cw.imarriedadeadman-第2部分

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n；　this…the　very　fact　of　our　leaving…has　told　me。　So　the　precaution　is　wasted　after　all。　It's　back　in　our　minds　again。
　Still；　it's　wiser　to　go　than　to　stay。
　I　remember　one　night　it　came　too　quickly；　more　suddenly　than　we　could　have　foretold；　there　was　less　warning　given。　We　were　not　able　to　get　all　the　way　out　in　time。　We　were　still　only　making　our　way　up　the　aisle；　our　backs　to　the　screen；　when　suddenly　a　shot　rang　out；　and　then　a　voice　groaned　in　accusation；　〃You've…you've　killed　me。〃
　It　seemed　to　me　it　was　his　voice；　and　that　he　was　speaking　to　us；　to　one　of　us。　It　seemed　to　me；　in　that　moment；　that　every　head　in　the　audience　turned；　to　look　our　way；　to　stare　at　us；　with　that　detached　curiosity　of　a　great　crowd　when　someone　has　been　pointed　out　to　them。
　My　legs　for　a　moment　seemed　to　refuse　to　carry　me　any　further。　I　floundered　there　for　a　minute　as　though　I　were　going　to　fall　down　helpless　upon　the　carpeted　aisle。　I　turned　to　look　at　him　and　I　saw；　unmisakably；　that　his　head　had　cringed　for　a　moment；　was　down　defensively　between　his　shoulders。　And　he　always　carried　it　so　straight　and　erect。　A　moment　later　it　was　straight　again；　but　just　for　that　instant　it　hadn't　been；　it　had　been　hunched。
　Then；　as　though　sensing　that　I　needed　him　just　then；　because；　perhaps；　he　needed　me；　he　put　his　arm　around　my　waist；　and　helped　me　the　rest　of　the　way　up　the　aisle　that　way；　steadying　me；　promising　me　support　rather　than　actually　giving　it　to　me。
　In　the　lobby；　both　our　faces　were　like　chalk。　We　didn't　look　at　one　another；　it　was　the　mirrors　on　the　side　told　us　that。
　We　never　drink。　We　know　enough　not　to。　I　think　we　sense　that；　rather　than　close　the　door　on　awareness；　that　would　only　open　it　all　the　wider　and　let　full　horror　in。　But　that　particular　night；　I　remember；　as　we　came　out；　he　said；　〃Do　you　want　something？〃
　He　didn't　say　a　drink；　just　〃something。〃　But　I　understood　what　that　〃something〃　meant。　〃Yes；〃　I　shuddered　quietly。
　We　didn't　even　wait　until　we　got　home；　it　would　have　taken　us　too　long。　We　went　in　to　a　place　next　door　to　the　theatre；　and　stood　up　to　the　bar　for　a　moment；　the　two　of　us　alike；　and　gulped　down　something　on　the　run。　In　three　minutes　we　were　out　of　there　again。　Then　we　got　in　the　car　and　drove　home。　And　we　never　said　a　word　the　whole　way。
　It's　in　the　very　kiss　we　give　each　other。　Somehow　we　trap　it　right　between　our　lips；　each　time。　（Did　I　kiss　him　too　strongly？　Will　he　think　by　that　I　forgave　him；　again；　just　then？　Did　I　kiss　him　too　weakly？　Will　he　think　by　that　I　was　thinking　of　it；　again；　just　then？）
　It's　everywhere；　it's　all　the　time；　it's　us。
　I　don't　know　what　the　game　was。　I　only　know　its　name；　they　call　it　life。
　I'm　not　sure　how　it　should　be　played。　No　one　ever　told　me。　No　one　ever　tells　anybody。　I　only　know　we　must　have　played　it　wrong。　We　broke　some　rule　or　other　along　the　way；　and　never　knew　it　at　the　time。
　I　don't　know　what　the　stakes　are。　I　only　know　we've　forfeited　them；　they're　not　for　us。
　We've　lost。　That's　all　I　know。　We've　lost；　we've　lost。
　
　
　1
　
　The　door　was　closed。　It　had　a　look　of　pitiless　finality　about　it；　as　though　it　would　always　be　closed　like　this　from　now　on。　As　though　nothing　in　the　world　could　ever　make　it　open　again。　Doors　can　express　things。　This　one　did。　It　was　inert；　it　was　lifeless；　it　didn't　lead　anywhere：　It　was　not　the　beginning　of　anything；　as　a　door　should　be。　It　was　the　ending　of　something。
　Above　the　push…button　there　was　a　small　oblong　rack；　of　metal；　affixed　to　the　woodwork；　intended　to　frame　a　name　card。　It　was　empty。　The　card　was　gone。
　The　girl　was　standing　still　in　front　of　the　door。　Perfectly　still。　The　way　you　stand　when　you've　been　standing　for　a　long　time；　so　long；　you've　forgotten　about　moving；　have　grown　used　to　not　moving。　Her　finger　was　to　the　push…button；　but　it　wasn't　pushing　any　more。　No　pressure　was　being　exerted；　no　sound　came　from　the　battery　behind　the　door…frame。　It　was　as　though　she　had　been　holding　it　that　way　so　long；　she　had　forgotten　to　take　that；　too；　away。
　She　was　about　nineteen。　A　dreary；　hopeless　nineteen；　not　a　bright；　shiny　one。　Her　features　were　small　and　well　turned；　but　there　was　something　too　pinched　about　her　face；　too　wan　about　her　coloring；　too　thin　about　her　cheeks。　Beauty　was　there；　implicit；　ready　to　reclaim　her　face　if　it　was　given　the　chance；　but　something　had　beaten　it　back；　was　keeping　it　hovering　at　a　distance；　unable　to　alight　in　its　intended　realization。
　Her　hair　was　hazel…colored；　and　limp　and　listless；　as　though　no　great　heed　had　been　paid　to　it　for　some　time　past　The　heels　of　her　shoes　were　a　little　run…down。　A　puckered　dam　in　the　heel　of　her　stocking　peered　just　over　the　top　of　one。　Her　clothing　was　functional；　as　though　it　were　worn　for　the　sake　of　covering；　and　not　for　the　sake　of　fashion；　or　even　of　appeal。　She　was　a　good　height　for　a　girl；　about　five…six　or　seven。　But　she　was　too　thin；　except　in　one　place。
　Her　head　was　down　a　little；　as　though　she　were　tired　of　carrying　it　up　straight。　Or　as　though　invisible　blows　had　lowered　it；　one　by　one。
　She　moved　at　last。　At　long　last　Her　hand　dropped　from　the　pushbutton；　as　if　of　its　own　weight。　It　fell　to　her　side；　hung　there；　forlorn。　One　foot　turned；　as　if　to　go　away。　There　was　a　wait。　Then　the　other　turned　too。　Her　back　was　to　the　door　now。　The　door　that　wouldn't　open。　The　door　that　was　an　epitaph；　the　door　that　was　finality。
　She　took　a　slow　step　away。　Then　another。　Her　head　was　down　now　more　than　ever。　She　moved　slowly　away　from　there；　and　left　the　door　behind。　Her　shadow　was　the　last　part　of　her　to　go。　It　trailed　slowly　after　her；　upright　against　the　wall。　Its　head　was　down　a　little；　too；　it　too　was　too　thin；　it　too　was　unwanted。　It　stayed　on　a　moment；　after　she　herself　was　already　gone。　Then　it　slipped　off　the　wall　after　her；　and　it　was　gone　too。
　Nothing　was　left　there　but　the　door。　That　remained　silent；　obdurate；　closed。
　
　
　2
　
　In　the　telephone…booth　she　was　motionless　again。　As　motionless　as　before。　A　telephone　pay…station；　the　door　left　shunted　back　in　order　to　obtain　air　enough　to　breathe。　When　you　are　in　one　for　more　than　just　a　few　moments；　they　bee　stifling。　And　she　had　been　in　this　one　for　more　than　just　a　few　moments。
　She　was　like　a　doll　propped　upright　in　its　gift…box；　and　with　one　side　of　the　box　left　off；　to　allow　the　contents　to　be　seen。　A　worn　doll。　A　leftover；　marked…down　doll；　with　no　bright　ribbons　or　tissue　wrappings。　A　doll　with　no　donor　and　no　recipient。　A　doll　no　one　bothered　to　claim。
　She　was　silent　there；　though　this　was　meant　to　be　a　place　for　talking。　She　was　waiting　to　hear　something；　something　that　never　came。　She　was　holding　the　receiver　pointed　toward　her　ear；　and　it　must　have　started　out　by　being　close　to　it；　at　right　angles　to　it；　as　receivers　should　be。　But　that　was　a　long　time　before。　With　the　passage　of　long；　disappointing　minutes　it　had　drooped　lower　and　lower；　until　now　it　was　all　the　way　down　at　her　shoulder；　clinging　there　wilted；　defeated；　like　some　sort　of　ugly；　black；　hard…rubber　orchid　worn　for　corsage。
　The　anonymous　silence　became　a　voice　at　last。　But　not　the　one　she　wanted；　not　the　one　she　was　waiting　for。
　〃I　am　sorry；　but　I　have　already　told　you。　There　is　no　use　waiting　on　the　line。　That　number　has　been　discontinued；　and　there　is　no　further　information　I　can　give　you。〃
　Her　hand　dropped　off　her　shoulder；　carrying　the　receiver　with　it；　and　fell　into　her　lap；　dead。　As　if　to　match　something　else　within　her　that　was　dead；　by　the　final　way　it　fell　and　stirred　no　more。
　But　life　won't　grant　a　decent　dignity　even　to　its　epitaphs；　sometimes。
　〃May　I　have　my　nickel　back？〃　she　whispered。　〃Please。　I　didn't　get　my　party；　and　it's…it's　the　last　one　I've　got。〃
　
　
　3
　
　She　climbed　the　rooming…house　stairs　like　a　puppet　dangling　from　slack　strings。　A　light　bracketed　against　the　wall；　drooping　upsidedown　like　a　withered　tulip　in　its　bell…shaped　shade　of　scalloped　glass；　cast　a　smoky　yellow　glow。　A　carpet…strip　ground　to　the　semblance　of　decayed　vegetable…matter；　all　pattern；　all　color；　long　erased；　adhered　to　the　middle　of　the　stairs；　like　a　form　of　pollen　or　fungus　encrustation。　The　odor　matched　the　visual　imagery。　She　climbed　three　ifights　of　them；　and　then　turned　off　toward　the　back。
　She　stopped；　at　the　last　door　there　was；　and　took　out　a　longshanked　iron　key。　Then　she　looked　down　at　the　bottom　of　the　door。　There　was　a　triangle　of　white　down　by　her　foot；　protruding　from　under　the　seam。　It　expanded　into　an　envelope　as　the　door　swept　back　above　it。
　She　reached　into　the　darkness；　and　traced　her　hand　along　the　wall　beside　the　door；　and　a　light　went　on。　It　had　very　little　shine。　It　had　very　little　to　shine　on。
　She　closed　the　door　and　then　she　picked　up　the　envelope。　It　had　been　lying　on　its　face。　She　turned　it　over。　Her　hand　shook　a　little。　Her　heart　did　too。
　It　had　on　it；　in　hasty；　heedless　pencil；　only　this：
　
　〃HELEN　GEORGESSON。〃
　
　No　Miss；　no　Mrs。；　no　other　salutation　whatever。
　She　seemed　to　e　alive　more　fully。　Some　of　the　blank　hopelessness　left　her　eyes。　Some　of　the　pinched　strain　left　her　face。　She　grasped　the　envelope　tight；　until　it　pleated　a　little　in　her　hold。　She　moved　more　briskly　than　she　had　unti