sk.dreamcatcher-第86部分

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he　sometimes　thought；　and　not　that　other　business　。　。　。　seeing　the　line　and　all　that　went　with　it。
　　　　'Urnma？'
　　　　'Yes；　Duddie。'
　　　　'Eeeyer　in　hen？'
　　　　She　felt　such　sorrow　at　that；　and　at　the　thought　of　Beaver's　absurd　leather　jacket；　which　he　had　loved　so　much　and　finally　worn　to　tatters。　If　it　had　been　someone　else；　anyone　else　but　one　of　his　four　childhood　friends；　she　would　have　doubted　Duddie's　premonition。　But　if　Duddits　said　Beaver　was　dead；　then　Beaver　almost　certainly　was。
　　　　'Yes；　honey；　I'm　sure　he's　in　heaven。　Now　go　to　sleep。'
　　　　For　another　long　moment　those　green　eyes　had　looked　into　hers；　and　she　had　thought　he　would　start　crying　again　…　indeed；　one　tear；　large　and　perfect；　did　roll　down　his　stubbly　cheek。　It　was　so　hard　for　him　to　shave　now；　sometimes　even　the　Norelco　started　little　cuts　that　dribbled　for　hours。　Then　his　eyes　had　closed　again　and　she　had　tiptoed　out。
　　　　After　dark；　while　she　was　making　him　oatmeal　（all　but　the　blandest　foods　were　now　apt　to　set　off　vomiting；　another　sign　that　the　end　was　nearing）；　the　whole　nightmare　started　again。　Terrified　already　by　the　increasingly　strange　news　ing　out　of　the　Jefferson　Tract；　she　had　raced　back　to　his　room　with　her　heart　hammering。　Duddits　was　sitting　upright　again；　whipping　his　head　from　side　to　side　in　a　child's　gesture　of　negation。　The　nosebleed　had　re…started；　and　at　each　jerk　of　his　head；　scarlet　drops　flew。　They　spattered　his　pillowcase；　his　signed　photograph　of　Austin　Powers　（'Groovy；baby！'　was　written　across　the　bottom）；　and　the　bottles　on　the　table：　mouthwash；　pazine；　Percocet；　the　multi…vitamins　that　seemed　to　do　absolutely　no　good；　the　tall　jar　of　lemon　swabs。
　　　　This　time　it　was　Pete　he　claimed　was　dead；　sweet　（and　not　terribly　bright）　Peter　Moore。　Dear　God；　could　it　be　true？　Any　of　it？　All　of　it？
　　　　The　second　bout　of　hysterical　grief　hadn't　gone　on　as　long；　probably　because　Duddits　was　already　exhausted　from　the　first。　She　had　gotten　the　nosebleed　stanched　again　…　lucky　her　…　and　had　changed　his　bed；　first　helping　him　to　his　chair　by　the　window。　There　he'd　sat；　looking　out　into　the　renewing　storm；　occasionally　sobbing；　sometimes　heaving　great；　watery　sighs　that　hurt　her　inside。　Just　looking　at　him　hurt　her：　how　thin　he　was；　how　pale　he　was；　how　bald　he　was。　She　gave　him　his　Red　Sox　hat；　signed　across　the　visor　by　the　great　Pedro　Martinez　（you　get　so　many　nice　things　when　you're　dying；　she　sometimes　mused）；　thinking　his　head　would　be　cold　there；　so　close　to　the　glass；　but　for　once　Duddits　wouldn't　put　it　on。　He　only　held　it　on　his　lap　and　looked　out　into　the　dark；　his　eyes　big　and　unhappy。
　　　　At　last　she　had　gotten　him　back　into　bed；　where　once　again　her　son's　green　eyes　looked　up　at　her　with　all　their　terrible　dying　brilliance。
　　　　'Eeet　in　hen；　ooo？'
　　　　'I'm　sure　he　is。'　She　hadn't　wanted　to　cry；　desperately　hadn't　wanted　to　…　it　might　set　him　off　again　…　but　she　could　feel　the　tears　brimming。　Her　head　was　pregnant　with　them；　and　the　inside　of　her　nose　tasted　of　the　sea　each　time　she　pulled　in　breath。
　　　　'In　hen　wif　Eeeyer？'
　　　　'Yes；　honey。'
　　　　'I　eee　Eeeyer　n　Eeet　in　hen？'
　　　　'Yes；　you　will。　Of　course　you　will。　But　not　for　a　long　while。'
　　　　His　eyes　had　closed。　Roberta　had　sat　beside　him　on　the　bed；　looking　down　at　her　hands；　feeling　sadder　than　sad；　more　alone　than　lonely。
　　　　Now　she　hurried　downstairs　and　yes；　it　was　singing；　all　right。　Because　she　spoke　such　fluent　Duddits　（and　why　not？　it　had　been　her　second　language　for　over　thirty　years）；　she　translated　the　rolling　syllables　without　even　thinking　much　about　them：　Scooby…Dooby…Doo；where　are　you？　We　got　some　work　to　do　now。　I've　been　telling　you；　Scooby…Doo；　we　need　a　helping　hand；　now。
　　　　She　went　into　his　room；　not　knowing　what　to　expect。　Certainly　not　what　she　found：　every　light　blazing；　Duddits　fully　dressed　for　the　first　time　since　his　last　（and　very　likely　final；　according　to　Dr　Briscoe）　remission。　He　had　put　on　his　favorite　corduroy　pants；　his　down　vest　over　his　Grinch　tee…shirt；　and　his　Red　Sox　hat。　He　was　sitting　in　his　chair　by　the　window　and　looking　out　into　the　night。　No　frown　now；　no　tears；　either。　He　looked　out　into　the　storm　with　a　bright…eyed　eagerness　that　took　her　back　to　long　before　the　disease；　which　had　announced　itself　with　such　stealthy；　easy…to…overlook　symptoms：　how　tired　and　out　of　breath　he　got　after　just　a　short　game　of　Frisbee　in　the　back　yard；　how　big　the　bruises　were　from　even　little　thumps　and　bumps；　and　how　slowly　they　faded。　This　was　the　way　he　used　to　look　when　。　。　。
　　　　But　she　couldn't　think。　She　was　too　flustered　to　think。
　　　　'Duddits！　Duddle；　what…'
　　　　'Umma！　Ere　I　unnox？'
　　　　Mumma！　Where's　my　lunchbox？
　　　　'In　the　kitchen；　but　Duddie；　it's　the　middle　of　the　night。　It's　snowing！　You　aren't　。　。　。'
　　　　Going　anywhere　was　the　way　that　one　ended；　of　course；　but　the　words　wouldn't　cross　her　tongue。　His　eyes　were　so　brilliant；　so　alive。　Perhaps　she　should　have　been　glad　to　see　that　light　so　strongly　in　his　eyes；　that　energy；　but　instead　she　was　terrified。
　　　　'I　eed　I　unnox！　I　eed　I　unch！'
　　　　I　need　my　lunchbox；　I　need　my　lunch。
　　　　'No；　Duddits。'　Trying　to　be　firm。　'You　need　to　take　off　your　clothes　and　get　back　into　bed。　That's　what　you　need　and　all　you　need。　Here。　I'll　help　you。'
　　　　But　when　she　approached；　he　raised　his　amis　and　crossed　them　over　his　narrow　chest；　the　palm　of　his　right　hand　pressed　against　his　left　cheek；　the　palm　of　his　left　against　the　right　cheek。　From　earliest　childhood；　it　was　all　he　could　muster　in　the　way　of　defiance。　It　was　usually　enough；　and　it　was　now。　She　didn't　want　to　upset　him　again；　perhaps　start　another　nosebleed。　But　she　wasn't　going　to　put　up　a　lunch　for　him　in　his　Scooby　lunchbox　at　one…fifteen　in　the　morning。　Absolutely　not。
　　　　She　retreated　to　the　side　of　his　bed　and　sat　down　on　it。　The　room　was　warm；　but　she　was　cold；　even　in　her　heavy　flannel　nightgown。　Duddits　slowly　lowered　his　arms；　watching　her　wanly。
　　　　'You　can　sit　up　if　you　want；'　she　said；　'but　why？　Did　you　have　a　dream；　Duddie？　A　bad　dream？'
　　　　Maybe　a　dream　but　not　a　bad　one。　Not　with　that　eager　look　on　his　face；　and　now　she　recognized　it　well　enough：　it　was　the　way　he　had　looked　so　often　back　in　the　eighties；　in　the　good　years　before　Henry；　Pete；　Beaver；　and　Jonesy　had　all　gone　their　separate　ways；　calling　less　frequently　and　ing　by　to　see　him　less　frequently　still　as　they　raced　toward　their　grownup　lives　and　forgot　the　one　who　had　to　stay　behind。
　　　　It　was　the　look　he　got　when　his　special　sense　told　him　that　his　friends　were　ing　by　to　play。　Sometimes　they'd　all　go　off　together　to　Strawford　Park　or　the　Barrens　（they　weren't　supposed　to　go　there　but　they　did；　both　she　and　Alfie　had　known　that　they　did；　and　one　of　their　trips　there　had　gotten　them　all　on　the　front　page　of　the　newspaper）。　Sometimes　Alfie　or　one　of　their　moms　or　dads　would　take　them　to　Airport　Minigolf　or　to　Fun　Town　in　Newport；　and　on　those　days　she　would　always　pack　Duddits　sandwiches　and　cookies　and　a　thermos　of　milk　in　his　Scooby…Doo　lunchbox。
　　　　He　thinks　his　friends　are　ing。　It　must　be　Henry　and　Jonesy　he's　thinking　of；　because　he　says　Pete　and　Beav…
　　　　Suddenly　a　terrible　image　came　to　her　as　she　sat　on　Duddits's　bed　with　her　hands　folded　in　her　lap。　She　saw　herself　opening　the　door　to　a　knock　that　came　at　the　empty　hour　of　three　in　the　morning；　not　wanting　to　open　it　but　helpless　to　stop　herself。　And　the　dead　ones　were　there　instead　of　the　living　ones。　Beaver　and　Pete　were　there；　returned　to　the　childhood　in　which　they　had　been　living　on　the　day　she　had　first　met　them；　the　day　they　had　saved　Duddie　from　God　knew　what　nasty　trick　and　then　brought　him　home　safe。　In　her　mind's　eye　Beaver　was　wearing　his　many…zippered　motorcycle　jacket　and　Pete　was　wearing　the　crewneck　sweater　of　which　he　had　been　so　proud；　the　one　with　NASA　on　the　left　breast。　She　saw　them　cold　and　pale；　their　eyes　the　lusterless　grape…black　glaze　of　corpses。　She　saw　Beaver　step　forward　…　no　smile　for　her　now；　no　recognition　of　her　now；　when　Joe　'Beaver'　Clarendon　put　out　his　pallid　starfish　hands；　he　was　all　business。　We've　e　for　Duddits；　Missus　Cavell。　We're　dead；　and　now　he　is；　too。
　　　　She　clasped　her　hands　tighter　as　a　shudder　twisted　through　her　body。　Duddits　didn't　see；　he　was　looking　out　the　window　again；　his　face　eager　and　expectant。　And　very　softly；　he　began　to　sing　again。
　　　　'Ooby…Ooby…Ooo；　eh　ah　ooo？　Eee　aht…sum　urk…ooo　ooo　ow　。　。　。'


10

'Mr　Gray？'
　　　　No　answer。　Jonesy　stood　at　the　door　of　what　was　now　most　definitely　his　office；　not　a　trace　of　Tracker　Brothers　left　except　for　the　dirt　on　the　windows　（the　matter…of…fact　pornography　of　the　girl　with　her　skirt　raised　had　been　replaced　by　Van　Gogh's　Marigolds）；　feeling　more　and　more　uneasy。　What　was　the　bastard　looking　for？
　　　　'Mr　Gray；　where　are　you？'
　　　　No　answer　this　time　either；　but　there　was　a　sense　of　Mr　Gray　returning　。　。　。　and　he　was　happy。　The　son　of　a　bitch　was　happy。
　　　　Jonesy　didn't　like　that　at　all。
　　　　'Listen；'　Jonesy　said。　Hands　still　pressed　to　the　door　of　his　sanctuary；　forehead　now　pressed　to　it；　as　well。　'I've　got　a　proposal　for　you；　my　friend　…　you're　halfway　human　already；　why　not　just　go　native？　We　can　coexist；　I　guess；　and　I'll　show　you　around。　Ice　cream's　good；