Chapter 3 everything is in balance

Streeter could see the sign because he had to pull over to the side of the road to throw up.He's throwing up a lot these days with very little warning - sometimes a fit of nausea, sometimes a foul taste in the back of his mouth, sometimes nothing at all; up. That made driving a bit risky, but he still drives a lot now, partly because he won't be able to drive in late fall and partly because he has a lot to think about.His mind has always been most active while driving. He turned the car onto the Harris Avenue slip road. The road is very wide, two miles long, next to the Derry County Airport, and the area along the road is mostly motels and hardware warehouses.The area was very busy during the day, for it connected the east and west ends of Derry County in addition to serving the airport, but the road was empty in the evening.Streeter pulled into the bike lane, grabbed a plastic bag from the pile on the passenger seat, put his face in the bag, and let himself vomit.

In this way, dinner appeared again in another form. Or, if only he opened his eyes, he could see his dinner again.But he didn't open it.Once you've seen vomit, you've seen it all. At the beginning of the vomiting phase, there was no pain at all.Dr. Henderson had warned him that this was subject to change, and, just last week, it had.It wasn't really painful; just a lightning bolt from the gut and then down the throat, like acid indigestion.Symptoms come and go away.It would get worse, though, Dr. Henderson had told him. Lifting his head from the bag, he opened the glove box, took out a metal rope tied with bread, and tied the spit-up supper before the smell permeated the car.He looked to the right and saw a makeshift trash basket with a cheerful dog with ears down and the words Trash in the bin printed on the side of the wastebasket.

Streeter got out of the car, walked over to the trash can, and put in what had just been vomited out of his weakened body. The summer sun was hanging over the flat ground of the airport at this time, glowing red; his shadow was trailing behind his heels, long and frighteningly thin, as if four months later, when his body Will be completely overwhelmed by the cancer, which seems to be eating him alive before long. He turned back to the car and saw the sign across the road.At first—probably because his eyes were still watering—he thought it said hair growth.Then, he blinked, only to realize that, in fact, the sign said fair extension.Below these words is written even smaller: FAIR PRICE.

Reasonable extension, reasonable price.Sounds good, and seems to have some truth to it. On the far side of the branch road, that is, outside the fence of the county airport, there is a section of road paved with gravel.During the busy day, many people set up roadside stalls there.Streeter lived his entire life in the small city of Derry, Maine.Over the years, he'd seen people selling fresh curly teeth there in the spring, fresh berries and corn on the cob in the summer, and lobster almost all year round. During the muddy rainy season, a crazy old man called the Snowman took up the place, peddling trinkets picked up from the junk heaps, abandoned in winter until the snow melted to reveal them.Many years ago, Streeter bought a nice-looking doll from the old man and wanted to give it to his daughter May.May was only two or three years old.He made a mistake and told Jenny about the origin of the doll.Jenny told him to throw that thing away.

"Can we boil this doll and sterilize it?" she asked. "I really don't know why sometimes smart people do such stupid things." However, cancer doesn't care about your IQ, smart or stupid. There was a card table propped up there, on which the Yeti had once displayed his wares.A big, yellow umbrella stood obliquely, blocking the red glow of the setting sun for the short, stocky old man sitting behind the table. Streeter stood in front of the car for a while, about to get in (the stocky old man didn't notice him at all; he seemed to be watching a small portable TV), but curiosity took hold of him.He looked at the road, but saw nothing—predictably, the branch road was dead silent at this moment, and all commuters were eating dinner at home, taking their cancer-free status for granted— —then, across four empty lanes.His scrawny shadow, the ghost of Streeter yet to come, lay far behind.

The stocky old man looked up. "Ah, hello." he said.Before he turned off the TV, Streeter found the guy watching "Inside the News." "How are you doing tonight?" "Oh, I don't know how you are, but I've always been better than before." Streeter replied, "It's still selling things at this point, isn't it a bit late? After the rush hour, the traffic here is very slow." Less. Besides, it's the backside of the airport, and there's nothing there except for deliveries. Passers-by usually come in from Witchham Street."

"That's right," said the short, stout old man. "It's a bit of luck. When the area was divided, all the roadside stalls like me were allocated here." He shook his head at the injustice of the world, "I planned to clean up the stalls. , go home at seven o'clock, but I have a feeling that there will be a customer coming." Streeter looked at the table, saw that there was nothing for sale except the TV (unless the TV was for sale), and smiled. "I'm not a customer, may I, what's your name?" "George Elweder," said the stocky old man, rising to his feet, holding out his equally stocky hand.

Streeter shook his hand. "My name is David Streeter. I can't count you as a customer because I don't even know what you're selling. At first, I thought the sign said hair growth." "Do you want to grow your hair?" Al Wade asked, looking him up and down. "I ask because your hair seems to be a little short." "It's going to be gone soon," Streeter said. "I'm on chemotherapy." "Oh my God. I'm sorry." "It's okay. Although I don't know how far the chemotherapy will go..." He shrugged.How easy it was to say those words to a stranger, he sighed.

Even his own children, he hasn't said this to them yet, of course, Jenny must know. "Isn't it possible to be cured?" Al Wade asked.There was raw sympathy in his tone—no more, no less—and Streeter felt his eyes fill with tears.Crying was embarrassing for him in front of Jenny, but he had only cried twice. And here, with this stranger, crying seemed perfectly normal.But he still took out his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped away his tears.A small plane comes and prepares to land.Against the red sun, the small plane looked like a moving silhouette of a cross.

"All I heard was that it was hopeless," Streeter said. "So, I thought chemotherapy was just... I don't know..." "Cure for cure's sake?" Streeter laughed. "Exactly." "Maybe you have to think about switching the chemo for extra pain medication. Or, you could do a business with me." "Like I said at the beginning, I can't actually become your customer until I know what you're selling." "Oh, well, most people call what I sell snake oil." Al Wade said with a smile, and suddenly became excited behind the desk.Streeter noticed that, although George Aylwid was stout, his shadow was thin and sickly, like Streeter's own shadow.He thought that as dusk came, everyone's shadows began to look sick, especially in August, when the dusk was very long and lingering, which was a bit unpleasant.

"I can't see the bottle," Streeter said. Alvede put his hands on the table, leaned over, and immediately looked like he was doing business. "I sell extended products." "It's very similar to the name of this road." "I've never noticed that, but I think you're right. Although sometimes a cigar is nothing more than a puff of smoke, and coincidences are coincidences. But everybody wants to prolong it, Mr. Streeter. If You're a young woman who loves to shop and I'll extend your credit. If you're a man with a small dick -- genetics can be that cruel -- I'll extend your dick." Streeter was both surprised and delighted by this stark statement.For the first time in a month—since his diagnosis—he forgot that he was suffering from a rapidly spreading cancer. "You're kidding me." "Oh, I'm a great joker, but I never joke about business. I've sold countless dick extensions in my life, and for a while in Arizona people called me Big Dick Al. I'm totally Tell the truth all over the world, but it's a good thing for me, and I neither ask nor expect you to believe what I say. Short people often need to increase their height. If you do need to increase your hair, Mr. Streeter, I am very happy. I am happy to provide you with additional products." "Can someone with a big nose—like Jimmy Durant—get a small nose?" Al shook his head and smiled. "You're kidding me this time. The answer is no. If you need to cut back, you go elsewhere. I only sell extended products, very American products. I call extended love products, sometimes called love Liquor, sold to broken-hearted people; extended loan products to people who are short on cash—now, there are a lot of people short on money; extended time products to those under deadline pressure. Once , I sold a vision-enhancing product to a guy who wanted to be an Air Force pilot because he knew he couldn't pass the vision test." Streeter grinned, feeling very amused. He originally thought that happiness was out of reach for him now, but life is full of surprises. Al Wade was grinning too, as if they were sharing a great joke. "Another time," he said, "I sold a product that added authenticity to a painter—a very talented guy—who was in a paranoid type of schizophrenia. The thing It's precious." "How much? Dare to ask." "It's one of this guy's paintings. It's still in my house. You probably know the painter's name, he was famous in the Italian Renaissance. If you took art appreciation classes in college, you May have admired his work." Streeter continued to grin, but took a step back.Although he had already accepted the fact that he was going to die soon, that didn't mean that he wanted to die today. "You mean? You mean... I don't know... you're immortal?" "Long-lived, sure," said Alwidd, "and that's why I can do something for you right now. You might like a life-extending product." "That's impossible, I suppose?" asked Streeter, calculating the distance back to the car in his head. "Of course I can...it will cost a little." "Is it money? Or my soul?" Alvede clapped his hands, and rolled his eyes like a hooligan. "As the saying goes, even if the soul bites my ass, I won't talk about it. I'm talking about money, which is usually the case. Fifteen percent of your income for the next fifteen years will do. Count agency fees, you can do this Call." "Is that the extended time for me?" Streeter thought greedily of the idea of ​​fifteen with longing. Fifteen years seemed a long time, especially when he compared it to what was happening: six months of vomiting, increasing pain, fainting, and finally death.Add to that the obituary that says "after a long and valiant battle with cancer," as they say in Seinfeld. Al Wade raised his hands to shoulder height in an exaggerated "who knows" gesture. "Maybe twenty years, maybe. It's not rocket science. But if you're expecting immortality, forget it. I'm selling fair extension. That's what I'm good at." "Good," said Streeter.The guy had brought his spirits up, and if he needed a sidekick, Streeter was more than willing to help.Anyway, enough is enough.Streeter smiled as he stretched his hand across the card table. "Fifteen percent, fifteen years. Although I have to tell you, fifteen percent of an assistant bank manager's salary, technically, won't get you a Rolls-Royce. A Georgia , maybe, but—” "It's more than that." Al Wade said. "Of course more than that," said Streeter, sighing and pulling his hand away. "Mr. Alvede, I am very happy to chat with you. You have brought light to my night. I thought it was impossible to have light. I hope that your mental problems will be treated." "Hush, you idiot." Alwidd said, although he was still smiling, but there was no joy in the smile at the moment.Suddenly he looked much taller—three inches at least—and less round. It's the light, Streeter thought, the light of the setting sun.He suddenly noticed that the unpleasant smell might just be the smell of burnt aviation fuel, carried by a random gust of wind to the small gravel square outside the fence.It makes sense to think this way... However, he still listened to Alvede's words and didn't say a word. "Why do men or women need to lengthen, need to increase? Have you ever asked yourself that question?" "Of course I did," Streeter replied, with a hint of brusqueness in his tone. "I work in a bank, Mr. Al Wade - Delhi Savings Bank. People keep asking me to extend their loans." "So, you know people need extensions to make up for shortfalls—short-term credit, short dicks, short-sightedness, whatever." "Yeah, it's a fucking shortage world right now." "It does. But even things that don't exist have weight. Negative weight, that's the worst thing. Weight that's lost from you has to go elsewhere. It's simple physics. Let's call it that, psychophysics." Streeter looked at Alvede with great interest, and the impression that this guy suddenly became tall just now disappeared.It's just a short, round guy with a green medical card in his wallet--if it's not from Mount Julep, it's from the Arcadia Mental Hospital in Bangor.Of course, the premise is that he has a wallet. "Mr. Streeter, may I get down to business?" "Please." "You've got to shift the weight. That is, you've got to do bad things to other people if you're going to take the bad things out of yourself." "Understood," he said. "However, it can't be just anyone. The ancient nameless priest has tried it, but it doesn't work. It has to be someone you hate. Mr. Streeter, do you have anyone you hate?" "I'm not that crazy," said Streeter, "and I think jail time is too cheap for the bastards who blew up the American Cole, but I don't think they'll ever -" "Be more serious, otherwise it won't work." Al Wade said, at this moment, he looked a lot taller again.Streeter wondered if it might be some weird side effect of his medication. "If you mean in my personal life, well, I don't have anyone to hate. There are some people I don't like, like next door neighbor Mrs Dembra, who keeps leaving the litter box uncovered outside the door, When the wind blows, the trash is all over my lawn—” "Mr. Streeter, the late Tino Martin once said that everyone has someone to hate sometimes." "I said—" "He's a liar and always puts his hat down around his eyes like a little naughty cowboy when he wears it. Besides, if you're really nobody to hate, then we can't do business." Streeter thought about it for a while.He looked down at his shoes and spoke in a voice so small that he couldn't make out his own. "I think I hate Tom Goodhue." "Who's he in your life?" sighed Streeter. "He's been my best friend since grammar school." There was a moment's silence, and then, Elwid started laughing loudly.He strode around the table, patted Streeter on the back (his hands were cold and his fingers felt long and thin instead of stubby), and strode back to his folding chair side.He fell on his buttocks, panting heavily.His face was flushed, and the tears streaming down his cheeks looked red in the setting sun. "Your best... self-grammar... oh, that's..." El Wade could no longer speak.His snorts became gusts of wind and wails, and spasms. His chin (strikingly pointed in this chubby face) alternates upwards and downwards toward the spotless (though darkening) summer sky.Finally, he finally controlled himself and stopped laughing.Streeter thought about giving him his handkerchief, but decided not to let it touch the skin of the extension salesman. "That's wonderful, Mr. Streeter," said he, "and we can do business." "Oh, that's wonderful," said Streeter, taking another step back. "I'm already happy to live another fifteen years. However, my car is still parked in the bicycle lane, violating traffic rules, and I may get a ticket." "Don't worry," said Alwidd, "you've probably figured out that we've been chatting for so long that we haven't even had a car from a commoner, let alone anyone from Derry Police. Whenever I start talking to Serious customers of both sexes are never disturbed by traffic while they go about their serious business; I promise." Streeter looked around anxiously.indeed so.He could hear traffic on Witchham Street in the distance, heading for Uppermere Hill, but it was very quiet here.Of course, he reminded himself, the traffic here was never too heavy after the workday. But don't have any cars?Completely without people and cars?You might be able to count on it in the middle of the night, but not at seven-thirty at night. "Tell me why you hate your best friend," Al Wade said. Streeter reminded himself again that the man was insane.Don't believe anything Al Wade says.The thought relieved him. "Tom was better looking than me when we were kids, and even more so now. He's good at three sports, and the only sport I play, and only half play, is miniature golf." "I don't think there's any cheerleading for someone like that," Al Wade said. Streeter smiled wryly, becoming addicted to this topic. "Tom was bright but had been lazy all his time at Derry High, so he had little hope of getting into college. Still, he panicked when his grades dropped so much that he threatened his athletic eligibility. At that point, who Appeared?" "You!" exclaimed Alwidd, "Old Mr. Responsible! Tutored him, didn't you? Wrote a few papers, maybe? Must have made a point of mispelling a few words Tom often misspelled to fool the teacher." Bar?" "That's right. In fact, our senior year—the year Tom won the Maine State Athletic Award—I actually played two students: David Streeter and Tom Goodhue." "It's not easy." "You know what's harder? I have a girlfriend. It's a beautiful girl named Norma Wetton. Dark brown hair and eyes, flawless skin, nice cheekbones—" "When it comes to this, you can't stop—" "Indeed. But, aside from her sexuality—" "You never really put her sexiness aside—" "—I love that girl. But do you know what happened to Tom?" "Take her away from you!" Al Wade said furiously. "Yes. The two of them found me and told me the whole story." "amazing!" "Claim that they just can't help it." "Claim that they are in love." "Yeah. The power of instinct, they can't control this matter, and there are excuses like that." "Let me guess, he made her belly bigger." "Indeed." Streeter looked at his shoes again, remembering a dress Norma wore when she was in the second or third grade.The skirt was cut just enough to allow the ring of petticoats to float up.That was almost thirty years ago, but sometimes, when he made love to Jenny, he still had that image in his head.He never had sex with Norma, she wouldn't allow it.But she eagerly took off her panties for Tom Goodhuo.It is very likely that the first time he opened his mouth, she obeyed. "And then he dumped her." "No," sighed Streeter. "He married her." "Then, divorced her! Maybe after driving her crazy?" "It's worse than that. They're still together. Had three kids. They used to hold hands when they walked in Baisai Park." "That's the worst thing I've ever heard. It can't be any worse. Unless..." Al Wade looked at Streeter slyly from under bushy brows, "unless your own marriage There is no love in it." "On the contrary," said Streeter, flabbergasted by the thought. "I love Jenny so much and she loves me too. Her support during my cancer has been incredible. If there is such a thing as harmony in the world, then Tom and I have each found our place. Absolutely So. But..." "But what?" Al Wade looked at him happily and eagerly. Streeter realized, his nails digging into the palm.Instead of relaxing, he pinched down even more desperately.Pinch down, until he feels blood dripping out. "But he stole her!" It had been gnawing at his heart for years, and it felt better now that the secret was out. "That's exactly what he did. We've always been greedy, whether what we desire is good or bad for us. What do you say, Mr. Streeter?" Streeter didn't answer.He was breathing hard, like he had just run fifty yards, or been involved in a street fight. "That's all?" asked Alwidd in the tone of a friendly vicar. "No." "Then spit it all out and drain the blisters." "He's a millionaire. He shouldn't be a millionaire, but he is. In the late eighties—shortly after that goddamn flood that pretty much wiped out the town—he opened a The Garbage Company . . . but he calls it the Derry Scrap and Recycling Company. It's a good name, you know." "It's not ugly." "He came to me for a loan. Although many people in the bank thought it was unreliable, I still managed it for him. Al Wade, do you know why I helped him get it done?" "Because he's your friend!" "Guess again." "Because you think he's going to screw it up and lose it all." "Yeah. He put all his savings into garbage trucks, mortgaged the property, and bought a piece of land near the Newport town line for a landfill. The hoodlums in New Jersey own the landfill, and the To launder dirty money from drug dealing and prostitution and use it as a grave for burying dead bodies. I thought it was a crazy idea and couldn't wait to get that loan approved. He is so grateful and still despises me for it For bro, never forgetting to tell people how I risked my life for him. 'Like in middle school, David helped me.' You know what the little kids in town call his landfill now what?" "tell me!" "Mountain of garbage! Huge mountain of garbage! I wouldn't be surprised if someone told me that mountain of garbage was radioactive! The garbage was covered with turf, but there were signs do not go near, maybe under the green turf There's a Manhattan rat! They might be radioactive too!" He paused, realizing that his words sounded ridiculous.El Wade lost his mind, but—what's surprising is that Streeter himself went crazy!At least on the topic of his friends.and also…… On the cancer thing, Streeter thought. "Okay, let's sort it out. Goodhuo was better looking than you when you were kids, Tom. He had athleticism and you didn't. That girl in the back of your car used to be white and slippery." Her thighs were clamped tight, but spread out for Tom. He married her. They're still in love. The kids are all right, I suppose?" "Healthy and beautiful!" Streeter spat. "One is married, one is in college, and one is still in high school! That one is the captain of the football team! He looks exactly like his old slut father!" "Yes. Moreover, he has money, but you are struggling desperately for a salary of about 60,000 U.S. dollars a year." "I got a bonus for putting him on the loan," murmured Streeter, "for the foresight I did." "But what you actually want is a promotion." "How did you know?" "I'm a businessman now, but I was a lowly wage earner for a while, and I was fired before I was able to do it on my own. It was actually the best thing in my life. I know it now What's the matter. Is there anything else? Let's talk about it." "He's drinking piebald hen beer now!" Streeter yelled, "No one in Derry drinks that ostentatious dog piss! Only him! Only Tom Goodhue, king of trash!" "Does he have a sports car?" Al Wade said quietly. "No. If he had one, at least I could joke with Jenny about the sports car. He drives a fucking Land Rover." "I think there may be one more thing," said Alwidd, "and if so, you might as well talk about it." "He doesn't have cancer," Streeter said, almost in a whisper. "He's fifty-one, like me. But he's still fucking healthy... as a... ... like a horse." "You too," Alwidd said. "what?" "Well, Mr. Streeter. Since I have cured your cancer, at least temporarily, may I call you David?" "You're crazy," Streeter said, with a hint of awe in his tone. "No, sir, I'm quite sober. But, mind you, I'm talking temporary. We're still in the 'try it before you buy' phase of our relationship. This phase is going to last at least a week, maybe ten days. I recommend that you see a doctor. I think he will find you noticeably better. But it won't last long, unless..." "unless?" Alvede leaned forward and smiled intimately. He seems to have too many (and too big) teeth for his mouth. "I come here every now and then," "Usually around this time," he said. "Just before sunset." "Yeah. Most people don't notice me—they stare at me like I don't exist—but you'll come to me, won't you?" "If I were better, I would certainly come." Streeter said. "And you'll bring me something." Alwidd's smile became even brighter, and at this moment, Streeter discovered a situation that was both strange and terrifying: the teeth of the man in front of him were not only too big and too many, but also very sharp. Jenny was folding laundry in the laundry room when he came back. "It's back," she said. "I was a little worried. Did it go well?" "It's fine," he replied.He glanced around the kitchen. The appearance is different from the past.Like a dream kitchen.So he turned on the light and things got better.Al Wade is a dream. Al Wade and his promises are all dreams.He's just an idiot who escaped from the Arcadia Asylum. She came to him and kissed him on the cheek.The heat from the dryer made her face red and beautiful.She is actually fifty years old, but she looks very young. After he died, Streeter thought, she might have a long time to live.Maybe, he thought, May and Justin would have a stepfather. "You look good," she said. "You look a little bloody." "yes?" "Yes." She smiled at him, but there was pain hidden behind the smile. "Come and talk to me while I fold the rest of my laundry. It's such a boring job." He followed her and stood by the door of the laundry room.He knew it was better to stand than to help.She said he couldn't even fold a dishcloth well. "Justin called," she said. "He and Carl are both in Venice, staying at a youth hostel. He said their taxi driver spoke good English. He's at a dance right now." "nice." "You're doing the right thing by not telling them the diagnosis," She said, "You were right, I was wrong." "It's the first time we've been married." She wrinkled her nose at him. "He is very much looking forward to this trip. However, when he comes back, you have to say it. May is coming from Sears Harbor to attend Gracie's wedding, so I can take the opportunity to tell her too." Gracie It was Gracie Goodhue, Tom and Norma's eldest daughter, and Carl Goodhuo - Justin's traveling companion - the second eldest. "We'll see then," said Streeter.He had a vomit bag in the back pocket of his trousers, but he didn't feel like throwing up anymore.For the first time in days, he felt a craving for food. Actually nothing happened - you know that, right?It's just a little psychological suggestion, and it will gradually fade away. "Like my hairline," he said. "What, dear?" "nothing." "Oh, speaking of Gracie, Norma called. She reminded me that it was their turn to have us over for dinner on Thursday night. I said I was going to ask you, but I also told her, you Busy as hell at the bank, working late hours, bad debts and stuff. You don't want to see them, I suppose." Her voice was as flat and composed as ever, but suddenly she began to cry, her eyes filled with tears, and the tears rolled down her cheeks like in a storybook.Love, which had grown dull after so many years of marriage, surged up in his breast now, as fresh as it had been in the earlier days, when they lived together in their poor apartment on Kossos Street, Sometimes on the living room rug.He walked into the laundry room, took the shirt from her hand, and hugged her.She hugged him tightly too. "Why is it so unfair," she said, "We'll get through this. I don't know how to get through it, but we'll get through it for sure." "Yes. Let's start with dinner with Tom and Norma on Thursday night, as usual." She pulled herself away and looked at him with tears in her eyes. "Are you going to tell them?" "Sweeping the interest of eating? No." "Can you eat it? No..." She put two fingers to her pursed lips, puffed out her cheeks, and made Streeter grin with a puke-like grimace. "I don't know what's going to happen on Thursday, but now I'm in the mood for something to eat," he said. "Would you mind if I get myself a hamburger? Or, I'll go to McDonald's...bring you a chocolate milkshake... ..." "My God," she said, and wiped her eyes. "Miracle." "Precisely, I wouldn't call it a miracle." Dr. Henderson told Streeter on Wednesday afternoon, "But..." Two days had passed since Streeter had discussed matters of life and death with Mr. Alweed under his yellow umbrella.Now, there is a day left before Streeter and the Goodhue family have dinner together at the Goodhue home, which Streeter sometimes thinks of as a house made of garbage.The conversation at hand was not taking place in Dr. Henderson's office, but in a small consulting room at Home Hospital in Derry.汉德森试图说服他放弃核磁共振检查，告诉他核磁共振成像不在他的保险范围之内，并说检查结果肯定会让他失望。可斯特里特坚持要做。 “不过什么，罗德？” “肿瘤好像缩小了，而且你的肺部似乎清晰了。我从来没有见过这样的结果。其他两位医生也从没有见过这种情况。更重要的是——这话就咱俩私下说说——核磁共振相关的技术人员也从来没有见过，那些技术人员都是我信得过的人。他们认为可能是机器本身出了故障。” “不过，我倒是感觉良好，”斯特里特说，“这就是我为什么要求做这个检查的原因。那也是出了故障吗？” “你还吐吗？” “有过两三次，”斯特里特实话实说道，“不过，我认为是化疗反应。顺便说一下，我要求暂停化疗。” 罗德·汉德森蹙了蹙眉头。 “这样做很不明智。” “一开始同意做化疗才是不明智的，我的朋友。你说，'对不起，戴维，你死亡的概率是百分之九十，你没机会说情人节快乐了，因此，我们要在剩下的时间里往你身体里下满毒。化疗的感觉很可能比我用从汤姆·古德胡垃圾填埋场找来的淤血给你注射还要糟糕。'当时我竟然像个傻子一样说，好吧。” 汉德森看起来有点生气。 “化疗是最后的、最大的希望——” “别他妈的放屁了。”斯特里特一边说，一边温和地咧嘴笑笑。他深深呼吸了一口气，这口气息一直沁人肺的底部，感觉好极了。 “癌症凶的时候，化疗并不适合病人，只会增加病人的痛苦。这么做，只是为了待到病人死的时候，医生和亲人对着棺材互相拥抱，说'我们已经竭尽全力了。'” “这么说未免太刻薄了。”汉德森说，“你知道，这个病容易反复，知道吧？” “你对肿瘤说去吧，”斯特里特说，“对再也不存在的肿瘤说去吧。” 汉德森看看斯特里特的影像，这些影像在诊疗室显示屏上以二十秒的间隔闪闪晃晃，叹了口气。影像显示良好，连斯特里特也知道，但是这些影像似乎让他的医生不开心。 “放松，罗德。”斯特里特轻轻地说，就像梅或者贾斯汀小时候丢了或弄坏心爱的玩具时他的口气。 “倒霉事会发生；有时，奇迹也会发生。这是我在《读者文摘》上面读到的。” “根据我的经验，这种事情从没发生过。”汉德森拿起笔，敲敲斯特里特的病历资料，最近三个月，资料一下子多了很多。 “万事总有头一回。”斯特里特说道。 星期四晚上；夏日夜晚的黄昏时刻。 垂落的太阳把红彤彤、梦幻似的光芒照射到三块修剪精美、上水浇灌、风景如画的草坪上，汤姆·古德胡冒失地管它叫“旧式后院”。 斯特里特坐在天井里一张草坪椅子上面，听到詹妮和诺尔玛往洗碗机里装东西时碟子发出“啪啪”的声响和她们俩的笑声。 院子？这不是院子，是购物频道迷关于天堂的构想。 甚至还有个喷泉，喷泉中央站着个大理石做的孩童。不知什么原因，这光着屁股的胖娃娃（在撒尿，肯定）最让斯特里特感到光火。他肯定这是诺尔玛的主意——她重新回到大学里拿了个通识教育学位，捣鼓出这么个半吊子古典名堂——不过，在这儿，在美轮美奂的缅因州傍晚的落日余晖里，见到如此景色，而且知道它的存在正是汤姆垃圾垄断的结果…… 说曹操，曹操到，正想到这，垃圾王就走了进来，左手手指间夹着两瓶正在冒汗的花斑老母鸡啤酒。汤姆，古德胡身材颀长而笔挺，穿着件开颈牛津纺衬衫和褪色的牛仔裤，清癯的脸庞被夕阳照耀着，很像杂志里做啤酒广告的模特。斯特里特脑子里似乎已经看到了广告：要过好日子，就喝花斑老母鸡。 “既然你漂亮的妻子说她开车，那就喝点吧，我想你也许会喜欢来瓶新牌子的。” “谢谢。”斯特里特拿了瓶子，靠到嘴边喝起来。不管是不是装腔作势，这啤酒味道还真不错。 就在古德胡坐下的时候，橄榄球运动员雅克布端着一碟奶酪和饼干出来了。他双肩宽阔，英俊潇洒，和从前的汤姆一样。 可能有很多拉拉队员向他投怀送抱，斯特里特心想，可能非得他妈的用棍子才能把她们打跑。 “妈妈说你们可能喜欢吃这个。”雅克布说。 “谢谢你，你要出去？” “就一会儿。和几个伙计们扔扔飞碟，玩到天黑，然后做功课。” “待在路这边玩。因为垃圾又多了，那儿有毒藤。” “哦，我们知道。初中时，丹尼被毒藤感染过，当时情况太糟了，他妈妈以为他得了癌症呢。” “哦！”斯特里特说。 “孩子，回家时开车要小心，别显摆你的车技。” “放心吧。”这孩子用一只胳膊抱抱他父亲，毫不做作地吻了吻他父亲的面颊，这让斯特里特感到沮丧。汤姆不仅仅身体好，还有个漂亮老婆，一个滑稽好笑的撒尿胖娃娃，一个英俊潇洒的十八岁儿子，他和最要好的朋友一起出去前还和他父亲吻别，而且竟然一点也不做作。 “他是个乖孩子，”古德胡一边看着雅克布跑上台阶，一边满心欢喜地说，“学习刻苦，成绩好，不像他老子。幸运的是，我有你这个朋友。” “我们俩都有福气。”斯特里特说道，笑眯眯地把一点法国产的布里奶酪放在一块饼干上，然后把它放到嘴里。 “看到你吃东西我好过些了，老兄，” 古德胡说，“我和诺尔玛还纳闷，你是不是哪里出了毛病呢。” “我很好。”斯特里特说完，又喝了些美味（当然也昂贵）的啤酒。 “不过，我前面一直在掉头发。詹妮说这让我显得更消瘦了。” “那事女士们倒不必担忧。”古德胡说，然后用手把自己的头发往后捋捋，他的头发和十八岁时一样还是满满实实的，也没长一根白头发。顺心的时候，詹妮·斯特里特看起来还能像四十岁的人，但是在渐渐下山、红彤彤的夕阳里，垃圾王看起来像三十五岁。他不抽烟，喝酒从不过量，还在一家与斯特里特任职的银行有生意往来的健身俱乐部锻炼，那家俱乐部的费用斯特里特可付不起。他家的老二卡尔目前和贾斯汀，斯特里特在欧洲，他们俩旅行花的是卡尔·古德胡的钱。当然，这些钱其实都是垃圾王的。 哦，拥有一切的人，你的名字叫古德胡。 斯特里特心想，冲老朋友笑笑。 他的老朋友也冲他笑笑，用自己的啤酒瓶颈碰碰斯特里特的酒瓶。 “生活真美好，不是吗？” “非常美好，”斯特里特附和道，“天长，夜爽。” 古德胡扬扬眉。 “这话你是从哪儿听来的？” “自己杜撰的，”斯特里特说，“不过说得倒也不错，不是吗？” “如果真是这样，我倒要把我许多愉快的夜晚归功于你。”古德胡说，“我脑子里刚刚闪过这样的念头，老兄，我的生活都要归功于你。无论如何，美好的那部分都归功于你。” “哪里啊，你是靠自我奋斗获得成功的。” 古德胡把声音压低，保密般地说起来：“想知道真实情况吗？女人造就男人。《圣经》上说，'谁能找到好老婆？因为她的身价超过红宝石。'这话有点道理。是你介绍我们认识的。我不知道你是不是还记得这事儿。” 斯特里特突然感到一种无法抵御的冲动，想把啤酒瓶摔碎在天井的砖头上，然后用凹凸不平、还泛着酒沫的瓶颈戳进老朋友的眼睛里去。然而，他笑了笑，又抿了口啤酒，然后站起身来。 “我想我需要上厕所了。” “啤酒不能买卖，只能租赁。”古德胡说道，接着放声大笑，好像是他自己发明这句话似的。 “失陪。”斯特里特说道。 “你现在看起来好多了！”斯特里特走上台阶的时候，古德胡在他后面喊道。 “谢谢，”斯特里特说，“老兄。” 他关上厕所门，把锁扣推进去，开灯，然后——平生第一次——打开了别人家的药柜门。他一眼看到的第一件东西令他无限高兴：一管男土专用的染发产品。还有一些处方药瓶。 斯特里特心想，把药放在客人用的厕所间的人实在是自找麻烦。倒不是有什么轰动性的东西：诺尔玛服哮喘药；汤姆正在服高血压药——阿替洛尔——还使用某种皮肤膏。 阿替洛尔药瓶里的药只剩一半了。斯特里特取出一粒，把它塞进牛仔裤的表袋里，冲了冲厕所，然后就离开了，感觉像个刚刚从陌生国家偷渡过来的人。 第二天晚上，天空乌云密布，但是乔治·艾尔韦德依旧坐在黄伞下面，还是在观看便携式电视上的《新闻内幕》。内容与歌星惠特尼，休斯顿有关，说她签署了一份巨大的新录制合同不久之后就离奇地体重骤降。艾尔韦德用又短又粗的手指头一扭开关，掐掉了这个谣言，微笑着看看斯特里特。 “戴维，感觉怎么样？” "much better." "real?" "real." “还吐吗？” “今天没有。” “吃东西了？” “狼吞虎咽。” “我想你已经做了检查。” "How did you know?" “一名不折不扣的事业有成的银行家当然会这么做。你给我带什么来了？” 有一刻，斯特里特想走开。然而，他还是把手伸进身上穿的便服夹克衫的口袋里（就八月份而言，今晚凉飕飕的，而他的身体又很单薄），拿出一块小小的方形餐巾纸。他犹豫了片刻，然后把它递给牌桌对面的艾尔韦德，他打开了纸包。 “啊，阿替洛尔。”艾尔韦德说，然后把药片放到嘴里吞了下去。 斯特里特惊讶地张开了嘴，然后慢慢闭上。 “别一副大惊小怪的样子，”艾尔韦德说，“如果你干像我这样高度紧张的活儿，你也会有血压问题的。唉，不说这个了，你不会想知道这些。” “然后呢？”斯特里特问。即便穿了夹克衫，他还是感到冷。 “然后？”艾尔韦德显出吃惊的样子，“你开始享受你十五年的健康生活。也可能二十年，甚至二十五年。谁知道呢？” “我生活得幸福吗？” 艾尔韦德做出一副坏兮兮的表情。要不是因为斯特里特在这表情背后看到了冷酷和沧桑，估计还会觉得好笑。就在那一刻，他确信乔治，艾尔韦德干这生意已经好久了。 “幸福不幸福全在于你自己，戴维。当然，还有你的家人——詹妮、梅和贾斯汀。” 他告诉过艾尔韦德他们的名字吗？斯特里特记不清了。 “主要还是孩子们吧。有句古话，大意是：孩子是父母的人质，可事实上是孩子们把父母当成了人质，我是这么觉得的。他们当中某个人可能在某个偏僻的乡间马路上遇上致命的或者致残的事故……成为令人心力交瘁的疾病的受害者……” "You mean—" “不，不，不！这不是什么道德故事。我是个生意人，不是故事里的人物。我说的就是，你的幸福掌握在你手中，以及你最近、最亲的人手中。要是你认为我在二十年后将会出现，把你的灵魂收集到我发霉、陈旧的笔记本里，那么，你最好再想想。人类的灵魂已经变成贫乏和透明的东西了。” 斯特里特心想，他这么说就像跳了很多次、发现葡萄确实够不着的狐狸一样。 不过斯特里特不想这么说。既然交易已经完成，他现在想做的就是离开此地。但是他还是有点犹豫不决，不是因为他想问那个一直萦绕在他脑子里的问题，而是他知道他必须得问。因为这里没有什么馈赠礼物这样的事情。斯特里特一生中大多数时间都在银行里从事买卖，他明白什么是精明、划得来的交易；或者说，他能闻到，一种微弱的、令人不爽的臭味，像是烧焦的航空燃料。 就是说，你得对别人干坏事，如果你要把坏东西从自己身上去掉的话。 可是偷了一粒高血压药片不算做坏事吧？Does it count?艾尔韦德，与此同时，正在使劲儿把大雨伞收拢。伞一收好，斯特里特就观察到一个有趣又让人沮丧的情况：伞根本就不是黄色的，而是灰灰的，如同天空。夏天差不多结束了。 “我的大多数顾客完全满意，非常愉快。你想听到这句话吧？” 是的……又不是。 “我感觉得到你有个更相关的问题要问，”艾尔韦德说，“如果你想得到答案，就不要绕弯子，直接问出来。要下雨了，趁没下雨前，我想躲起来。我这年龄最不需要的就是支气管炎。” “你的车呢？” “哦，这就是你的问题吗？”艾尔韦德毫不掩饰地嗤之以鼻。他两边的面颊消瘦，没有一丝胖墩墩的样子，两个眼睛在眼角处往上翻，眼白在那里变黑，成了让人不舒服的——是的，真是这样——癌症般的黑色。他看起来像全世界最不令人开心的小丑。 “你的牙齿，”斯特里特愚蠢地说，“是尖的。” “说出你的问题，斯特里特先生！” “汤姆·古德胡会患上癌症吗？” 有一刻，艾尔韦德嘴张得老大，然后开始咯咯地笑。笑声呼哧呼哧的，含糊不清，听起来令人很不舒服——像只琴音行将消逝的汽笛风琴。 “不，戴维，”他答道，“汤姆·古德胡不会患上癌症的。不是他。” “那么，是谁？谁？” 艾尔韦德用鄙夷不屑的眼神扫视着斯特里特，那份鄙夷让斯特里特的骨头都感到发虚——好像骨头里面被某种毫无疼痛、但是腐蚀性极强的酸啃出了洞眼。 “你管那么多干吗？你恨他，你自己说过的。” "But--" “你只管看，等，享受。把这个拿去。” 他把一张名片递给斯特里特。名片上面写的是非宗教派别儿童基金，还有位于开曼岛上的一家银行的地址。 “避税天堂，”艾尔韦德说，“你把给我的钱，也就是你收入的百分之十五存在那儿。要是你骗我，我会知道的。那时候你会痛苦的，伙计。” “要是我太太知道后问长问短怎么办？” “你老婆有个人支票本。除此之外，她什么都不看。她信任你。我说的对吗？” “嗯……”雨点击打着艾尔韦德的手和胳膊，成烟雾状后，发出咝咝的声音，斯特里特望着眼前这一切，一点也不吃惊。 "yes." “当然我是对的。我们的交易已经完成。从这里离开，回到你老婆身边去吧。我肯定她会张开双臂欢迎你的。把她带到床上去。把你凡人的鸡巴插到她那里去，假装她是你最好的朋友的妻子。你不配得到她，不过你运气好。” “要是我想反悔呢？”斯特里特喃喃道。 艾尔韦德僵硬地笑了笑，露出一排凶残的牙齿。 “不能反悔。”他说道。 那是二零零一年八月，距离双子塔倒塌还不到一个月。 十二月份（事实上，同一天威诺娜·芮德因为在商场偷盗而被逮捕），罗德里克·汉德森医生宣布，戴维·斯特里特身上的癌细胞全部消失——而且还说，这是真正的现代奇迹。 “对此，我没有任何解释。”汉德森说道。 斯特里特倒有解释，不过，他还是保持了沉默。 他们的谈话是在汉德森的办公室里进行的。在德里家乡医院的诊疗室里，也就是斯特里特曾经看过自己奇迹般被治好的身体影像的地方，诺尔玛·古德胡坐在斯特里特坐过的那张椅子上，看着并不乐观的核磁共振成像扫描。当医生告诉她，左乳房的肿块确实是肿瘤，而且已经扩散到淋巴结上的时候，她毫无知觉地听着——要多平静有多平静。 “情况不妙，不过，也不是毫无希望。” 医生说道，把手伸过桌子去握诺尔玛冰凉的手。他笑笑，“我们想马上就开始对你进行化疗。” 第二年的六月份，斯特里特终于得到了晋升。梅·斯特里特被哥伦比亚大学新闻学院的研究生院录取了。作为庆祝，斯特里特和妻子一起在夏威夷度过了被推迟了很久的假日。他们做了很多次爱。在毛伊岛的最后一天，汤姆·古德胡打来电话。 电话线路不好，而且汤姆几乎说不出话来，不过，消息还是传了过来：诺尔玛过世了。 “我们马上赶回去。”斯特里特许诺道。 他把消息告诉詹妮的时候，她一下子就瘫倒在宾馆床上，双手掩面哭泣。斯特里特躺在她身旁，紧紧地抱住她，心想：反正，我们正好也准备回家了。虽然他对诺尔玛的死有点伤心（对汤姆也有些同情），可好的一点是：他们躲过了令人厌恶的蟑螂季节。 十二月份，斯特里特把一张一万五千美元的支票寄给了非宗教派别儿童基金。 他把这笔钱算成纳税申报单上的扣除金额。 二零零三年，贾斯汀·斯特里特在布朗大学上了优秀学生名单，而且，他发明了一个名叫“菲多走回家”的游戏。游戏的目标是，把你放出去的狗从购物大楼领回家，在这个过程中，你要避开许多坏蛋司机、从十层阳台坠落的杂物，还要避开一些丧心病狂、自称是杀狗奶奶的老女士们。对斯特里特来说，这个游戏听起来像是玩笑（贾斯汀跟他们说游戏是有讽刺意味的），但是游戏公司看了一眼之后就给他们这位潇洒英俊、幽默风趣的儿子支付了七十五万美元，购买了版权。版税另算。 贾斯汀给父母买了两辆丰田探路者越野车，分别是粉色女士款和蓝色绅士款。詹妮哭着，抱着他，说他是个傻气、冲动、大方、出类拔萃的孩子。斯特里特把他带到洛克斯酒店，给他买了瓶花斑老母鸡啤酒。 十月份，卡尔·古德胡在爱默生学院的室友上课回来时发现，卡尔面朝地板躺在他们合住的公寓的地板上，他给自己烤制的奶酪三明治还在煎锅里冒着烟。虽然才二十二岁，可他却患有心脏病。会诊的医生们诊断说，他患有一种先天性心脏缺陷——心壁单薄之类的——但之前一直没有发现。卡尔没死；他的室友及时赶到，而且懂得心肺复活救治的方法。可是，因为缺氧，这位不久前才和贾斯汀·斯特里特一起游历欧洲的聪明、英俊、矫健的年轻人变得和他之前患病的时候差不多，走路踉踉跄跄的。他有时候神智不太清楚，离家一两个街区（他已经搬回家和他那痛心不已的父亲一起生活）就会迷路，而且话也说不清，只能发出含糊其辞的嘟嘟声，这声音只有汤姆听得懂。古德胡给他雇了个看护。那位看护负责给卡尔进行康复训练，帮他换换衣服，还带他两周进行一次“外出远足”。最常见的“外出远足”就是到冰淇淋店去，在那儿卡尔总会买上一只开心果冰淇淋，然后弄得满脸都是，看护会耐心地用湿巾帮他把脸擦干净。 詹妮不再和斯特里特一起到汤姆家吃饭了。 “我受不了，”她坦言道，“倒不是卡尔蹑手蹑脚走路的样子让我受不了，也不是他有时候尿裤子——而是他的眼神，好像他记得自己原来是什么样子，却不大记得自己怎么变成了现在这样。而且……我不知道……他脸上总有满怀希望的表情，那表情让我觉得生活中的一切都是玩笑。” 斯特里特明白她话里的意思，因此他和老朋友（没有诺尔玛做饭，现在大多数时候就是吃外卖了）一起吃饭的时候经常思考这话的含意。他喜欢看着汤姆给他残疾的儿子喂饭，他也喜欢看着卡尔脸上满怀希望的表情。那种表情像是在说，“所有这一切，都只是我做的梦，马上我就会醒来。”詹妮说得对，这是个玩笑，不过，在某种程度上说，是个好玩笑。 假如你真的思考过这件事的话。 二零零四年，梅·斯特里特在《波士顿环球报》找了份工作，宣称自己是美国最幸福的女孩。贾斯汀·斯特里特创作了“摇滚之家”，一直畅销到“吉他英雄”问世，才被人们淡忘。那时，贾斯汀已经转到了名叫“随心所愿”的音乐谱曲电脑项目。 斯特里特本人被任命为自己所在银行的分行经理，并有传言说他以后可能担任地区级职位。他把詹妮带到坎昆，在那里，他们度过了极其美好的时光。她开始管他叫“我的亲”了。 汤姆公司的会计私吞了两百万美元之后，人间蒸发了。随后进行的会计审查显示，生意已经摇摇欲坠，似乎那位老不死的会计多年来一直在蚕食着公司。 蚕食吗？斯特里特读到《德里新闻》上的这则故事时心里在想，更像是在某个时段对公司进行大口啃啮。 汤姆看起来再也不像三十五了，而是像六十。他肯定知道这一点，因为他不再染发。斯特里特看到汤姆染过的头发下面还没白，倒是高兴；他的头发有点像艾尔韦德的雨伞合起来时的颜色，灰灰的，没精打采，就和坐在公园长凳上喂鸽子、上了年纪的老人的头发颜色差不多。还是把它叫做失败者专有发色吧。 二零零五年，橄榄球员雅克布没去上大学（靠他得到的全额运动员奖学金本来可以去上的），却去了他父亲那濒临破产的公司做事，遇到了一位姑娘，结了婚。 那姑娘人长得小小的，皮肤黝黑，热情奔放，名叫凯梅·多灵顿。尽管卡尔·古德胡在整个婚礼过程中大喊怪叫，咯咯笑个不停，唠叨不休，尽管古德胡的长女——格蕾茜——离开教堂时，在教堂的台阶上踩着了自己的裙子，绊倒了，腿上有两处摔断了，斯特里特和他妻子还是一致认为，婚礼仪式很精彩。从婚礼开始到格蕾茜绊倒之前，汤姆·古德胡看起来几乎跟从前一模一样。换句话说，就是很开心。斯特里特不会吝啬给他一点快乐。他觉得就是在地狱，人们偶尔也会呷口水的，即使这么做的目的只是让你更深刻地体会口渴的痛苦滋味。 小夫妻去了波利泽度蜜月。我想老天一直在下雨吧，斯特里特心想。可是老天没有下雨，不过，雅克布因为急性胃肠炎和不停拉肚子把一周大部分时间耗在了一家寒碜破旧的医院里。之前他只喝瓶装水，可是后来忘记了，用自来水刷了牙。 “妈的，都怪我自己。”他说。 八百多美军士兵在伊拉克牺牲。那些可怜的孩子。 汤姆·古德胡开始痛风，后来腿瘸了，开始用拐杖。 那年，给非宗教派别儿童基金的支票金额特别大，不过，斯特里特毫不吝啬。 施予要比被施予更有福气，所有的精英人士都是这么说的。 二零零六年，汤姆的女儿格蕾茜患了脓溢病，牙齿全掉光，嗅觉也丧失了。在这之后不久的一个晚上，也就是在古德胡和斯特里特两家每周聚餐的时候（这回就两个男人；看护带卡尔“外出远足”了），汤姆·古德胡泪流满面，失声痛哭。他不再喝花斑老母鸡啤酒了，改喝孟买蓝宝石酒，这回喝得酩酊大醉。 “我搞不清楚，到底倒了什么霉，”他啜泣道，“我觉得自己像……说不清……像倒霉的！” 斯特里特抱住他，安慰他。他告诉老朋友，乌云总是滚滚而来，不过，它们迟早会滚滚而去的。 “是啊，可这些乌云在这里的时间真他妈够长的了！”古德胡哭喊道，然后用握紧的拳头重重击打在斯特里特的脊背上。 斯特里特并不介意，因为他这位老友不如从前那么强壮有力了。 查理·辛恩，托利·斯百林，还有大卫·哈塞尔霍夫都离婚了，但在德里，戴维和詹妮·斯特里特却为庆祝他们结婚三十周年的纪念日办了个派对。派对临近尾声的时候，斯特里特陪着妻子从外面回家。他已经安排了燃放烟火。除了卡尔·古德胡一个人之外，所有人都在鼓掌。卡尔也尝试过，可手就是拍不到一起。最后，这位昔日爱默生学院的学生放弃了拍手，而是用手指着天空，大喊大叫。 二零零七年，因为酒后驾车被指控，坐了大牢（这不是头一回了），格蕾茜，古德胡·迪克森的丈夫在一次撞车事故中身亡。当时，安迪·迪克森在下班回家的路上，一个醉鬼把车驶进了他的车道。好消息是，那位醉酒驾车的不是基弗·萨瑟兰；坏消息是，格蕾茜·迪克森已有四个月的身孕，她丈夫为了节约开支，早已终止了自己的人寿保险。格蕾茜搬回家去，跟她父亲和弟弟卡尔住在一起。 “照他们家的运势，那孩子生下恐怕会是畸形。”一天晚上，斯特里特跟妻子做完爱之后，躺在床上说道。 “嘘！”詹妮震惊地喊道。 “要是你把它说出来，它就不会变成真的了。”斯特里特解释道，很快这对儿就相拥着进入了梦乡。 那一年给儿童基金的支票是三万美金。 斯特里特写支票的时候，没有丝毫心疼。 格蕾茜的孩子出世的时候，正值二零零八年二月暴风雪肆虐的高潮期。好消息是，孩子没有畸形；坏消息是，孩子一生下来就夭折了。死因是该死的家族遗传性心脏病。格蕾茜——无牙、无