　do　your　own　thing；　she　was　terribly　afraid　it　might　happen。
It　made　her　afraid。　Once　she　had　been　able　to　tell　herself　that　school　was　far　away；　so　very　far　away　…　high　school；　real　school。　Grammar　school　was　nothing　but　play　to　a　boy　who　slipped　through　his　lessons　as　easily　as　Brett　did。　But　in　high　school　the　business　of　irrevocable　choices　began。　Doors　slipped　shut　with　a　faint　locking　click　that　was　only　heard　clearly　in　the　dreams　of　later　years。
She　gripped　her　elbows　and　shivered；　not　even　kidding　herself　that　it　was　because　the　Hound's　air　conditioning　was　turned　up　too　high。
For　Brett；　high　school　was　now　just　four　years　away。
She　shivered　again　and　suddenly　found　herself　wishing　viciously　that　she　had　never　won　the　money；　or　that　she　had　lost　the　ticket。　They　had　only　been　away　from　Joe　for　an　hour；　but　it　was　the　first　time　she　had　really　been　separated　from　him　since　they　had　married　in　late　1966。　She　hadn't　realized　that　perspective　would　be　so　sudden；　so　dizzying　and　so　bitter。　Picture　this：　Woman　and　boy　are　let　free　from　the　brooding　castle　keep　。。。　but　there's　a　catch。　Stapled　to　their　backs　are　large　books；　and　slipped　over　the　ends　of　the　hooks　are　heavy…duty　invisible　rubber　bands。　And　before　you　can　get　too　far；　presto…whizzo！　You're　snapped　back　inside　for　another　fourteen　years！
She　made　a　little　croaking　sound　in　her　throat。
'Did　you　say　something；　Mom？'
'No。　just　clearing　my　throat。'
She　shivered　a　third　time；　and　this　time　her　arms　broke　out　in　gooseflesh。　She　had　recalled　a　line　of　poetry　from　one　of　her　own　high　school　English　classes　（she　had　wanted　to　take　the　college　courses；　but　her　father　had　been　furious　at　the　idea　…　did　she　think　they　were　rich？　…　and　her　mother　had　laughed　the　idea　to　death　gently　and　pityingly）。　It　was　from　a　poem　by　Dylan　Thomas；　and　she　couldn't　remember　the　whole　thing；　but　it　had　been　something　about　moving　through　dooms　of　love。
That　line　had　seemed　funny　and　perplexing　to　her　then；　but　she　thought　she　understood　it　now。　What　else　did　you　call　that　heavy…duty　invisible　rubber　hand；　if　not　love？　Was　she　going　to　kid　herself　and　say　that　she　did　not；　even　now；　in　some　way　love　the　man　she　had　married？　That　she　stayed　with　him　only　out　of　duty；　or　for　the　sake　of　the　child　（that　was　a　bitter　laugh；　if　she　ever　left　him　it　would　be　for　the　sake　of　the　child）？　That　he　had　never　pleasured　her　in　bed？　That　he　could　not；　sometimes　at　the　most　unexpected　moments　（like　the　one　back　at　the　bus　station）；　be　tender？
And　yet　。。。　and　yet　。。。
Brett　was　looking　out　the　window；　enrapt。　Without　turning　from　the　view；　he　said；　'You　think　Cujo's　all　right；　Mom？'
'I'm　sure　he's　fine；'　she　said　absently。
For　the　first　time　she　found　herself　thinking　about　divorce　in　a　concrete　way　…　what　she　could　do　to　support　herself　and　her　son；　how　they　would　get　along　in　such　an　unthinkable　（almost　unthinkable）　situation。　If　she　and　Brett　didn't　e　home　from　this　trip；　would　he　e　after　them；　as　he　had　vaguely　threatened　back　in　Portland？　Would　he　decide　to　let　Charity　go　to　the　bad　but　try　to　get　Brett　back　by　fair　means　。。。　or　foul？
She　began　to　tick　the　various　possibilities　over　in　her　mind；　weighing　them；　suddenly　thinking　that　maybe　a　little　perspective　wasn't　such　a　bad　thing　after　all。　Painful；　maybe。　Maybe　useful；　too。
The　Greyhound　slipped　across　the　state　line　into　New　Hampshire　and　rolled　on　south。
The　Delta　727　rose　steeply；　buttonhooked　over　Castle　Rock　…Vic　always　looked　for　his　house　near　Castle　Lake　and　117；　always　fruitlessly　…　and　then　headed　back　toward　the　coast。　It　was　a　twenty…minute　run　to　Logan　Airport。
Donna　was　down　there；　some　eighteen　thousand　feet　below。　And　the　Tadder。　He　felt　a　sudden　depression　mixed　with　a　black　premonition　that　it　wasn't　going　to　work；　that　they　were　crazy　to　even　think　it　might。　When　your　house　blew　down；　you　had　to　build　a　new　house。　You　couldn't　put　the　old　one　back　together　again　with　Elmer's　Glue。
The　stewardess　came　by。　He　and　Roger　were　riding　in　first　class　（'Might　as　well　enjoy　it　while　we　can；　buddy；'　Roger　had　said　last　Wednesday　when　he　made　the　reservations；　'not　everyone　can　go　to　the　poorfarm　in　such　impeccable　style'）；　and　there　were　only　four　or　five　other　passengers；　most　of　them　reading　the　morning　paper　…　as　was　Roger。
'Can　I　get　you　anything？'　she　asked　Roger　with　that　professional　twinkly　smile　that　seemed　to　say　she　had　been　overjoyed　to　get　up　this　morning　at　five　thirty　to　make　the　upsy…downsy　run　from　Bangor　to　Portland　to　Boston　to　New　York　to　Atlanta。
Roger　shook　his　head　absently；　and　she　turned　that　unearthly　smile　on　Vic。　'Anything　for　you；　sir？　Sweet　roll？　Orange　juice？'
'Could　you　rustle　up　a　screwdriver？'　Vic　asked；　and　Roger's　head　came　out　of　his　paper　with　a　snap。
The　stew's　smile　didn't　falter；　a　request　for　a　drink　before　nine　in　the　morning　was　no　news　to　her。　'I　can　rustle　one　up；'　she　said；　'but　you'll　have　to　hustle　to　get　it　all　down。　It's　really　only　a　hop　to　Boston。'
'I'll　hustle；'　Vic　promised　solemnly；　and　she　passed　on　her　way　back　up　to　the　galley；　resplendent　in　her　powder…blue　slacks　uniform　and　her　smile。
'What's　with　you？'　Roger　asked。
'What　do　you　mean；　what's　with　me？'
'You　know　what　I　mean。　I　never　even　saw　you　drink　a　beer　before　noon　before。　Usually　not　before　five。'
'I'm　launching　the　boat；'　Vic　said。
'What　boat？'
'The　R。M。S。　Titanic；'　Vic　said。
Roger　frowned。　'That's　sort　of　poor　taste；　don't　you　think？'
He　did；　as　a　matter　of　fact。　Roger　deserved　something　better；　but　this　morning；　with　the　depression　still　on　him　like　a　foul…smelling　blanket；　he　just　couldn't　think　of　anything　better。　He　managed　a　rather　bleak　smile　instead。　But　Roger　went　on　frowning　at　him。
'Look；'　Vic　said；　'I've　got　an　idea　on　this　Zingers　thing。　It's　going　to　he　a　bitch　convincing　old　man　Sharp　and　the　kid；　but　it　might　work。'
Roger　looked　relieved。　It　was　the　way　it　had　always　worked　with　them；　Vic　was　the　raw　idea　man；　Roger　the　shaper　and　implementer。　They　had　always　worked　as　a　team　when　it　came　to　translating　the　ideas　into　media；　and　in　the　matter　of　presentation。
'What　is　it？'
'Give　me　a　little　while；'　Vic　said。　'Until　tonight；　maybe。　Then　we'll　run　it　up　the　flagpole　…'
'…and　see　who　drops　their　pants；'　Roger　finished　with　a　grin。　He　shook　his　paper　open　to　the　financial　page　again。　'Okay。　As　long　as　I　get　it　by　tonight。　Sharp　stock　went　up　another　eighth　last　week。　Were　you　aware　of　that？'
'Dandy；'　Vic　murmured；　and　looked　out　the　window　again。　No　fog　now；　the　day　was　as　clear　as　a　bell。　The　beaches　at　Kennebunk　and　Ogunquit　and　York　formed　a　panoramic　picture　postcard　…　cobalt　blue　sea；　khaki　sand；　and　then　the　Maine　landscape　of　low　hills；　open　fields；　and　thick　bands　of　fir　stretching　west　and　out　of　sight。　Beautiful。　And　it　made　his　depression　even　worse。
If　I　have　to　cry；　I'm　damn　well　going　into　the　crapper　to　do　it；　he　thought　grimly。　Six　sentences　on　a　sheet　of　cheap　paper　had　done　this　to　him。　It　was　a　goddam　fragile　world；　as　fragile　as　one　of　those　Easter　eggs　that　were　all　pretty　colors　on　the　outside　but　hollow　on　the　inside。　Only　last　week　he　had　been　thinking　of　just　taking　Tad　and　moving　out。　Now　he　wondered　if　Tad　and　Donna　would　still　be　there　when　he　and　Roger　got　back。　Was　it　possible　that　Donna　might　just　take　the　kid　and　decamp；　maybe　to　her　mother's　place　in　the　Poconos？