sk.cujo-第25部分

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ary　to　achieve　even　a　little。　When　you'd　invested　the　time　and　made　it　good；　you　had　to　he　careful。　Yes；　he'd　think　about　it。　It　had　been　good　between　them；　and　although　some　of　the　channels　were　now　closed；　filled　with　God　knew　how　much　muck　（and　some　of　that　muck　might　still　be　squirming）；　plenty　of　the　others　seemed　open　and　in　reasonably　good　working　order。
There　had　to　be　some　careful　thought　…　but　perhaps　not　too　much　at　once。　Things　had　a　way　of　magnifying　themselves。
He　turned　the　radio　up　and　began　to　think　about　the　poor　old　Sharp　Cereal　Professor。
Joe　Camber　pulled　up　in　front　of　the　Greyhound　terminal　in　Portland　at　ten　minutes　to　eight。　The　fog　had　burned　off　and　the　digital　clock　atop　the　Casco　Bank　and　Trust　read　73　degrees　already。
He　drove　with　his　hat　planted　squarely　on　his　head；　ready　to　be　angry　at　anyone　who　pulled　out　or　cut　in　front　of　him。　He　hated　to　drive　in　the　city。　When　he　and　Gary　got　to　Boston　he　intended　to　park　the　car　and　leave　it　until　they　were　ready　to　e　home。　They　could　take　the　subways　if　they　could　puzzle　them　out；　walk　if　they　couldn't。
Charity　was　dressed　in　her　best　pants　suit　…　it　was　a　quiet　green　…　and　a　white　cotton　blouse　with　a　ruffle　at　the　neck。　She　was　wearing　earrings；　and　this　had　filled　Brett　with　a　mild　sense　of　amazement。　He　couldn't　remember　his　mother　wearing　earrings　at　all；　except　to　church。
Brett　had　caught　her　alone　when　she　went　upstairs　to　dress　after　getting　Dad　his　breakfast　oatmeal。　Joe　had　been　mostly　silent；　grunting　answers　to　questions　in　monosyllables；　then　shutting　off　conversation　entirely　by　tuning　the　radio　to　WCSH　for　the　ball　scores。　They　were　both　afraid　that　the　silence　might　presage　a　ruinous　outburst　and　a　sudden　change　of　mind　on　their　trip。
Charity　had　the　slacks　of　her　pants　suit　on　and　was　slipping　into　her　blouse。　Brett　noted　she　was　wearing　a　peach…colored　bra；　and　that　had　also　amazed　him。　He　hadn't　known　his　mother　had　underclothes　in　any　color　other　than　white。
'Ma；'　he　said　urgently。
She　turned　to　him　…　it　seemed　almost　that　she　was　turning　on　him。　'Did　he　say　something　to　you？'
'No　。。。　no。　It's　Cujo。'
'Cujo？　What　about　Cujo？；
'He's　sick。'
'What　do　you　mean；　sick？'
Brett　told　her　about　having　his　second　bowl　of　Cocoa　Bears　out　on　the　back　steps；　about　walking　into　the　fog；　and　how　Cujo　had　suddenly　appeared；　his　eyes　red　and　wild；　his　muzzle　dripping　foam。
'And　he　wasn't　walking　right；'　Brett　finished。　'He　was　kind　of；　you　know；　staggering。　I　think　I　better　tell　Daddy。　'
'No；'　his　mother　said　fiercely；　and　grasped　him　by　the　shoulders　hard　enough　to　hurt。　'You　do　no　such　a　thing！'
He　looked　at　her；　surprised　and　frightened。　She　relaxed　her　grip　a　little　and　spoke　more　quietly。
'He　just　scared　you；　ing　out　of　the　fog　like　that。　There's　probably　nothing　wrong　with　him　at　all。　Right？'
Brett　groped　for　the　right　words　to　make　her　understand　how　terrible　Cujo　had　looked；　and　how　for　a　moment　he　had　thought　the　dog　was　going　to　turn　on　him。　He　couldn't　find　the　words。　Maybe　he　didn't　want　to　find　them。
'If　there　is　something　wrong；'　Charity　continued；　'it's　probably　just　some　little　thing。　He　might　have　gotten　a　dose　of　skunk　…'
'I　didn't　smell　any　sk…'
'or　he　might　have　been　running　a　woodchuck　or　a　rabbit。　Might　even　have　jumped　a　moose　down　there　in　that　bog。　Or　he　might　have　eaten　some　nettles。'
'I　guess　he　could　have；'　Brett　said　doubtfully。
'Your　father　would　just　jump　on　something　like　that；'　she　said。　'I　can　hear　him　now。　〃Sick　'　'　is　be？　Well；　he's　your　dog；　Brett。　You　see　to　him。　I　got　too　much　work　to　do　to　be　messing　around　with　your　mutt。〃'
Brett　nodded　unhappily。　It　was　his　own　thought　exactly；　magnified　by　the　brooding　way　his　father　had　been　eating　breakfast　while　the　sports　blared　around　the　kitchen。
'If　you　just　leave　him；　he'll　e　mooching　around　your　dad；　and　your　dad　will　take　care　of　him；'　Charity　said。　'He　loves　Cujo　almost　as　much　as　you　do；　although　he'd　never　say　it。　If　he　sees　something's　wrong；　he'll　fetch　him　over　to　the　vet's　in　South　Paris。'
'Yeah；　I　guess　he　would。'　His　mother's　words　rang　true　to　him；　but　he　was　still　unhappy　about　it。
She　bent　and　kissed　his　cheek。　'I'll　tell　you！　We　can　call　your　father　tonight；　if　you　want。　How　would　that　be？　And　when　you　talk　to　him；　you　just　say；　sort　of　casually；　〃You　feeding　my　dog；　＇Daddy？〃　And　then　you'll　know。'
'Yeah；'　Brett　said。　He　smiled　gratefully　at　his　mother；　and　she　smiled　back；　relieved；　the　trouble　averted。　But；　perversely；　it　had　given　them　something　else　to　worry　about　during　the　seemingly　interminable　period　before　Joe　backed　the　car　up　to　the　porch　steps　and　silently　began　to　load　their　four　pieces　of　luggage　into　the　wagon　（into　one　of　them　Charity　had　surreptitiously　placed　all　six　of　her　snapshot　albums）。　This　new　worry　was　that　Cujo　would　lurch　into　the　yard　before　they　could　drive　away　and　stick　Joe　Camber　with　the　problem。
But　Cujo　hadn't　shown　up。
Now　Joe　lowered　the　tailgate　of　the　Country　Squire；　handed　Brett　the　two　small　bags；　and　took　the　two　large　ones　for　himself。
'Woman；　you　got　so　much　luggage　I　wonder　if　you　ain't　leavin　on　one　of　those　Reno　divorce　cruises　instead　of　going　down　to　Connecticut。'
Charity　and　Brett　smiled　uneasily。　It　sounded　like　an　attempt　at　humor；　but　with　Joe　Camber　you　were　never　really　sure。
'That　would　be　a　day；'　she　said。
'I　guess　I'd　just　have　to　chase　you　down　and　drag　you　back　with　my　new　chainfall；'　he　said；　unsmiling。　His　green　hat　was　cocked　squarely　on　the　back　of　his　head。　'Boy；　you　gonna　take　care　of　your　mom？'
Brett　nodded。
'Yeah；　you　better。　'　He　measured　the　boy。　'You're　getting　pretty　damn　big。　Probably　you　ain't　got　a　kiss　to　give　your　old　man。'
'I　guess　I　do；　Daddy；'　Brett　said。　He　hugged　his　father　tight　and　kissed　his　stubbly　cheek；　smelling　sour　sweat　and　a　phantom　of　last　night's　vodka。　He　was　surprised　and　overwhelmed　by　his　love　for　his　father；　a　feeling　that　sometimes　still　came；　always　when　it　was　least　expected　（but　less　and　less　often　over　the　last　two　or　three　years；　something　his　mother　did　not　know　and　would　not　have　believed　if　told）。　It　was　a　love　that　had　nothing　to　do　with　Joe　Camber's　day…to…day　behavior　toward　him　or　his　mother；　it　was　a　brute；　biological　thing　that　he　would　never　be　free　of；　a　phenomenon　with　many　illusory　referents　of　the　sort　which　haunt　for　a　lifetime：　the　smell　of　cigar…smoke；　the　look　of　a　double…edged　razor　reflected　in　a　mirror；　pants　hung　over　a　chair；　certain　curse　words。
His　father　hugged　him　back　and　then　turned　to　Charity。　He　put　a　finger　under　her　chin　and　turned　her　face　up　a　little。　From　the　loading　bays　behind　the　squat　brick　building　they　heard　a　bus　warming　up。　Its　engine　was　a　low　and　guttural　diesel　rumble。　'Have　a　good　time；'　he　said。
Her　eyes　filled　with　tears　and　she　wiped　them　away　quickly。　The　gesture　was　nearly　one　of　anger。　'Okay；'　she　said。
Abruptly　the　tight；　dosed；　nonmittal　expression　descended　over　his　face。　It　came　down　like　the　clap　of　a　knight's　visor。　He　was　the　perfect　country　man　again。　'Let's　get　these　cases　in；　boy！　Feels　like　there's　lead　in　this　one　。。。　Jesus…please…us！'
He　stayed　with　them　until　all　four　bags　had　been　checked；　looking　closely　at　each　tag；　oblivious　of　the　baggage　handler's　condescending　expression　of　amusement。　He　watched　the　handler　trundle　the　bags　out　on　a　dolly　and　load　them　into　the　guts　of　the　bus。　Then　he　turned　to　Brett　again。
'e　on　out　on　the　sidewalk　with　me；'　he　said。
Charity　watched　them　go。　She　sat　down　on　one　of　the　hard　benches；　opened　her　purse；　took　out　a　handkerchief；　and　began　fretting　at　it。　It　would　just　be　like　him　to　wish　her　a　good　time　and　then　try　to　talk　the　boy　into　going　back　to　the　home　place　with　him。
On　the　sidewalk；　Joe　said：　'Lemme　give　you　two　pieces　of　advice；　boy。　You　probably　won't　take　neither　of　them；　boys　seldom　do；　but　I　guess　that　never　stopped　a　father　giving　em。　First　piece　of　advice　is　this：　That　fella　you're　going　to　see；　that　Jim；　he's　nothing　but　a　piece　of　shit。　One　of　the　reasons　I'm　letting　you　go　on　this　jaunt　is　that　you're　ten　now；　and　ten's　old　enough　to　tell　the　difference　between　a　turd　and　a　tearose。　You　watch　him　and　you'll　see。　He　don't　do　nothing　but　sit　in　an　office　and　push　papers。　People　like　him　is　half　the　trouble　with　this　world；　because　their　brains　have　got　unplugged　from　their　hands。'　Thin；　hectic　color　had　risen　in　Joe's　cheeks。　'He's　a　piece　of　shit。　You　watch　him　and　see　if　you　don't　agree。'
'All　right；'　Brett　said。　His　voice　was　low　but　posed。
Joe　Camber　smiled　a　little。　'The　second　piece　of　advice　is　to　keep　your　hand　on　your　pocketbook。'
'I　haven't　got　any　mon　…'
Camber　held　out　a　rumpled　five…dollar　bill。　'Yeah；　you　got　this。　Don't　spend　it　all　in　one　place。　The　fool　and　his　money　soon　parted。'
'All　right。　Thank　you'
'So　long；'　Camber　said。　He　didn't　ask　for　another　kiss。
'Good…bye；　Daddy。'　Brett　stood　on　the　sidewalk　and　watched　his　father　climb　into　the　car　and　drive　away。　He　never　saw　his　father　alive　again。
At　quarter　past　eight　that　morning；　Gary　Pervier　staggered　out　of　his　house　in　his　pee…stained　underwear　shorts　and　urinated　into　the　honeysuckle。　In　a　perverse　sort　of　way　he　hoped　that　someday　his　piss　would　bee　so　rancid　with　booze　that　it　would　blight　the　honeysuckle。　That　d