sk.cujo-第11部分

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ng　on　the　radio　that　you　remembered　from　high　school　and　bursting　into　tears　for　no　reason。　Feeling　jealous　of　Vic　because　his　fife　was　a　daily　struggle　to　build　something；　he　was　a　knight…errant　with　a　family　crest　embossed　on　his　shield；　and　her　life　was　back　here；　getting　Tad　through　the　day；　jollying　him　when　he　was　cranky；　listening　to　his　raps；　fixing　his　meals　and　snacks。　It　was　a　life　lived　in　the　trenches。　Too　much　of　it　was　waiting　and　listening。
And　all　along　she　had　thought　that　things　would　begin　to　smooth　out　when　Tad　was　older；　the　discovery　that　it　wasn't　true　brought　on　a　kind　of　low…level　horror。　This　past　year　he　had　been　out　of　the　house　three　mornings　a　week；　at　jack　and　Jill　Nursery　School；　this　summer　it　had　been　five　afternoons　a　week　at　playcamp。　When　he　was　gone　the　house　seemed　shockingly　empty。　Doorways　leaned　and　gaped　with　no　Tad　to　fill　them；　the　staircase　yawned　with　no　Tad　halfway　up；　sitting　there　in　his　pajama　bottoms　before　his　nap；　owlishly　looking　at　one　of　his　picture　books。
Doors　were　mouths；　stairways　throats。　Empty　rooms　became　traps。
So　she　washed　floors　that　didn't　need　to　be　washed。　She　watched　the　soaps。　She　thought　about　Steve　Kemp；　with　whom　she'd　had　a　little　flirtation　since　he　had　rolled　into　town　the　previous　fall　with　Virginia　license　plates　on　his　van　and　had　set　up　a　small　stripping　and　refinishing　business。　She　had　caught　herself　sitting　in　front　of　the　TV　with　no　idea　what　was　going　on　because　she　had　been　thinking　about　the　way　his　deep　tan　contrasted　with　his　tennis　whites；　or　the　way　his　ass　pumped　when　he　moved　fast。　And　finally　she　had　done　something。　And　today　She　felt　her　stomach　knot　up　and　she　ran　for　the　bathroom；　her　hands　plastered　to　her　mouth；　her　eyes　wide　and　starey。　She　made　it；　barely；　and　tossed　up　everything。　She　looked　at　the　mess　she　had　made；　and　with　a　groan　she　did　it　again。
When　her　stomach　felt　better　（but　her　legs　were　all　atremble　again；　something　lost；　something　gained）；　she　looked　at　herself　in　the　bathroom　mirror。　Her　face　was　thrown　into　hard　and　unflattering　relief　by　the　fluorescent　bar。　Her　skin　was　too　white；　her　eyes　red…rimmed。　Her　hair　was　plastered　to　her　skull　in　an　unflattering　helmet。　She　saw　what　she　was　going　to　look　like　when　she　was　old；　and　the　most　terrifying　thing　of　all　was　that　right　now；　if　Steve　Kemp　was　here；　she　thought　she　would　let　him　make　love　to　her　if　he　would　only　hold　her　and　kiss　her　and　say　that　she　didn't　have　to　be　afraid；　that　time　was　a　myth　and　death　was　a　dream；　that　everything　was　okay。
A　sound　came　out　of　her；　a　screaming　sob　that　could　surely　not　have　been　born　in　her　chest。　It　was　the　sound　of　a　madwoman。
She　lowered　her　head　and　cried。
Charity　Camber　sat　on　the　double　bed　she　shared　with　her　husband；　Joe；　and　looked　down　at　something　she　held　in　her　hands。　She　had　just　e　back　from　the　store；　the　same　one　Donna　Trenton　patronized。　Now　her　hands　and　feet　and　cheeks　felt　numb　and　cold；　as　if　she　had　been　out　with　Joe　on　the　snowmobile　for　too　long。　But　tomorrow　as　the　first　of
July；　the　snowmobile　was　put　neatly　away　in　the　back　shed　with　its　tarp；　snugged　down。
It　can't　be。　There's　been　some　mistake。
But　there　was　no　mistake。　She　had　checked　half　a　dozen　times；　and　there　was　no　mistake。
After　all；　it　has　to　happen　to　somebody；　doesn't　it？
Yes；　of　course。　To　somebody。　But　to　her？
She　could　hear　Joe　pounding　on　something　in　his　garage；　a　high；　belling　sound　that　beat　its　way　into　the　hot　afternoon　like　a　hammer　shaping　thin　metal。　There　was　a　pause；　and　then；　faintly：　'Shit！'
The　hammer　struck　once　more　and　there　was　a　longer　pause。　Then　her　husband　hollered：　'Brett！'
She　always　cringed　a　little　when　he　raised　his　voice　that　way　and　yelled　for　their　boy。　Brett　loved　his　father　very　much；　but　Charity　had　never　been　sure　just　how　Joe　felt　about　his　son。　That　was　a　dreadful　thing　to　be　thinking；　but　it　was　true。　Once；　about　two　years　ago；　she　had　had　a　horrible　nightmare；　one　she　didn't　think　she　would　ever　forget。　She　dreamed　that　her　husband　drove　a　pitchfork　directly　into　Brett's　chest。　The　tines　went　right　through　him　and　poked　out　the　back　of　Brett's　T…shirt；　holding　it　out　the　way　tent　poles　hold　a　tent　up　in　the　air。　Little　sucker　didn't　e　when　I　hollered　him　down；　her　dream　husband　said；　and　she　had　awakened　with　a　jerk　beside　her　real　husband；　who　had　been　sleeping　the　sleep　of　beer　beside　her　in　his　boxer　shorts。　The　moonlight　had　been　falling　through　the　window　and　onto　the　bed　where　she　now　sat；　moonlight　in　a　cold　and　uncaring　flood　of　light；　and　she　had　understood　just　how　afraid　a　person　could　be；　how　fear　was　a　monster　with　yellow　teeth；　set　afoot　by　an　angry　God　to　eat　the　unwary　and　the　unfit。　Joe　had　used　his　hands　on　her　a　few　times　in　the　course　of　their　marriage；　and　she　had　learned。　She　wasn't　a　genius；　maybe；　but　her　mother　hadn't　raised　any　fools。　Now　she　did　what　Joe　told　her　and　rarely　argued。　She　guessed　Brett　was　that　way　too。　But　she　feared　for　the　boy　sometimes。
She　went　to　the　window　in　time　to　see　Brett　run　across　the　yard　and　into　the　barn。　Cujo　traded　at　Brett's　heels；　looking　hot　and　dispirited。
Faintly：　'Hold　this　for　me；　Brett。'
More　faintly：　'Sure；　Daddy。'
The　hammering　started　again；　that　merciless　icepick　sound：　Whing！　Whing！　Whing！　She　imagined　Brett　holding　something　against　something　…　a　coldchisel　against　a　frozen　bearing；　maybe；　or　a　square　spike　against　a　lockbolt。　Her　husband　a　Pall　Mall　jittering　in　the　er　of　his　thin　mouth；　his　T…shirt　sleeves　rolled　up；　swinging　a　five…pound　pony…hammer。　And　if　he　was　drunk　。。。　if　his　aim　was　a　little　off　。
In　her　mind　she　could　hear　Brett's　agonized　bowl　as　the　hammer　mashed　his　hand　to　a　red；　splintered　pulp；　and　she　crossed　her　arms　over　her　bosom　against　the　vision。
She　looked　at　the　thing　in　her　hand　again　and　wondered　if　there　was　a　way　she　could　use　it。　More　than　anything　in　the　world；　she　wanted　to　go　to　Connecticut　to　see　her　sister　Holly。　It　had　been　six　years　now；　in　the　summer　of　1974　…　she　remembered　well　enough；　because　it　had　been　a　bad　summer　for　her　except　for　that　one　pleasant　weekend。　'Seventy…four　had　been　the　year　Brett's　night　problems　had　begun　…restlessness；　bad　dreams；　and；　more　and　more　frequently；　incidents　of　sleepwalking。　It　was　also　the　year　Joe　began　drinking　heavily。　Brett's　uneasy　nights　and　his　somnambulism　had　eventually　gone　away。　Joe's　drinking　had　not。
Brett　had　been　four　then；　he　was　ten　now　and　didn't　even　remember　his　Aunt　Holly；　who　had　been　married　for　six　years。　She　had　a　little　boy；　named　after　her　husband；　and　a　little　girl。　Charity　had　never　seen　either　child；　her　own　niece　and　nephew；　except　for　the　Kodachromes　Holly　occasionally　sent　in　*the　mail。
She　had　gotten　scared　of　asking　Joe。　He　was　tired　of　hearing　her　talk　about　it；　and　if　she　asked　him　again　he　might　hit　her。　It　had　been　almost　sixteen　months　since　she'd　last　asked　him　if　maybe　they　couldn't　take　a　little　vacation　down　Connecticut　way。　Not　much　of　a　one　for　traveling　was　Mrs。
Camber's　son　Joe。　He　liked　it　just　fine　in　Castle　Rock。　Once　a　year　he　and　that　old　tosspot　Gary　Pervier　and　some　of　their　cronies　would　go　up　north　to　Moosehead　to　shoot　deer。　Last　November　he　had　wanted　to　take　Brett。　She　had　put　her　foot　down　and　it　had　stayed　down；　in　spite　of　Joe's　sullen　mutterings　and　Brett's　wounded　eyes。　She　was　not　going　to　have　the　boy　out　with　that　bunch　of　men　for　two　weeks；　listening　to　a　lot　of　vulgar　talk　and　jokes　about　sex　and　seeing　what　animals　men　could　turn　into　when　they　got　to　drinking　nonstop　over　a　period　of　days　and　weeks。　All　of　them　with　loaded　guns；　walking　in　the　woods。　Loaded　guns；　loaded　men；　somebody　always　got　hurt　sooner　or　later；　fluorescent…orange　hats　and　vests　or　not。　It　wasn't　going　to　be　Brett。　Not　her　son。
The　hammer　struck　the　steel　steadily；　rhythmically。　It　stopped。　She　relaxed　a　little。　Then　it　started　again。
She　supposed　that　sooner　or　later　Brett　would　go　with　them；　and　that　would　be　the　end　of　him　for　her。　He　would　join　their　club；　and　ever　after　she　would　be　little　more　than　a　kitchen　drudge　that　kept　the　clubhouse　neat。　Yes；　that　day　would　e；　and　she　knew　it；　and　she　grieved　for　it。　But　at　least　she　had　been　able　to　stave　it　off　for　another　year。
And　this　year？　Would　she　be　able　to　keep　him　home　with　her　this　November）　Maybe　not。　Either　way；　it　would　be　better　…not　all　right　but　at　least　better　…　if　she　could　take　Brett　down　to　Connecticut　first。　Take　him　down　there　and　show　him　how　some　。。。
。。。　some　。。。
Oh；　say　it；　if　only　to　yourself。
（how　some　decent　people　lived）
If　Joe　would　let　them　go　alone　。。。　but　there　was　no　sense　thinking　of　that。　Joe　could　go　places　alone　or　with　his　friends；　but　she　couldn't；　not　even　with　Brett　in　tow。　That　was　one　of　their　marriage's　ground　rules。　Yet　she　couldn't　help　thinking　about　how　much　better　it　would　be　without　him　…　without　him　sitting　in　Holly's　kitchen；　swilling　beer；　looking　Holly's　Jim　up　and　down　with　those　insolent　brown　eyes。　It　would　he　better　without　him　being　impatient　to　be　gone　until　Holly　and　Jim　were　also　impatient　for　them　to　be　gone　。。。
She　and　Brett。
Just　the　two　of　them。
They　could　go　on　the　bus。
She　thought：　Last　November；　he　wanted　to　take　Brett　hunting　with；　him。
She　thought：　Could　a　t