sk.dreamcatcher-第12部分

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guy　was　just　mixed　up；　that　was　most　likely　it；　and　had　every　right　to　be。
　　　　'You　know；　I　could　put　on　some　soup。　How　would　that　be；　Mr　McCarthy？'
　　　　McCarthy　smiled　gratefully。　'I　think　that　would　be　pretty　fine；〃　he　said。　'My　stomach　hurt　last　night　and　something　fierce　this　morning；　but　I　feel　better　now。'
　　　　'Stress；'　Jonesy　said。　'I　would　have　been　puking　my　guts。　Probably　filling　my　pants；　as　well。'
　　　　'I　didn't　throw　up；'　McCarthy　said。　'I'm　pretty　sure　I　didn't。　But　。　。　。'　Another　shake　of　the　head；　it　was　like　a　nervous　tic　with　him。　'I　don't　know。　The　way　things　are　jumbled；　it's　like　a　nightmare　I　had。'
　　　　'The　nightmare's　over；'　Jonesy　said。　He　felt　a　little　foolish　saying　such　a　thing　…　a　little　auntie…ish　…　but　it　was　clear　the　guy　needed　reassurance。
　　　　'Good；'　McCarthy　said。　'Thank　you。　And　I　would　like　some　soup。'
　　　　'There's　tomato；　chicken；　and　I　think　maybe　a　can　of　Chunky　Sirloin。　What　do　you　fancy？'
　　　　'Chicken；'　McCarthy　said。　'My　mother　always　said　chicken　soup　was　the　thing　when　you're　not　feeling　your　best。'
　　　　He　grinned　as　he　said　it；　and　Jonesy　tried　to　keep　the　shock　off　his　face。　McCarthy's　teeth　were　white　and　even；　really　too　even　to　be　anything　but　capped；　even　the　man's　age；　which　had　to　be　forty…five　or　thereabouts。　But　at　least　four　of　them　were　missing　…　the　canines　on　top　（what　Jonesy's　father　had　called　'the　vampire　teeth'）　and　two　right　in　front　on　the　bottom　…　Jonesy　didn't　know　what　those　were　called。　He　knew　one　thing；　though：　McCarthy　wasn't　aware　they　were　gone。　No　one　who　knew　about　such　gaps　in　the　line　of　his　teeth　could　expose　them　so　unselfconsciously；　even　under　circumstances　like　these。　Or　so　Jonesy　believed。　He　felt　a　sick　little　chill　rush　through　his　gut；　a　telephone　call　from　nowhere。　He　turned　toward　the　kitchen　before　McCarthy　could　see　his　face　change　and　wonder　what　was　wrong。　Maybe　ask　what　was　wrong。
　　　　'One　order　chicken　soup　ing　right　up。　How　about　a　grilled　cheese　to　go　with　it？'
　　　　'If　it's　no　trouble。　And　call　me　Richard；　will　you？　Or　Rick；　that's　even　better。　When　people　save　my　life；　I　like　to　get　on　a　first…name　basis　with　them　as　soon　as　possible。'
　　　　'Rick　it　is；　for　sure；'　Better　get　those　teeth　fixed　before　you　step　in　front　of　another　Jury；　Rick。
　　　　The　feeling　that　something　was　wrong　here　was　very　strong。　It　was　that　click；　just　as　almost　guessing　McCarthy's　name　had　been。　He　was　a　long　way　from　wishing　he'd　shot　the　man　when　he　had　the　chance；　but　he　was　already　starting　to　wish　McCarthy　had　stayed　the　hell　away　from　his　tree　and　out　of　his　life。


2

He　had　the　soup　on　the　stove　and　was　making　the　cheese　sandwiches　when　the　first　gust　of　wind　arrived　…　a　big　whoop　that　made　the　cabin　creak　and　raised　the　snow　in　a　furious　sheet。　For　a　moment　even　the　black　scrawled　shapes　of　the　trees　in　The　Gulch　were　erased；　and　there　was　nothing　outside　the　big　window　but　white：　it　was　as　if　someone　had　set　up　a　drive…in　movie　screen　out　there。　For　the　first　time；　Jonesy　felt　a　thread　of　unease　not　just　about　Pete　and　Henry；　presumably　on　their　way　back　from　Gosselin's　in　Henry's　Scout；　but　for　the　Beaver。　You　would　have　said　that　if　anybody　knew　these　woods　it　would　have　been　the　Beav；　but　nobody　knew　anything　in　a　whiteout　…　all　bets　were　off；　that　was　another　of　his　ne'er…do…well　father's　sayings；　probably　not　as　good　as　you　can't　make　yourself　be　lucky；　but　not　bad。　The　sound　of　the　genny　might　help　Beav　find　his　way；　but　as　McCarthy　had　pointed　out；　sounds　had　a　way　of　deceiving　you。　Especially　if　the　wind　started　kicking　up；　as　it　had　now　apparently　decided　to　do。
　　　　His　mom　had　taught　him　the　dozen　basic　things　he　knew　about　cooking；　and　one　of　them　had　to　do　with　the　art　of　making　grilled　cheese　sandwiches。　Lay　in　a　little　mouseturds　first；　she　said　…　mouseturds　being　Janet　Jones　for　mustard　…　and　then　butter　the　goddam　bread；　not　the　skillet。　Butter　the　skillet　and　all's　you　got's　fried　bread　with　some　cheese　in　it。　He　had　never　understood　how　the　difference　between　where　you　put　the　butter；　on　the　bread　or　in　the　skillet；　could　change　the　ultimate　results；　but　he　always　did　it　his　mother's　way；　even　though　it　was　a　pain　in　the　ass　buttering　the　tops　of　the　sandwiches　while　the　bottoms　cooked。　No　more　would　he　have　left　his　rubber　boots　on　once　he　was　in　the　house　。　。　。　because；　his　mother　had　always　said；　'they　draw　your　feet。'　He　had　no　idea　just　what　that　meant；　but　even　now；　as　a　man　going　on　forty；　he　took　his　boots　off　as　soon　as　he　was　in　the　door；　so　they　wouldn't　draw　his　feet。
　　　　'I　think　I　might　have　one　of　these　babies　myself；'　Jonesy　said；　and　laid　the　sandwiches　in　the　skillet；　butter　side　down。　The　soup　had　begun　to　simmer；　and　it　smelled　fine　…　like　fort。
　　　　'Good　idea。　I　certainly　hope　your　friends　are　all　right。'　　　　
　　　　'Yeah；'　Jonesy　said。　He　gave　the　soup　a　stir。　'Where's　your　place？'
　　　　'Well；　we　used　to　hunt　in　Mars　Hill；　at　a　place　Nat　and　Becky's　uncle　owned；　but　some　god…bless'd　idiot　burned　it　down　two　summers　ago。　Drinking　and　then　getting　careless　with　the　old　smokes；　that's　what　the　Fire　Marshal　said；　anyway。'　Jonesy　nodded。　'Not　an　unmon　story。'
　　　　'The　insurance　paid　the　value　of　the　place；　but　we　had　nowhere　to　hunt。　I　thought　probably　that'd　be　the　end　of　it；　and　then　Steve　found　this　nice　place　over　in　Kineo。　I　think　it's　probably　an　unincorporated　township；　just　another　part　of　the　Jefferson　Tract；　but　Kineo's　what　they　call　it；　the　few　people　who　live　there。　Do　you　know　where　I　mean？'
　　　　'I　know　it；'　Jonesy　said；　speaking　through　lips　that　felt　oddly　numb。　He　was　getting　another　of　those　telephone　calls　from　nowhere。　Hole　in　the　Wall　was　about　twenty　miles　east　of　Gosselin's。　Kineo　was　maybe　thirty　miles　to　the　west　of　the　market。　That　was　fifty　miles　in　all。　Was　he　supposed　to　believe　that　the　man　sitting　on　the　couch　with　just　his　head　sticking　out　of　the　down　forter　had　wandered　fifty　miles　since　being　lost　the　previous　afternoon？　It　was　absurd。　It　was　impossible。
　　　　'Smells　good；'　McCarthy　said。
　　　　And　it　did；　but　Jonesy　no　longer　felt　hungry。


3

He　was　just　bringing　the　chow　over　to　the　couch　when　he　heard　feet　stamping　on　the　stone　outside　the　door。　A　moment　later　the　door　opened　and　Beaver　came　in。　Snow　swirled　around　his　legs　in　a　dancing　mist。
　　　　'Jesus…Christ…bananas；'　the　Beav　said。　Pete　had　once　made　a　list　of　Beav…isms；　and　Jesus…Christ…bananas　was　high　on　it；　along　with　such　standbys　as　doodlyfuck　and　Kiss　my　bender。　They　were　exclamations　both　Zen　and　profane。　'I　thought　I　was　gonna　end　up　spendin　the　night　out　there；　then　I　saw　the　light。'　Beav　raised　his　hands　roofward；　fingers　spread。　'Seen　de　light；　lawd；　yessir；　praise　Je…'　His　glasses　started　to　unfog　then；　and　he　saw　the　stranger　on　the　couch。　He　lowered　his　hands；　slowly；　then　smiled。　That　was　one　of　the　reasons　Jonesy　had　loved　him　ever　since　grade…school；　although　the　Beav　could　be　tiresome　and　wasn't　the　brightest　bulb　in　the　chandelier；　by　any　means：　his　first　reaction　to　the　unplanned　and　unexpected　wasn't　a　frown　but　a　smile。
　　　　'Hi；'　he　said。　'I'm　Joe　Clarendon。　Who're　you？'
　　　　'Rick　McCarthy；'　he　said；　and　got　to　his　feet。　The　forter　tumbled　off　him　and　Jonesy　saw　he　had　a　pretty　good　potbelly　pooching　out　the　front　of　his　sweater。　Well；　he　thought；　nothing　strange；　about　that；　at　least；　it's　the　middle…aged　man's　disease；　and　it's　going　to　kill　us　in　our　millions　during　the　next　twenty　years　or　so。
　　　　McCarthy　stuck　out　his　hand；　started　to　step　forward；　and　almost　tripped　over　the　fallen　forter。　If　Jonesy　hadn't　reached　out　and　grabbed　his　shoulder；　steadying　him；　McCarthy　probably　would　have　fallen　forward；　very　likely　cleaning　out　the　coffee…table　on　which　the　food　was　now　set。　Again　Jonesy　was　struck　by　the　man's　queer　ungainliness　…　it　made　him　think　of　himself　a　little　that　past　spring；　as　he　had　learned　to　walk　all　over　again。　He　got　a　closer　look　at　the　patch　on　the　guy's　cheek；　and　sort　of　wished　he　hadn't。　It　wasn't　frostbite　at　all。　It　looked　like　a　skin…tumor　of　some　kind；　or　perhaps　a　portwine　stain　with　stubble　growing　out　of　it。
　　　　'Who；　whoa；　shake　it　but　don't　break　it；'　Beaver　said；　springing　forward。　He　grabbed　McCarthy's　hand　and　pumped　it　until　Jonesy　thought　McCarthy　would　end　up　swan…diving　into　the　coffee…table　after　all。　He　was　glad　when　the　Beav　…　all　five…feet…six　of　him；　with　snow　still　melting　into　all　that　long　black　hippie　hair　…　stepped　back。　The　Beav　was　still　smiling；　more　broadly　than　ever。　With　the　shoulder…length　hair　and　the　thick　glasses；　he　looked　like　either　a　math　genius　or　a　serial　killer。　In　fact；　he　was　a　carpenter。
　　　　'Rick　here's　had　a　time　of　it；'　Jonesy　said。　'Got　lost　yesterday　and　spent　last　night　in　the　woods。'
　　　　Beaver's　smile　stayed　on　but　became　concerned。　Jonesy　had　an　idea　what　was　ing　next　and　willed　Beaver　not　to　say　it　he　had　gotten　the　impression　that　McCarthy　was　a　fairly　religious　man　who　might　not　care　much　for　profanity　…　but　of　course　asking　Beaver　to　clean　up　his　mouth　was　like　asking　the　wind　not　to　blow。
　　　　'Bitch…in…a…buzzsaw！'　he　cried　now。　'That's　fuckin　terrible！　Sit　down！　Eat！　You　too；　Jonesy。'　　　　　　　
　　　　'Nah；'　Jonesy　said；　'you　go　on　and　eat　that。　You're　the　one　who　just　came　in　out　of　the　snow。'