Chapter 9 9

Jesse's urge to puke faded away slowly, but surely.She was lying on her back with her eyes tightly shut, and now she was starting to really feel the throbbing pain in her shoulder.The pain squirmed slowly, coming in waves like waves.This, she thought dejectedly, was only the beginning. I'm sleepy.It was Ruth's childish voice again, she thought.It sounds heart-wrenching now.The voice had no interest in logic and no scruples.I nearly fell asleep when the bad dog came, and that's what I'm going to do now—sleep. She felt the sensation all over her body, the problem was she wasn't really sleepy anymore.She had just seen a dog tear a piece of flesh off her husband, and she wasn't sleepy at all.

What she felt was thirst. Jessie opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was Gerald, lying in his own reflection on the lighted bedroom floor, a sort of strange human-shaped atoll.His eyes were still open, still gazing angrily at the ceiling, but his glasses were now askew, with one end protruding into his ear instead of hanging over it.His head was tilted so slightly that his fat left cheek almost touched his left shoulder.All that remained was a deep red wound with white edges between his right shoulder and right elbow. "My God!" Jesse exclaimed in a low voice.She hurriedly turned her head and looked out the west window.The golden light—almost the light of the setting sun now—dazzled her.She closed her eyes again, and as her heart pumped blood through the closed lids, she saw the rise and fall of red and black.After watching this for a while, she noticed that this pattern of blood flow repeated itself over and over again, almost like looking at a protozoa under a microscope.The kind of protozoa with red blood on the slides, she found the repeating pattern both amusing and reassuring.Given the circumstances, she reasoned, one didn't have to be a genius to appreciate the appeal of such simple, repetitive patterns.When one's normal pattern of life is disrupted—so shockingly, so unexpectedly, one has to find something to grab hold of, something normal and predictable.If in the end all you find is the orderly rush of blood under thin eyelids and the setting sun of an October day, then accept it and be grateful.For if you can't find something to hold on to, at least something in some sense, then the alien element in this new world order is likely to drive you mad.

For example, the sound coming from the hall now is an alien factor.It was the sound of a dirty wild dog eating a human body part.The man who took you to see a film directed by Bergman for the first time.He once took you to the amusement park on Orchard Beach, coaxed you onto the big pirate ship, the ship swayed back and forth in the air like a pendulum, he laughed until tears flowed out, and then you said you would come here again.That guy made love to you in the tub once until you screamed with pleasure.The man was now a lump of flesh, sliding down the dog's throat. Such an alien factor.

"Strange day, pretty lady," she said, "strange indeed." Her voice became painful, hoarse, dry.She thought, just close your eyes and forget about it.But when the bedroom fell silent, she heard that the fear was still there, still prowling around on its big soft feet, looking for an exit, waiting for her to let her guard down.Other than that, it didn't really quiet down.The guy who worked the chainsaw was done for the day, but the loon was still chirping every now and then.As night fell, the wind picked up and rattled the door louder than ever—and more often. Moreover, the sound of the dog eating her husband was added.While Gerald was waiting to pay for his sandwich at Amato's, Jesse walked into the Mysod Market next door.The fish for sale there was always good - fresh as her grandma described it.She had bought some very good fillets of sole, thinking that if he decided to stay overnight, she could quickly sear them in the pan, and the sole was delicious.If Jerrod had his way, his diet would consist only of roast beef and fried chicken (with the occasional addition of very old fried mushrooms for nutritional purposes).He said he liked to eat sole.When she bought the fish, she didn't have the slightest sense of foreboding.Before he could eat the fish, he was eaten by the dog himself.

"It's a jungle here, boy," Jessie said in her dry hoarse voice.She realized that she was not only thinking in Ruth Neary's voice now, but sounding like Ruth too.During their college days, if Ruth had been left to her own devices, she would have skipped meals and drank Dewars and smoked Marlboro's. The gruff voice that wasn't nonsense spoke again, as if Jesse had rubbed a magic lamp. Remember one day last winter when you came home from your pottery class and you heard Nick Lowe on WBLM radio, that song that made you laugh? she remembers.She doesn't want to reminisce, but she remembers.The Nick Lowe song, she believed, was called "We've Always Been Winners."This is a popular libretto expressing the feeling of loneliness. It is both pessimistic and funny, and it seems incongruous with the melodious tune.Last winter was hilarious as hell, and it was, and Ruth was right.But it's not so funny now.

"Shut up, Ruth," she hissed. "If you're going to take advantage of my mind, at least you have to be bold and stop making fun of me." make fun of you?God baby, I'm not teasing you, I'm trying to wake you up! "I'm awake!" she complained, and on the lake the loon cried again, as if to back her up on that point. "I have to thank you more or less!" No, you're not awake, you haven't been awake - really awake - for a long time.Jesse, do you know what you do when something bad happens?You say to yourself, "It's not something to worry about, it's just a nightmare, I have nightmares from time to time, and they're not a big deal. Once I turn over, I'll be fine." That's what you do, you poor thing Fools, that's exactly what you did.

Jessie opened her mouth to answer—whether she had a dry mouth and a sore throat, she had to answer that kind of nonsense.But before Jesse himself could begin to organize his thoughts, Mrs. Burlingame ascended the fortified castle. How can you say such a nasty thing?You are terrible!go away! Ruth's not-nonsense voice let out another mocking laugh.Jesse thought how annoying it was--terribly annoying--to hear part of his brain laughing in the voice of an old acquaintance who had long since gone somewhere God only knows. go away?You'll be happy then, won't you?Dear baby, Mince Pudding, Papa's little girl, whenever you get too close to the truth, whenever you start to suspect that the dream might not be just a dream, you run away.

It's hilarious. Yeah?So what happened to Nora Calligan? For a moment, Mrs. Burlingame's voice—and her own, which usually spoke aloud as "I" in her head—was stunned and silenced by that statement.Yet out of the silence a strange yet familiar image formed: a circle of laughing and pointing people—mostly women—stand around a young girl with her head and hands in chains.It was hard to see her because it was dark—there should have been daylight, but for some reason it remained dark.However, even when it was very light, the girl's face would still be covered.Her hair hung down like a penitent's veil, and it was hard to believe that she could do anything terribly terrible.Evidently, she was only about twelve years old.No matter what she was punished for, it couldn't be because she hurt her husband.This particular daughter, Eve, was too young to even start menstruating, let alone have a husband.

No.That's not true. A voice deep in her head spoke suddenly.The sound was both musical and frighteningly intense, like the cry of a whale. She started menstruating when she was only ten and a half years old.Maybe the problem is there.Maybe he smelled blood, like the dog in the hall outside.Maybe that's what drove him crazy. Shut up!exclaimed Jessie, suddenly going wild herself.Shut up!Let's not talk about that! Speaking of smell, what's that other smell?Ruth asked, now, the voice in her head was harsh and impatient...it was the voice of a prospector.At last he happened upon a vein of minerals that he had long suspected but could never find.That mineral smell, like salt and old copper coins—

We don't talk about that, I said so! She lay on the coverlet, muscles tensing under her cold skin, her captivity and her husband's death forgotten—for a moment, at least—in the face of this new threat.She could feel that Ruth, or some detached part of her that Ruth spoke of, was debating whether to continue the subject.It decided not to continue (at least not directly), and both Jesse and Mrs. Burlingame breathed a sigh of relief. Alright - let's talk about Nora as a substitute.Ruth said.Nora, your therapist?Nora, your consultant?At that time you stopped drawing because some paintings scared you, who was that person you started looking at then?Coincidence or not, was that the time when Gerald's sexual interest in you seemed to start to fade and you started sniffing his shirt collar for perfume?You remember Nora, remember?

Nora Calligan is a nosy badass!roared Mrs. Burlingame. "No," muttered Jessie. "She's kind, I don't doubt it a bit. It's just that things go too far, and a question is asked too carefully." You said you liked her very much.Didn't I hear you say that? "I want to stop thinking about it," Jess said, her voice faltering. "And I desperately want to stop hearing those voices and responding to what they say—it's all bullshit." Well, you'd better listen.said Ruth sternly.Because you can't escape from this the way you escape from Nora...for that matter, you want to avoid being touched the way you escape from me. I never ran away from you, Ruth.Eager to deny, but not too convincing.Of course she did, and she simply packed her bags and moved out of the nice and cheerful dormitory she and Ruth shared.She didn't do that because Ruth started asking her too many inappropriate questions—questions about Jesse's childhood, questions about Lake Daxco, questions about what might have happened that summer after Jesse started menstruating.No, only bad friends move out for this reason.Jesse didn't move out because Ruth started asking questions.She moved out because Ruth told her to stop asking her questions, and she wouldn't stop asking them.In Jesse's mind, that made Ruth a bad friend.Ruth sees the lines Jess is drawing underground...and then she crosses them on purpose, just as Nora Calligan did years later. Besides, the idea of ​​escaping seems ludicrous under these conditions, doesn't it?After all, she was handcuffed to the bed. Don't hurt my wit, sweetie.Ruth said.Your mind is not chained to a bed, we both know that.If you want to run away, you can still do it.However, my advice—my strong advice—is that you don't do it.Because I'm the only chance you have.If you just lay there and pretend it's a dream you had while sleeping on your left side, you're going to die in handcuffs.Is this what you want?Is this your reward for spending your entire life in handcuffs?since-- "I don't want to think about that!" Jesse yelled into the empty room. Ruth was silent for a while.But Jessie hadn't even begun to wish her away when Ruth came back...back at her, harassing her like piggies harassing people in rags. Come on, Jesse—you might want to convince yourself you're out of your mind instead of digging into the old days.But know that you are not your true self.I am you, you as a wife... In fact, we are all you.The rest of the family was gone that day at Lake Dakskau, and I know quite well what happened.What I'm really curious about doesn't have much to do with the event itself.What I want to know is: Is there part of you—I don't know which part—that, waiting for this time tomorrow, wants to share grounds in the dog's gut with Gerald too?I only ask because it sounds to me like insanity, not martyrdom! Tears flowed down her cheeks again.But she didn't know that she was weeping because of the possibility—the possibility, finally said—that she might die here!For the first time in at least four years, she began to think about another summer place, the one by Lake Dakskau.Ponder what happened on the day the sun went out. Once upon a time, at a women's awareness group meeting, she almost broke the secret—that was in the early '70s.Of course, it was her roommate's idea to go to a meeting like that.But Jesse volunteered, at least at first.It didn't seem to matter, just another activity of that amazing, tie-dye-like abundance of life.It was college, and for Jesse, the first two years of college—especially with people like Ruth Neary taking her to ball games, drives, and exhibitions—was mostly , she had a pretty good time.During that time, fearlessness seemed to be a matter of course, and it seemed logical to make a difference.No dorm room would be complete without a Peter Max poster in those days.If you're tired of The Beatles -- not everyone is -- you can try something else for a change.It's all a little too cheerful to be real, like what you see when you have a high fever and it's not life-threatening.In fact, the first two years have been an orgy. After the first women's awareness group meeting, the carnival ended.There, Jesse discovers a terrifying gray world.A world that previews for her the adult life of the future unfolding before her in the 80s, while also whispering dark childhood secrets that have been buried alive in the 60s - but it hasn't been quiet lay there.In a small living room attached to the Interdenominational church in Newerth, there were twenty women, some seated on sofas, others hidden in the shadows cast by the arms of several large, unwieldy vicar chairs.Most sat cross-legged on the ground in a circle—twenty women, aged between eighteen and forty.When the meeting began, they held hands and there was a moment of silence.After the ceremony, Jesse was overwhelmed by horrific stories of rape, molestation, and physical torture.If she lived to be a hundred years old, she would never forget that quiet and beautiful blond girl.The girl rolled up the cardigan to show the cigarette burns on the underside of her breasts. That one ended the Jesse Mechter binge era.finished?No, that's not right.It seemed to give her a brief glimpse of what was beyond the orgy.It made her see empty gray fields in the fall, and that was real, in the tall grass, just cigarette wrappers, used condoms, and some cheap prizes that were broken.These things are either waiting to be blown away by the wind or covered in winter snow.She saw the silent, ignorant, dull world waiting for her beyond this thin patchwork oil on canvas, a world that combined the carnival in between, the hype of the ad agencies, and the obsession with car trips. Aimless obsession separates.This terrified her.There was only this unfolding before her eyes, only this and nothing else, and it was terrible to think of it.Think again about her past, with her own repaired memory on a patchwork of tawdry cheap canvases that can't quite cover it.The thought of it was too much for her to bear. The beautiful blond girl pulled up her sweater after showing her breast scars.She explained it was what her brother's friends did to her the weekend her parents went to Montreal.And she can't say anything to her parents, because it might also mean that what her brother has been doing to her on and off for the last year will leak out, and her parents will never believe that. The girl's voice was as quiet as her face, and her tone was very sensible.When she was done, there was a thunderous pause--at this moment, Jessie felt something tearing from inside her body, and she heard a hundred voices screaming in her head, mixed with hope and terror--then , Ruth spoke. "Why don't they believe you?" she asked. "Jesus, burning—they burn you with burning cigarettes! I mean, you have these burns as evidence! Why wouldn't they believe you? Don't they love you?" Yes, Jesse thought.Yes, they loved her, but— "Yes," said the blonde girl, "they loved me and they still love me. But they doted on my brother Barry." Sitting next to Ruth, Jessie rested the heel of her unsteady hand on her forehead, and she remembered whispering, "And, that's going to kill her." Ruth turned to her and said, "What?" Goldilocks was still not crying, still bafflingly calm."And, finding out about that would kill my mom," she said. Then, Jessie knew, if she didn't get out of here she was going to explode.So she stood up, jumped out of the chair, and almost knocked over the ugly and heavy object.She rushed out of the house at full speed, she knew that everyone was watching her, and she didn't care.It doesn't matter what they think.What matters is that the sun has been extinguished, the sun itself.If she told her story, people wouldn't believe her as long as God was merciful.Jesse would be believed if God was in a bad mood... Even if Mom didn't get killed, it would blow up the family like a stick of dynamite in a rotten pumpkin. So, she ran out of the house, through the kitchen, and could have gone straight through the back door, but it was locked.Ruth ran after her, yelling at her to stop.Jess stopped, but only because the damn locked door stopped her.Pressing her face against the cold dark glass, she considered—yes, only for a moment she thought—to bang her head directly on the glass, slit her throat, and did anything to erase the gray prospect of the future and the The past behind.However, she ended up just turning and slipping to the ground, hugging her bare legs under the hem of her short skirt, resting her forehead on her arched knees, and closing her eyes.Ruth sat down beside her, put an arm around her, rocked her back and forth, stroked her hair, whispered reassurance to her, encouraged her to speak up, get rid of it, throw up, let go. Now, lying in this house on the shore of Kashwickmark Lake, she wondered how the weeping, amazingly calm blonde was doing.The girl told them about her brother Barry and his friends—apparently the young men thought women were life support because of their vaginas.Branding was a fitting punishment for a young girl.The girl more or less felt that it didn't matter what she did with her brother, but it was not the same thing with her brother's friends.More to the point, Jessie wondered what she had said to Ruth the other day as she and Ruth sat there with their backs leaning against the locked kitchen door.The only thing she can remember with certainty is the words: "He never burns me, he never burns me, he never burns me at all." But she must have said more than that.For the questions Ruth refused to stop asking all pointed in one clear direction: toward Lake Daxco, and the day when the sun went out. She had finally left Ruth without saying...just as she had left Nora without saying.She ran away as fast as her legs could go.Jesse Mecht Burlingame, the girl known for being astonishingly gaudy, was the last wonder of the age of hesitation.Survivors of the day the sun went out are now handcuffed to their beds, unable to run away. "Help me," she said to the empty room.Now that Jessie had remembered the Goldilocks, the face and voice were strangely composed.The once lovely girl with round scars on her nipples couldn't get her mind off her, and couldn't get rid of the realization that it wasn't sedation at all, but being completely in touch with the terrible thing that had happened to her. state of separation.Somehow Goldilocks's face became hers, and when Jessie spoke, she had the tremulous, subdued voice of a godless man stripped of everything but The last impossible prayer, "Please help me." It wasn't God who answered her, but a part of her that apparently could only speak while posing as Ruth Neary.Now that sounds mild, but not very promising. I'll try, but you have to help me.I know you are willing to do the painful thing, but you may have to think about the painful thing, are you ready? "It's not about thinking about it," Jessie said in a trembling voice, thinking: This is what Mrs. Burlingame sounds like when she speaks out loud, "It's about... er... escaping. Maybe you'll have to force her to keep silent, said Ruth, she's a desirable part of you, Jessie—a part of us—she's really not a bad person, but she's been allowed to manipulate the situation for too long.Do you want to argue that the way she handles things in a situation like this is not very good? That, or any other, Jessie didn't want to argue, she was too tired.As the setting sun approached, the sunlight through the west window became hotter and redder.The wind was blowing, making the leaves rustle along the platform on the lake side. The platform is now empty, and all the furniture on the platform has been piled up in the living room.The pine forest rustled, the back door banged, the dog stopped, and then resumed smacking and biting.Chewing, making unpleasant noises. "I'm so thirsty," she said plaintively. Alright, so—that's where we should start. She turned her head the other way, felt the sun's residual heat on the left side of her neck, wet hair against her cheek, and opened her eyes again.She found herself staring at Gerald's glass of water, and a hot, urgent cry escaped her throat. Let's forget about dogs and start doing something about it.Ruth said.Dogs are just doing what they have to do to survive.You have to do the same. "I don't know if I can forget it," Jesse said. I think you can, baby--I really do.If you can sweep under the rug what happened the day the sun went out, I think you can sweep anything under the rug and stop thinking about it. For a moment, she pretty much said it all.She knew that if she really wanted to, she could say it all.The secret of that day was never fully sunk in her subconscious, as it was in TV soap operas and movie melodramas.At best the secret was buried in a shallow grave.Some selective amnesia, but it is a completely voluntary amnesia.If she wanted to remember what happened the day the sun went out, she thought she might. As if the thought were an invitation, a clear, sad scene flashed through her mind: a pair of barbecue tongs holding a piece of glass, a hand in an oven mitt holding the glass, burning fire on the lawn. Flipping on both sides in the fireworks. Jessie froze in bed, trying to force the image away. Let's get one thing straight.she thinks.She supposed she was speaking to Ruth's voice, but wasn't entirely sure.She doesn't really believe in anything anymore. I don't want to remember anymore, understand?The events of that day had nothing to do with this one.They are apples and oranges, and it's very easy to understand the connection between the two—two lakes, two summer houses, two things. (Secret, silence, hurt, broken.) Sex Tricks—However, remembering what happened in 1963 does not help me at all, but only adds to my pain.So let's drop this whole subject, man, shall we?Let's forget about Lake Dakskau. "What do you think, Ruth?" she asked in a low voice.Her gaze moved across the room to batik butterflies.Another image came up for a moment—a little girl, someone's sweet baby egg, smelling after-shave lotion, looking up at the sky through a pane of smoke-blackened glass—and then, The image has mercifully disappeared. She watched the butterflies a little longer, waiting to be sure that the memories of the past had faded away, and then she looked back at Gerald's glass of water.Even though the darkening room still retains the heat of the afternoon sun, there are still some pieces of ice floating in the glass of water, which is really unbelievable. Jessie let his eyes move over the glass, letting it fixate on the cool droplets that condensed on the glass.She couldn't really see the cushion under the cup—the headboard was in the way.But, without looking at her, she could imagine that as the cold condensed water dripped from the rim of the cup, gathered at the bottom of the cup, and spread across the cushion, a dark watermark had formed. Jessie stuck out his tongue and licked his upper lip without getting it wet. I want to drink water!That terrified, demanding child's voice - the voice of someone's sweet little baby egg, cries, I want a drink, I want it right away... now! However, she couldn't reach the cup.The situation is very clear, the cup is so close, but so far away. Don't give up trying so easily - if you can hit the damn dog with the ashtray, you might get the cup, maybe you can. Jessie raised her right hand again, reaching as hard as her throbbing shoulder would allow, still at least two and a half inches away.She swallowed, and made a face at the thickened muscles and tight throat. "See?" she asked. "Are you happy now?" Ruth didn't answer.But Mrs. Burlingame answered.She spoke softly, almost apologetically, in Jesse's head.She said getting it, not reaching for it.They... they might not be the same thing.She smiled awkwardly, as if meddling.Jessie thought for a second, how odd it was to feel a part of you laugh like that, as if it were really a part of something completely separate from the whole.If only I had a few more voices, Jesse thought, we could have a bloody bridge tournament here. She looked at the glass for a while, then bobbed her head back and forth on the pillow so she could study the underside of the headboard.She saw that the shelf was not attached to the wall.It rests on four steel brackets that look like a capital letter L written upside down.The headboard wasn't attached to the bracket either - she was sure of that.Once, she remembered, Gerald was on the phone and tried absently to lean against the headboard of the bed.The end of the headboard against her was raised, raised like a seesaw.If Gerald hadn't let go of his hand immediately, the shelf would have been overturned by him like a disc in a game. The thought of the phone distracted her for a moment, but only for a moment.The phone sits on a low table in front of the east window, which overlooks the view of the driveway and the Mercedes.Right now, for her, the phone is like being on another planet.Her gaze returned to the bottom of the headboard.First study the board itself, and then glance at the L-shaped brackets. Her end cocked as Gerald leaned towards his end.If enough pressure is applied on her end to lift his end, the glass of water... "Maybe it will come," she murmured thoughtfully.It might slip on my way. "Of course, maybe it would glide merrily right across her end and smash to the floor, or it might run into some unseen obstacle on the shelf and knock it over before it got to her. But it's worth a look. Try, right?" Indeed, I think so.She thought, I mean, I'm going to fly to New York on my Lear—dinner at the Four Seasons, dancing all night at the Birdlands—but Gerald's dead, I think, That's kind of off-putting, and besides, not being able to get all the good books these days—nor all the bad ones, for that matter—I thought, I might as well try the consolation prize. OK, so how should she proceed? "Be very careful," she said, "that's it." She lifted herself up again by the handcuffs, and studied the cup again.It's just that she can't see exactly the surface of the shelf, and she knows exactly what's on her end of the shelf.But there was something at the junction between Gerald's end and the middle that she didn't quite know.Of course this should come as no surprise, as who but someone with a vivid memory can easily make an inventory of everything on a bedroom bedside shelf?Who would have thought that these things could be so important? Well, now, they are crucial.I'm in a world where everything's perspective has changed. Yes, indeed.In this world, a wild dog could be more terrifying than Freddy Kruger.The place where the phone was kept was dimly lit.The desert oasis one seeks, the object of a hundred desert romances the disgruntled Foreign Legionnaire strives for, is a glass of water with some shards of ice floating on it.In this new world order, the bedroom headboard becomes an ocean line as important as the Panama Canal.A misplaced paperback, whether it's a western or a mystery novel, can be a dangerous roadblock. Don't you think you're exaggerating a bit?She asked herself uneasily, but in fact she was not exaggerating.The chances of success of this operation are uncertain under the best of circumstances.But if there are clutter in the path—a thin detective novel or any of the Star Trek books that Gerald drops like a used napkin when he’s finished reading it—is enough to block or disorient him. Turn over the water glass.No, she wasn't exaggerating.The perspective of the world had really changed, enough to remind her of the sci-fi movie in which the protagonist, terrified of the house cat, began to shrink himself, down to the size of his daughter's dollhouse.Jesse figured he'd have to cram and learn some new rules—learn them and use them. Jesse, don't lose your nerve.Ruth's voice whispered. "Don't worry," she said, "I'm going to try—I really am. But sometimes it's good to know what you're disgusted with, and I think sometimes it's different." She turned her right wrist as far away from her body as possible, and raised her arm.This pose gives her the appearance of a woman's form composed of Egyptian hieroglyphs.She began to pat the shelf with her fingers again, groping for something she touched along that section of the shelf, and she hoped that the cup was within this section. She touched a piece of paper of considerable thickness and ran her thumb over it for a moment, trying to remember what it might be.Her first guess was a piece of paper in the legal pad, which is usually tucked away in the clutter on the phone desk.But this piece of paper is not thin enough to be a pad.Her eye caught a magazine—either Time or Newsweek, and Gerald had brought both—cover down next to the phone.She remembered Gerald flipping through one of them quickly as he took off his socks and buttoned his shirt.The piece of paper on the bedside shelf could also be one of those nasty magazine insert subscription cards that always come in those magazines sold on the newsstand.Gerald used to keep these cards aside, and later used them as bookmarks.It might be something else, but, Jessie decided, it didn't affect her plans anyway.It's stiff enough to catch or tip over a water glass.There was nothing else on the shelf, at least not within reach of her outstretched, wriggling fingers. "Okay," Jesse said.Her heart began beating violently.Some sadistic illegal TV station in her head tried to broadcast an image of a drinking glass tipped over from its stand, and she immediately dismissed the image. "Relax. Relax. You win the game. I hope so." She held her right hand in that position, even though bending it in the opposite direction was useless and painful, and then raised her left (the hand I threw the ashtray, she said with a hint of humor and self-deprecation. think).With this hand she grasped the last bracket on the headboard far beyond her end. Let's get started, she thought.She started applying downward pressure with her left hand, nothing happened. Maybe I got too close to the last bracket and didn't get enough leverage.问题是这该死的手铐链。我没有足够的活动余地，在架子上手伸不到需要的距离。 这也许是真的情况。但是这个见解并不改变事实。即她左手的这个位置对床头架不起任何作用。她得把手指叉开伸得更远一点，也就是说，如果可能的话——希望那样足够了。这是滑稽连环画册上的物理现象，简单却至关重要。具有讽刺意味的是，她能把手伸到床头架底部，只要愿意，随时都能把它推起来。然而，那样做有个小问题——会把杯子朝不正确的方向推去，从杰罗德那一端滑落到地上。仔细考虑一下，你会发现情况确实有其好笑的一面。就像从地狱寄来的《全美最滑稽的家庭录像》片断。 突然，风止息了，从门厅传来的声音似乎非常响亮。“他的味道不错吧，你这畜生！”杰西尖叫道。疼痛撕扯着她的喉咙，但是她没有——也不能住口。“但愿如此，我解开手铐要做的第一件事就是打折你的头。” 吹大牛，她想，这个女人真是吹大牛，她甚至记不起来杰罗德的猎枪——那杆属于他爸的枪，是在这里，还是在波特兰家里的阁楼上。 然而，卧室门那边幽冥昏暗的世界令人快意地静默了一刻，仿佛那狗在非常认真、缜密地对这个威胁进行思考。 接着，砸嘴、咀嚼又开始了。 杰西的右腕抽搐起来，威胁着又要痉挛，警告她最好立即动手……也就是说，如果她真的要做什么的话。 她向左靠去，尽手铐链允许的范围伸出手。然后她又往床头架施加压力。开始没有动静，她更加用力地拉，嘴角往下撤着，眼睛眯得几乎闭上了——这是张等待吃苦药的孩子的脸。接着，她鼓起的胳膊肌肉还没使上最大的力量，她便感到木板轻轻地移动。这均匀拉动过程中引力的变化如此细微，与其说是实际感受到的，倒不如说是凭直觉体会的。 一厢情愿的想法，杰西——这就是你感受到的。仅仅如此，再无其他了。 不，这个感觉输入端也许被恐惧置于最高处，但这不是一厢情愿的想法。 她松开床头架，躺了一会儿，缓缓地、深深地呼吸着，使她的肌肉恢复一下，她不想让它们在关键时刻抽搐，或者痉挛。没这种情况，她的问题也已经够多的了。当她认为已经像她所能感到的那样准备好了时，她将左拳松松地握住床柱，在上面上下滑动，直摩挲得红木嘎吱作响，她手心的汗被擦干。然后，她又伸出胳膊，抓住了床头架，是时候了。 可是，得小心哪。不错，架子移动了，它还会继续动。不过，要使那杯子移动得花掉我所有的力气……也就是，如果我能做到的话。当一个人力气即将耗尽时；控制力就不均衡了。 这是真的，但这不是隐蔽的难点。难点是她摸不到床头架的倾斜点，绝对摸不到。 杰西回忆起和姐姐梅迪在法尔茅斯小学后面的操场玩跷跷板的情景——那个夏天，她们很早就从湖边别墅回来了。她与梅迪为伴，在跷跷板上一上一下。在她看来，她似乎整个八月都是在那个油漆剥落的跷跷板上度过的。只要愿意，她们能非常完美地保持平衡。梅迪稍微重些，只要她往中间挪一挪屁股就能做到。一个个漫长闷热的下午，她们练习着，一边跷上跷下，一边唱着跳绳歌。练习使她们能够几乎以科学性的精确度找到每一块跷跷板的倾斜点。热腾腾的地面上，那六块弯曲的绿色木板列成一排，在她们看来仿佛具有生命。现在，她手指下面一点感觉不到那种热切的活力了。她只有尽自己努力，希望情况说得过去。 不管《圣经》上也许说的正相反，别让你的左手忘记你的右手应该做的事。你的左手可能是你扔烟灰缸的手，但是接住杯子的手最好是你的右手，杰西。床头架上只有几英寸的地方让你有机会抓住杯子。如果杯子滑过那个区域，即便它停住也无所谓了——你会和现在一样够不着它。 杰西想，她不可能忘记右手正在做的事——它疼得非常厉害。然而，它是否能做到她需要它做的事，这完全是另一个问题了。她尽力平稳、逐渐地增加了架子左边的力量。一滴引起刺痛的汗珠流进了她的一只眼角，她将它眨掉了。什么时候后门又嘭嘭作响了，然而，它和电话一起已经位于另一个字宙了。这里只有杯子、床头架和杰西。她身上的一部分期待床头架像个无理性的玩具跳偶一样突然竖起来，将所有的东西都弹射下来。她试图使自己坚强起来，迎接这种可能得到的失望。 担心着这件事是否会发生吧，宝贝儿。你可别分散了注意力。我想，有件事要发生了。 确实有事发生，她又能感觉到轻微的移动了——感到床头架在杰罗德那一端的某一点开始脱开。这一次，杰西没放松，反而加大了力量，她左上臂的肌肉鼓起了硬硬的小块，紧张得发抖。她爆发出一连串嘟噜声。架子脱开的感觉变得越来越强了。 突然，杰罗德的杯子里圆圆的水平面倾斜了，木板右边那头真的竖了起来，她听到了杯子里最后一些冰块碰撞发出的微弱声音。然而，杯子本身并没有移动。她起了个可怕的念头：要是一些水顺着杯沿滴落到垫子上怎么办呢？要是这些水形成了密封层，将杯子吸附在架子上怎么办呢？ “不，那不可能发生。”这句低语是脱口而出的，就像一个困倦的孩子机械地作祷告。她使足全力，在架子的左端更加用劲地往下压。每一匹马都套着马具在飞奔，马厩已空。“请别让它发生，求求你了。” 杰罗德那一端的架子继续在抬起，它的末端狂乱地摇晃着。一支马克斯法陀口红从杰罗德那端晃落，掉在了地板上。在狗过来将杰罗德从床边拖走之前，他的头就靠在附近。现在她又想到了一个新的可能性——说实在的应是偶然性。假如她再增大架子的角度，它就会顺着Ｌ型托架滑下来，杯子及所有的东西就会像平底雪橇顺着雪山往下滑那样。把床头架想做跷跷板会使她陷入麻烦。它不是跷跷板，它没有依附其上的中心支点。 “滑呀，你这该死的！”她气喘吁吁地朝杯子大声叫道。她已忘记了杰罗德，忘记了她的口渴，忘记了一切，只记得这杯子。现在杯子倾斜的角度很大，水几乎都要从边缘泼出来了。她不理解为什么它不翻倒。然而，它没翻，它只是仍然停留在它一直待着的地方，仿佛已经被粘在那里了。“滑呀！” 突然，它滑动了。 杯子的运动和她盲目的想象截然相反，以致她几乎没弄懂发生的事儿。以后她会想到，杯子滑动的过程暗示着她那不敢恭维的精神状态：她以某种方式做好了失败的准备。成功使她震惊得目瞪口呆。 杯子顺着床头架短短的距离平稳地朝她的右手滑来。这使杰西大为吃惊，她的左手几乎更加用力了。这个动作差一点使倾斜得晃晃荡荡的床头架失去平衡，将杯子摔落地上打碎。接着，她的手指真的触到了杯子，她又尖叫起来。这是个刚刚赢了彩票的女人发出的兴奋却无言语的尖叫。 架子摇晃了，开始滑动，然后停下来，仿佛它有一个未成熟的头脑，正在考虑它是否真的想这样做。 没多少时间了，宝贝，露丝警告道。趁着好抓的时候，抓住这该死的东西。 杰西试着去抓，但是她的手掌心只是在杯子滑溜溜、湿漉漉的表面直打滑，似乎无处可抓。在这该诅咒的东西上面，她找不到手指可放之处，抓不住它。水晃动着流到她手上，现在她意识到，即便架子稳住，杯子很快也会翻倒。 那是想象，宝贝——像你这样一个可怜的小宝贝蛋儿从来就做不对任何事情。这是习惯思维。 这话没有离题——当然非常近乎干安慰——但是它也没有切中主题。杯子是在准备翻倒，确实如此。她一点儿也不知道该做些什么来阻止它发生。她为什么有这样粗短、肥胖、丑陋的手指呢？why?要是她的手指头能稍稍长一点能拢住杯子就好了…… 她想起了某个电视商业片中噩梦般的情景：一个微笑着的妇女头发梳成50年代的式样。手上戴着一副蓝色的橡胶手套。 手套如此有弹性你可以戴着它捡起一枚硬币！那女人在笑着大叫。你没有这样一双手套太糟糕了，小宝贝蛋或伯林格姆太太或管你是谁！也许，没等架子上那些该死的一切东西登上直达电梯，你就能抓住那可恶的杯子！ 杰西突然认出来，那个戴着普雷泰克斯牌橡胶手套、笑着大叫的妇女是她的妈妈，她无泪地呜咽起来。 别放弃，杰西！露丝叫道。还不到放弃的时候！你已经接近了，我发誓是这样的！ 她在架子左边使上最后一丝力气，并断断续续地祈祷杯子别滑——暂且别滑。噢，求求你上帝，噢，不管你是谁，求求你别让它滑，现在别滑，暂且别滑。 木板的确在滑……但只滑了一丁点，然后便稳住了，也许暂时被一块碎木片阻住了，或者被翘曲的木板隔挡了。杯子又往她的手心滑动了一点点，现在——越来越荒唐了——它似乎也说起了话，这可恶的杯子。听起来它就像那些牢骚满腹的大城市出租车司机，他们对这个世界永远心怀不满。God!夫人，你想要我做点别的什么？我自己长出一个讨厌的把手，为你变成个该死的带柄水罐？又一滴水落在杰西拉紧的右手上，现在杯子将倒下来了，这是不可避免的了。在她的想象中，她已经能感觉到冷冰冰的水浸湿她的颈背了。 “水！” 她把右肩朝前扭曲了一点，将手伸得更开一点，让杯子往她绷紧的手心深处再滑进一丁点。手铐嵌进了那只手，刺痛一直传到她的胳膊肘，可是杰西不去管它。现在，她左臂的肌肉猛烈地抽搐起来，肌肉的抖动传到了倾斜不稳的床头架上。又一支化妆品翻到地下了，最后一些冰块发出微弱的碰撞声。在架子上方，她看见了杯子映在墙上的影子，在落日拉长的光线中，它看上去就像是被草原狂风吹歪了的谷物筒仓。 过来一点……稍稍再过来一点…… 不能再来了！ 最好来一点，必须再过来一点。 她将右手伸到肌腱吱吱作响的程度，感到杯子顺着架子又往前移了一小点。然后她又拢住手指，祷告着这终于足以拿住杯子了。因为杯子真的过不来了——她已经智穷力竭了。这几乎还是不够，她还是能感到潮湿的水杯试图蠕动开去。在她看来，它似乎成了一个活生生的东西了，一个有知觉力的东西，心胸狭窄得如同公路上的收费通道。它的目标便是不断地挑逗她，然后蠕动着离她而去，直至她失去理智。她躺在黄昏的影子里，戴着手铐，胡言乱语。 别让它离开，杰西，你难道能让那可恶的杯子离你而去—— 尽管杯子再过不来了，一点压力也没有了，四分之一英寸的距离也伸不到了，她还是勉强朝木板转动有腕又最后伸出了一点距离。这一次，当她弯曲手指拢住杯子时，杯子一动不动了。 我想，也许我拿住它了，不一定真是这样，但也许，也许是的。 也许这样，也许那样，哪一种也许都不再重要了。实际上那是个安慰。肯定的是这一点——她不能再抓住床头架了，不管怎样，她只将它倾斜了三或四英寸，至多五英寸。可是感觉上仿佛她弯曲身体压着一个屋角抬起了整座屋子。 一切都是视角问题……我想，还有向你描述世界的那些声音。你头脑里的那些声音，它们至关重要。 她断断续续地祈祷着，当没有床头架支撑的时候，杯子会留在她的手中，然后她松开了左手。床头架砰的一声回到了托架上，只稍稍有些倾斜，朝左边偏离了一二英寸。杯子确实留在了她的手中。现在她可以看到那个杯垫了，它粘在杯底像个飞碟。 天哪，求求你现在别让我把它摔落了，别让我摔—— 一阵痉挛揪紧了她的左臂，她猛地拉回身体靠在了床头板上。她的脸也揪紧了。她痛苦地挤着脸，嘴唇咬得发白，眼睛眯成了缝。 等等，就会过去的……会过去的…… 是的，当然会过去。她一生中经历过够多的肌肉痉挛，知道那一点。可是天哪，真疼！她知道要是她能用右手去摸左臂的二头肌，那里的皮肤摸上去就像是有一些光滑的小石子用看不见的精巧细线缝在里面。这感觉不像抽筋，倒像该死的僵硬。 不，杰西，这只是抽筋，就像你早些时候有过的那样。等它过去，就这样。看在基督的份上，等它过去，别摔掉了那杯水。 She waits.过了似乎无穷无尽的一会儿后，她臂上的肌肉开始松弛，疼痛开始减缓。杰西宽慰地发出一声刺耳的长叹，然后准备饮用酬劳她的琼浆。 喝吧，好的。said Mrs. Burlingame.可是，我认为，除了甘美的冷饮之外，你还欠你自己点什么，亲爱的。享用你的酬劳吧……可是要带着尊严地享用，别作牛饮状！ 太太，你从来不改变自己。she thinks. 可是，当她举起杯子时，却不顾上腭带有碱性的干燥及喉咙渴极的阵阵冲动，稳重得镇静得如同参加宫廷宴会的贵宾。因为你可以随心所欲地让伯林格姆太太沉默——实际上，她有时为此乞求你——但是，在这些情形下，带点尊严地行事（尤其是在这些情形下）是个不错的主意。她为这杯水奋斗过，为什么不从容行事，享用这成果，礼待自己呢？啜饮的第一口凉水滑过嘴唇，蜿蜒流过滚热的舌苔，品尝起来是胜利的滋味……她刚刚经过一番倒运之后，现在确实该品尝回味了。 杰西将杯子朝嘴边送去，她的注意力集中在即将到嘴的湿润喉咙的甘露。期待使她的味蕾痉挛起来，她的脚趾绻缩着，她能感觉到下巴颏下面的脉搏狂怒地跳动着。她意识到她的乳头变得坚挺了，就像有时她的性欲被激发起来时那样。 杰罗德，你做梦也没想到过女人性方面的这些秘密。用手铐把我缚在床柱上，什么也没发生。然而，给我一杯水，我就变成了一个性欲狂。 这个想法使她发笑，杯子在离她脸还有一英尺距离处突然停住了，水洒到了她赤裸的臀部，那儿起了一层鸡皮疙瘩。开始时笑容还停留在脸上。在最初的几秒钟里，她没什么感觉，只有种傻乎乎的惊异。 what happened?哪儿出问题了？ 你知道是哪里。一个声音说道。那声音镇静肯定，杰西发现很可怕。是的，她想，她的内心某处确实知道。但是，她不想面对。 有些事实简直太残忍了，不能承认，太不公平了。 不幸的是，有些事实不言自明。杰西盯着水杯，充血的肿眼开始蓄满可怕的理解。那手铐链是她喝不到水的原因。这可咒的手铐链太短了。这个事实过于明显，以致她当时完全忽略了。 杰西突然发现自己在回忆乔治·布什被选为总统的那个夜晚。她和杰罗德受邀去参加在索内斯塔饭店楼顶餐厅举行的高档次庆祝会。参议员威廉·科恩是贵宾。午夜前不久，预计当选总统的乔治本人将在闭路电视上讲话。杰罗德为这个场合租了辆雾色的轿车，七点钟准时将车开进了他们的车道。可是过了十分钟后，她仍然穿着她最好的黑礼服坐在床上，一边咒骂着，一边在珠宝盒里翻找着她的一副特别的耳环。杰罗德不耐烦地将头伸进屋，看看是什么耽搁了她。他听着她发牢骚，脸上挂着那种“你们女人怎么总是这么傻”的表情，一看这表情她立马来火。然后他说，他不敢确证，但是他想她正戴着那副正在寻找的耳环。她确实戴着。这使她感到自己卑微愚钝，他也完全有理由露出那种表情。这还使她想用脚上穿的高跟鞋踢掉他假牙上漂亮的齿冠。这双高跟鞋很性感，但穿着非常不舒服。然而，和她现在的感觉相比，当时的感觉就不那么强烈了。要说有谁活该被敲掉牙齿，那就是她自己了。 她尽可能远地伸出头去，嘴唇噘着，像是某个感伤的、描写爱情的黑白影片中的女主人公。她离杯子那么近，以至于能看见夹在剩下的一些冰块间的细雾状的气泡，近得足以闻到井水中的矿物质气味（或者说想象中能闻到），她却不能接近到能喝着水的距离。当她达到再也伸不了的那一点时，她噘起的嘴唇仍然离杯子相差足足四英寸。差不多就要够着了，可只是差不多，正如杰罗德一直喜欢说的那样，以马虎来计算。 “我不相信。”她听见自己在用一种新的、像是喝苏格兰威士忌酒、抽万宝路烟的嘶哑声音说话。“我只是不相信。” 她内心的愤怒突然苏醒。露丝·尼尔瑞的声音叫着要她把杯子扔向屋子。露丝的声音宣称，如果她不能从杯子里喝到水，她应惩罚它。要是她不能用杯中物满足她的口渴，她至少能将它扔到墙上，把它摔成上千块的碎片，让这声音满足她的精神。 她握住杯子的手握得更紧了。当她抽回手来扔它时，手铐链成了松弛的弧形。unfair!真是他妈的不公平！ 伯林格姆太太试探性的柔和声音阻止了她的行动。 也许有个办法，杰西，暂且别放弃努力——也许还有个办法。 对此露丝没用言语作答。但是无疑，她在笑着表示不相信。那种微笑铁一般沉重，和喷出的柠檬汁一样酸苦。露丝仍然希望她扔掉杯子。毫无疑问，诺拉·卡利根会说，露丝的报复心深重。 别在意她。said Mrs. Burlingame.她的声音失去了通常试探性的腔调，现在听起来几乎是兴奋的了。把它放回到床头架上，杰西。 然后再怎么办呢？露丝问。再怎么办呢？噢，伟大的白人领袖，噢，塔珀家用塑料制品的女神，邮购品商店的守护神？ 伯林格姆太太告诉她怎么办。露丝的声音静默了。杰西和她头脑里的所有其他声音都在洗耳恭听。