Chapter 3 2

Cujo knew he was too old to chase rabbits. It was not old, not even old for a dog. But at the age of five, he is long past the puppy age, and even chasing a butterfly will make him struggle in the bushes and grass behind the house and barn.It was five years old, and if it were a human being it would be in the earliest stages of middle age. It was a beautiful morning on June 16, and the grass was still covered with dew.The heat that Aunt Eviey had predicted to George Miara had finally arrived, and it was the hottest June in recent memory. At two o'clock in the afternoon, Cujo could be lying in the dusty yard (or in the barn, if the man let it in, which it sometimes did when he was drinking, which he always was lately), in the hot sun Take a breather, but that's for later.

The rabbit, big and brown and fat, didn't even notice Cujo was there.He was happily munching in a mound of grass that would be parched and brown in a month's time from the merciless sun.If the rabbit started running in a panic before it moved halfway to its current distance, Cujo would let him go.But in reality it was only fifteen yards away before the rabbit's head and ears stood up.For a moment the rabbit was motionless, like a frozen statue of a rabbit, with ridiculously bulging backward squinting eyes, and then it started to flee. Amidst the violent barking, Cujo began to give chase.Rabbit was very small, Cujo was very large, but the balance of natural selection began to tip in the powerful contraction of Cujo's thick hind legs.It was almost close enough to swat the rabbit with its paws.The rabbit began to zigzag, and Cujo turned awkwardly, his paws digging at the grass behind him, and if dogs could grin, Cujo was grinning.

Rabbit turned another corner and went straight across North Field.Cujo followed, flapping, and he really didn't know if he had any hope of winning this contest now. But it was still trying, and Ai caught up, but the rabbit had fallen into a small hole.The small cave was hidden by long grass on the side of a small, gentle hill.Without hesitation, Cujo lowered his tawny body into a flaming missile, letting its forward momentum carry him in... with a bang, it stopped there like a cork. Seven Oaks Farm was at the end of town number three, and Joe Campbell had owned it for seventeen years, but he had no idea there was a hole in the little gentle slope.If he had farmed, he would have known, but he didn't farm, and he had no livestock in his big red barn, which was just his garage and garage.

His son often jumped up and down in the grass and bushes behind the house. Although he almost stepped on it several times and broke his knee, he didn't notice that there was a hole there.On a clear day, the hole would be seen as a patch of shade; on a cloudy day, it would be covered in long grass and almost disappear. John Mawson, the original owner of the farm, knew the hole.But when Joe bought the land from him in 1963, it never occurred to him to mention it.He might have brought it up when Joe and his wife had a son in 1970, but by then the cancer had taken old John, and it was perhaps his luck that Brett never found the hole.

There is probably nothing more interesting to a boy than a hole in the ground—such as this one, which opens out of a small natural limestone cave, twenty feet deep at its deepest point, where a small It is possible indeed for a boy to glide happily down like an eel until he gets to the bottom and finds that there is no way out.But in the past, this kind of thing has happened to some other small animals.The limestone surface of the cave made a great slide, but a poor one, littered with bones at the foot of the ladder: a woodchuck, a skunk, two chipmunks, two squirrels, and There is a house cat.The cat was Mr. Kling, and the Campbells found it missing two years ago - they thought it had hit a car, or just run away, but it was here, intact with the field mouse it was chasing its way in skeletons together.

Cujo's rabbit rolled and slid to the bottom and was trembling there, its ears pricked up and its nose quivering like a tuning fork, vibrating amidst Cujo's furious growls.Cujo's roar echoed strongly in the small cave, making the undead in the cave think that there are a large group of dogs barking here today. The little hole also attracts some bats from time to time—never many, since it's only a small hole; but the rough roof does provide a wonderful perch, where they can nap upside down, lolling, The good times in broad daylight can pass away.Another reason why Brett Campbell was lucky is that he did not encounter these bats, especially this year, these banners were wriggling in small holes with extremely strong rabies virus on their bodies...

Cujo's shoulders were blocked by the hole, and he pawed violently with his hind legs, but to no avail.It could have stopped there and pulled itself out, but until now, it was still trying to grab the rabbit.It feels like it's stuck there, just waiting for it to grab.Its eyes were not very sharp, and its huge body blocked almost all the light, and it didn't feel that the distance below was far beyond its front paws.It can smell damp, it can smell bird droppings, fresh, and old...but most of all, it can smell its bunnies, hot, tasty, and dinner is ready. Its roar startled the bat.

They are terrified that something has invaded their home.They screamed and fled in groups to the exit.But the signals recorded by the sonar are very strange, which makes them very frustrated: the original exit has disappeared, and the "exit" has now become a ferocious carnivorous beast. They hovered in the dark, screaming, their membranous wings flapping in the air, and it sounded like countless small pieces of cloth—diapers, probably—were whirling and rolling in the wind.Below them, the poor Rabbit listened tremblingly, hoping for some sudden turn of events. Cujo also felt a few bats flapping on his body as he managed to get into the hole, and he was a little scared.

He didn't like the smell or the sound of them, or the weird heat that came from them.So it screamed louder, snapping at the little things that were hovering and screaming around its head.Its biting jaws clamped a brown-black wing, and the bones were thinner than a baby's hand when bitten.The bat bit it in a frenzy, cutting a long curved gash like a question mark in its sensitive snout.After a while, Cujo let it go, and it flew crookedly, tumbling through the air, and finally landed on the limestone slope in its final, dying struggle.But the devastation had been done - in the head, a bite from a rabid animal would have been terrible, because rabies is a disease that attacks the central nervous system.Dogs are much more susceptible to the disease than their human owners, and while every veterinarian administers a rabies vaccine that destroys the virus, dogs can't be expected to get complete protection from these vaccines, and Cujo's life will never last. Haven't had a single rabies vaccine.

But Cujo didn't know much, all he knew was that the little invisible thing he had bitten tasted foul and disgusting.It decided that this game wasn't worth its effort anymore, and with a jerk of its shoulders, it dragged itself out of the hole, and the dust flew down like a small avalanche.It shook itself, and more ash and oddly shattered limestone fell down its fur.Blood was also dripping from the nose.It sat down, tilted its head toward the sky, and let out a low growl. The bats flew out of the hole like a little brown cloud, circled chaotically for a few seconds in the bright June sun, and went back in to roost.

They were mindless things, and after two or three minutes they completely forgot about the barking intruder and went back to their sleep.They hang themselves from the rough limestone walls on their hind feet, and wrap their wings around their mouselike bodies like old women's shawls. Cujo trots away.It shook itself again, helplessly stroking its injured nose with its front paws.The blood had begun to clot and dried into a small lump, but it still hurt.Dogs are very self-aware relative to their main consciousness, and Cujo is very disgusted with the way he is now.He doesn't want to go home, and if he does, one of his three owners - the man, the woman, or the boy - will see what he did to him and will probably call him a bad dog .And, right now, it does feel like a bad dog. So Cujo didn't come home, it just went to the "boundary river" - a creek - on the property of the Cambers and the Gary Pellvilles (the Cambers' nearest neighbours).As he waded and trudged upstream, he drank a swig of water and began to wallow in the water, trying to get rid of the still-fresh stench of the dirty, damp limestone, which he struggled to get rid of. ring dog feeling. Gradually, it felt better.It stepped out of the creek and shook itself.In an instant, water vapor splashed everywhere, and a rainbow appeared in the air, so pure that it took one's breath away. The bad dog feeling is subsiding, as is the pain in his nose.It suddenly wanted to go back to the house to see if the boy was there.It was used to the big yellow school bus that picked up the boy every morning and brought him back at three or four in the afternoon.But last week, the school bus - with its shiny eyes and belly full of screaming kids - didn't turn up and the boy stayed home and he used to go out to the barn and do things with the man .Maybe the yellow school bus will show up again today, maybe not.He wanted to see, he had forgotten about the hole and the disgusting smell of bat wings, and his nose didn't hurt at all now. With tall grass against his chest, Cujo moved easily across the North Field. It inadvertently startled a bird, but did not go after it.It has completed today's chase, maybe its brain has forgotten, but its body still remembers it very clearly.It was a St. Knight dog in the prime of his life, five years old, and almost two hundred pounds.Now, on the morning of June 16, 1980, the seeds of rabies were planted in him. Seven days later, in Portland, thirty miles from Sevenoaks Farm in Castle Rock, two men met at a downtown restaurant called the Yellow Submarine.Yellow Submarine features an assortment of premium hero sandwiches, pizza and dogwood in Lebanese sachets.In the back of the store, there is a pinball machine, and a sign is posted on the counter: If you can eat two yellow submarine nightmares, you eat for nothing, and under this line is a side note in parentheses: If You throw up, please pay. Usually, Vic's favorite food is a kind of meatball hero from the yellow submarine, but he suspects that all he can eat today is just a burst of exposure. "Looks like we're going to concede, don't we?" Vic said to another man, who was clearly not enthusiastic about the Danish ham in front of him.He was Roger Brixton, and when Roger Brixton looked at the food without enthusiasm, you knew something was about to change. Roger weighed two hundred and seventy pounds, and when he sat down you couldn't see his legs.Once Donna and Vic were in bed, and in a fit of "dollhouse" giggles, Donna told Vic that she thought Rogue's thigh must have been knocked off in Vietnam. "We're miserable," Roger admitted, "so fucking miserable, you can't even believe it, old Victor." "Do you really believe this trip will solve anything?" "Probably not," Roger said, "but if we don't go, we're sure to lose Sharp's bill. Maybe we can salvage something and make our way." He took a bite of his sandwich. "Closing the doors for 10 days will cost us a lot." "Don't you think we are suffering losses now too?" "Of course, we're suffering, but at least we can go to Kennybunker Beach and do those bookseller scenes." "Sally can handle these things." "I doubt Sally can handle her love life, let alone these bookseller scenes," Vic said, "but even if she can handle it, Joel's Selected Huckleberry Collection is still waiting. We'll do... Cascade Banking and Trust... and you're going to meet the heads of the Maine Association of Realtors—" "Oh-oh, it's you." "It's me, fuck you," Vic said. "My head explodes every time I think of those guys in red pants and white shoes. I always want to go to the farm cupboard and pull out a sandwich board to press 'em." "It's nothing anyway, you know nothing. None of their bills are worth a tenth of Sharp's. What can I say? You know Sharp and 'Kid' want to talk to both of us. I'll give You book a ticket." Thinking of the ten-day journey—five days in Boston, five days in New York—Vic breaks into a cold sweat. He and Roger had worked together for six years at Ellison's agency in New York.Later Vic moved the family to Castle Rock, and Roger and Orthea settled in neighboring Bridgetown, fifteen miles apart. Vic doesn't want to look back.He felt like he had never lived richly in the past, never really figured out why he was alive, and that didn't change until he and Donna moved into Maine. He now has a morbid feeling that New York has just been waiting for him to go back with its mouth open for the past three years; the plane will slide off the oncoming runway, and in the violent combustion of jet fuel, it will turn into a raging cloud of fire and plunge into the blue sky; There would be a plane crash by the Three Towns Bridge, and it would be their plane, and it would be smashed into a bleeding accordion; Gun; the gas main would explode, and in the explosion he would be decapitated by a ninety-pound frisbee-like canopy, horrible.If he goes back, that city will kill him. "Roger," he said, taking a small mouthful of the meatball sandwich and putting it down again, "did it ever occur to you that if we did lose old Mr. Sharp's bill, the world wouldn't be over?" "The world doesn't," Roger said, pouring a little wave of wine along the rim of his pilsner glass, "but what about us? My twenty-year mortgage, and sixteen long years, I Twin daughters are fully committed to Bridgeton College. You have your own mortgage, your own kids, and that Jaguar that can knock you half to death." "Yes, but the local economy—" 'Local economy, good! ’ Roger shouted emotionally, slamming the pilsner glass on the table. A party of four at the next table—three of them in UMP tennis shirts, the other in a faded T-shirt with Darth Vader Dirty written across the chest—begins to applaud. Roger waved at them impatiently, and he leaned over to Vic. "We should have turned down the ad campaign with Joel's Choice Huckleberries and those realtors in Maine. You know, we'd lose the Sharp bill and we'd sink without a bubble coming out. On the other hand, If we renew our contract with Sharp, even for just two years, we'll be on the Ministry of Tourism's budget list. If they do well, we might even get a few flops in the state lottery. Wait for our meeting What a delicious pie, Vic, when we can say goodbye to Sharp and their shitty cereal without a doubt, and let them go to hell! The big bad wolf will have to look elsewhere for his dinner , the little piggies can stay at home with peace of mind." "It all depends on how we salvage this situation," Vick said, "like the Cleveland Indians are going to do in this fall's championship game." "I think we'd better try hard, old chap." Vic sat in silence, lost in thought as he stared at the defrosted sandwich in front of him.It was unfair, but he was used to living with injustice, and what really worried him was the absurdity of the whole situation. The disaster blew up from the clear sky, like a murderous tornado, dragging a crooked but destructive little tail, and disappeared at some point.No matter how hard they tried, he, Rogge, and Woolkers themselves were gliding fragilely to the brink of doom, and he could see it in Rogge's chubby face.He had never looked so pale and grave since he and Orthea had lost their son.Roger's son, Timothy, died of sudden infant death syndrome, just nine days after he was born. Three weeks after the tragedy, Roger collapsed. He fell to the ground crying, clutching his round face with his hands, and fell into helpless grief. To the throat.What a heart-wrenching scene.But in front of him, what he saw in Rogge's eyes also worried him. Every now and then, a hurricane blows flat in the advertising industry. A multimillion-dollar firm like Ellison's agency might be fine.But a company as small as Woolkers Advertising can't.They could have held a basket in one hand, with many small eggs in one basket, and a large egg in the other--a sharp bill--and now it seems that either the large egg will be lost altogether, or The situation was completely disrupted.This is not their fault, but the advertising industry does always have a cute little boy who accompanies the prince to study and is punished for the prince. Vic and Rogue have come together naturally since their first foray at Ellison's agency six years ago. Vic was slender, tall, and rather withdrawn, in stark contrast to Roger's fat, happy, and extroverted personality.Their group meetings are based on both personal and business relationships.The Trenton-Brickstone team's first assignment was a small one, an ad for the Cerebral Palsy Federation in a magazine. What Vic and Roger conceived was a stark black-and-white ad: a diminutive little boy, propped up by a pair of big, brutal legs, standing on the dirty first base line in this half of Little League Stadium. forward.A New York Mets hat was on his head, and his expression—which, Roger always insisted, made the ad so successful—the eyes weren't sad at all, they were just dreamy, In fact, it even seemed happy.The ad text was simple: Billy Bellamy would never be the fourth hitter.Below: Billy has cerebral palsy; and below that in fine print: Help us, huh? The Cerebral Palsy Federation has clearly jumped a notch in donations, which is great news for them, and great news for Vic and Roger. In this way, the T-B team started to operate.Immediately afterwards, they planned several successful advertising campaigns.In these actions, Vick is mainly responsible for the conceptual framework, while Roger is responsible for the actual operation. Advertisement for Sony Corporation: A man is sitting cross-legged on the center line of a sixteenth highway. He wears a neat work suit, a Sony radio on his lap, and an angel hanging from the corner of his mouth. smile. The ad text reads: Police Desk, The Rolling Stones, Vivaldi, Mike Wallace, The Kingston Trio, Paul Harvey, Patti Smith, Jiri Falwell; and below: Harrow , la-la-la! Voith Corporation, a manufacturer of swimming equipment, also has a man in the Voith ad, and if you've ever seen a beach swim instructor on a Maine beach, he's a stark contrast to them: he leans on his straddle, Standing haughtily on the golden sands of some tropical Eden, this man in his fifties, tattooed, beer-bellied, muscular, with a wrinkled scar high on one thigh—a longtime businessman A veteran of ups and downs.In his arms he held a pair of Voith swim suits.Sir, the ad text says, I dive for a living and I'm not just hanging around.There are many words under this, all of which Rog called boastful nonsense, only these bold words are the real hooks.Wick and Roger wanted to write: I'm not fooling around, but they couldn't convince the people at Voith.What a pity, Vic likes to say over his drink, they could have sold more swim fins. Then there's Sharp. After twenty years with an advertiser in his hometown, Mr. Sharp reluctantly went to New York to find a new partner. He found the Ellison Agency. At the time, Cleveland's Sharp was No. 12 on the list of Great American Grills.Sharp had been bigger than Nabisco before World War II, and the old man liked to point out that, and "the kid"—his son—liked to point out that World War II ended thirty years ago. The bill - initially only a six-month trial period - was handed over to Vic Trenton and Roger Brickstone.By the end of the trial period, Sharp had jumped from No. 12 to No. 9 in the cookie-pastry-cereal market. A year later, when Vic and Roger went to Maine to open their own business, Sharp had climbed to No. 7. Their actions spread across the board For Sharpie, Vic and Roger conceived of a Sharpie Gunner, a megalomaniacal Western peacekeeping officer who fires cookies instead of bullets from his six-shot gun.The stunt crews created the scenes, some with chocolate flavored slices, some with shortbread, others with rolled oats.At the end of all the scenes, the sharp gunman stands despondently among a pile of cookie dough, the gun shell is empty, and alas, the bad guy is gone.He would say that to millions of Americans every day, but I have the best cookie, the best cookie in the West, or even anywhere.The sharp gunslinger took a bite of the cookie, and it was clear from his expression that his stomach was experiencing the pleasure of a boy's first orgasm.The whole film gradually fades away. For fine pastries—sixteen varieties, from pound cakes, cake crumbles, to cheeses—they did what Vic calls a George and Grefo scene.It gradually appeared that George and Gray were getting up to leave a luxurious and elegant party, the table was messed up, and all kinds of delicacies were everywhere... At this time, the picture moved to a dim, unheated small suite, and gradually became clear again. George sat at an ordinary small kitchen table covered with a checked cloth.Gracie opened the door of an old-fashioned refrigerator, pulled a Sharpie pound cake (or cheesecake, or crumb cake) from the freezer, and set it on the table.They are still wearing dresses, sitting quietly facing each other, with smiles in their eyes, that is warmth, love, and understanding. The pair of them are completely synchronized, the scene disappears, and only the black background shows A few words: Sometimes all you want, is a Sharpie cake.The ad won the Clio Goddess Award. Here's Professor Sharp's Cereal, an ad hailed by the advertising industry as "by far the most responsible ad in children's programming."Vic and Roger saw it as their crown jewel...but now, the same Sharp Cereals professor was back to haunt them. The professor is played by a well-known actor in his late middle age.TV was filled with snooty kids commercials selling bubblegum, adventure figures, puppets, animated characters... and competitors' cereals.In this sea, the ad for Professor Sharp Cereal stands out as a relatively restrained adult advertisement. In a fourth- or fifth-grade classroom, the advertising scene unfolds. This scene is already familiar to those who watch Crazy Rabbit/Road Running Time and Tianlong Gang every Saturday morning.Professor Sharp Cereals wears a suit, a V-neck sweatshirt with a shirt open to the collar.He spoke and acted somewhat like an authority, and after talking to about forty teachers and half a dozen child psychoanalysts, Vic and Roger found that this fatherly figure was the one most children felt most comfortable with. (Although this image rarely actually exists in their home). Professor Sharp Cereals sat on a lectern, talking casually, with a faintly friendly air under his gray-green tweed uniform (as many young spectators might think), but when he spoke he But calm and serious, no orders, no loud words, no fingering, no seduction or flattery. Every Saturday morning, he would speak to the millions of tiny T-shirt-wearing, cereal-eating, cartoon-loving audiences as if they were right in front of him. "Morning, boys," said the professor calmly. "This is a TV commercial about cereal. Listen to me. I know a lot about cereal because I'm the Sharp cereal professor. Sharp Valley The products—Cocoa Bear, Bran 16, and Sharp's Whole Grain Dinner—are not only the best-tasting foods in America, but they're good for you." The professor was silent for a moment, then grinned...he When you laugh, you can feel that he is your real best friend. "Believe me, because I know it, your mother knows it, and I think you know it too." And then a young man comes running up in the ad and he hands Professor Sharp Cereal a bowl of Coco Bears or whatever. The professor drank it all in one gulp and said to every family in the country, "No, there's nothing wrong here." Old Sharpe dismissed the last line, thinking there was nothing wrong with his cereal.But in the end Vic and Roger subdued him, not with any logical reasoning: advertising is not a rational business, you often feel what feels right, but it doesn't mean you can say why it feels right . Vic and Roger felt that there was a kind of power in the last sentence of the professor, simple but full of meaning.The words come out of the mouth of the Cereal Professor with the ultimate, total comfort of being a total security blanket that means I will never hurt you.In a world where parents get divorced, older kids beat you up for no reason, and sometimes your Little League opponent throws a pitch you can't hit, good guys don't It's not always like winning on TV, and you don't always get an invitation to a good birthday party.So many things can go wrong in such a world, but there is always the possibility of cocoa, or whole grain meals, and they always taste good. "No, there's nothing wrong here." With a little help from Sharp's son (whom, Roeg later says, you'd believe thought up the ad and wrote it all by hand), the idea for Professor Sharp's Cereals went through, and it went viral on Saturday morning TV. brilliance. It filled Saturday mornings, along with the syndicated weekly shows, Frontiers, Aki's America, Hunga Heroes, and Gilligan's Island.The Sharp Cereal Professor made bigger waves than any other Sharp commercial.His catchphrase, "No, there's nothing wrong here," became as nationally famous as "Keep Calm" and "No Sweat." When Vic and Roger were about to go their separate ways, they strictly followed the agreement and didn't go to their old clients until they broke up amicably and completely with Ellison's agency. The first six months at Portland had been scary, six months in a pressure cooker.Vic and Donna's baby Ted was six months old at the time.Donna missed New York so much that she became morose, irritable, and easily frightened.Rogue had an ulcer early on—a battle wound from his Big Apple ad campaign—and when he and Orsiaf had kids, the ulcer flared up again, turning him into a closet Lorusil steam engine.Vic knew Orthea bounced back hard in this environment, too.Donna told him that Orthea's usual small after-dinner drink had turned into two, and then three.Two couples are vacationing in Maine, sometimes together and sometimes apart, but neither Vic nor Roger realize that so many doors are closed tightly to people who move in, in a Maine saying , they were all "from out of state." As Rogue pointed out, if Sharp hadn't stood with them, they would have literally sunk.Ironically, at Sharp's Cleveland headquarters, the situation took a sharp turn. Now it's the old man who wants to keep working with Vic and Roger, and the "kid" (so-called: "the kid" is now forty years old) who wants to kick them out. The Kid thought it crazy to give their business to a tiny little ad agency six hundred miles north of New York.Although Woolkers has teamed up with a New York-based market analysis firm, it doesn't appear to be doing the Kid any favors, nor are the several other firms that have worked with Sharpe over the past few years. "If loyalty is toilet paper," Roger said bitterly, "we'd have to wipe our asses with it under high pressure, old man." But Sharp worked with them anyway, giving them the lifeline they had been desperately looking for. "We've been dealing with an ad agency here for years, enough is enough," said old Mr. Sharp. "Those two kids are willing to move out of that unbelieving city. They're just proving how good they are." Common sense." That's it, the old gentleman had already started talking, and the "child" stopped talking. For the past two-and-a-half years, the Sharpie gunners have continued to shoot, George and Grayley have continued to eat Sharpie cakes in their small unheated apartment, and the Sharpie cereal professor has continued to tell the kids that there is nothing wrong here. The actual on-location filming has been moved to Boston by a small independent studio, and the marketing analysis firm in New York continues to do their work with high quality.Three or four times a year, Vic or Roger would fly to Cleveland and talk to Carol Sharpe, negotiating with the "kid," who was now visibly graying. All other business transactions were conducted through the services of the United States Postal Service and the telephone company.This kind of cooperation seems a bit strange, even cumbersome, but it has always worked well. At this time, the red berry vitality valley came. Although it's only been two months since Vitality Valley entered the common market in April 1980, Vic and Roger have known about them for a while.Most of Sharp's cereals have little or no added sugar.Whole Grain Meals, Sharp's entry in the natural foods arena, has been successful. Redberry Vitality Valley is targeting those in the market with a sweet tooth who enjoy ready-made cereals and often buy cereals such as Earl Chocolate, Frankenberry, Lucky Charm or some other pre-sweetened breakfast food.These foods sit in a promising middle ground between cereal and sweets. During the late summer and early fall of 1979, Redberry Vitality Valley had successfully conducted market trials in Powys, Idaho, Scranton, Pennsylvania, and Rogue's stronghold in Bridgetown, Maine. Rog told Vic that he wouldn't let his twin girls near those things (although Orthea told him he was amused when the kids yelled for them as soon as they saw them at the Gilori market), " It has more sugar than all the grains in it, and it looks like a fire." Vic nodded in agreement, and he replied sincerely, "The first time I saw these boxes, I thought they were full of blood." He was not at all prophetic at the time. "So what do you think?" Roger asked again. While Vic was replaying the frustrating chain of events from the past in his mind, Roger put down the sandwich in his hand and asked this question halfway.He was becoming more and more sure that old Sharp and the elderly "kids" of Cleveland would send messengers again. "I think we should try it." Roger tapped him on the shoulder. "My friend," he said, "eat it." But Vic wasn't hungry. They had both received invitations to go to Cleveland for an "urgent meeting" scheduled for the fourth week after Fourth of July.之所以这样定时间，是因为许多夏普的地区销售经理都要在国庆期间去度假，至少需要三个星期他们才能都回来。议程中的一项内容和伍尔克斯广告直接有关：“对直到现在的合作进行评价。”信里这样说。其中的意思，维克觉得，是“小孩”要借红浆果活力谷把他们最终踢出去了。 就在红浆果活力谷被夏普谷制品教授热情地——也许是庄重地——捧出来，最后走红全国的三个星期之后，第一个母亲带着她的孩子进了医院，已经歇斯里底了，她肯定孩子在内出血。 那个小女孩的病顶多只不过是一种低等病毒感染，感染后喷出了她母亲一开始所认定的大量的“血”。 不，这儿没有什么不对。 那件事发生在艾奥瓦州的艾奥瓦城。 第二天又有了七则病例，第三天二十四个。 在所有的病例中，被呕吐或腹泻折磨的孩子们的父母，抱着孩子冲进医院，相信他们一定是在内出血。这以后，病例直线上升——开始到上百，然后是上干。 虽然没有一个病例中呕吐或腹泻是由谷制品直接造成的，但在不断增长的激愤中，这一点被人们忽略了。 不，这儿不只一样不对。 发病区从西部向东部蔓延着。 问题在于，是食物染料把红浆果活力谷变成了它现在这种令人激动的颜色。染料本身是无害的，但这也被公众忽略了。有些东西出错了，人体没有吸收这些红色的染料，而只是简单地把它们排泻出去。惹出问题的红染料只被加进一批谷制品——但那是庞然大物般的一大批。 一个医生告诉维克，如果一个喝了一大碗红浆果活力谷之后不久死去的小男孩接受尸检，尸检就会揭示出食物在消化道中的轨迹，那轨迹会红得像个停车信号灯，这就会清楚地揭示出它的效应绝对只是暂时的，但这一点也被忽略了。 罗格希望，如果他们要进行下去的话，就开足大力进行下去。 他准备和负责现场拍摄的波士顿眼镜工作室的人进行马拉松式的长谈。他想和夏普谷制品教授本人谈谈，这个人对自己的角色如此投入，以至于在这场灾难中，他已经快身心俱裂了。然后他还要去纽约，和做市场分析的人谈谈。 最重要的是，这是在波士顿的里兹卡尔顿和纽约的联合国广场的两个星期；这两个星期里他们所能做的，只能是耗掉身上的肉，花掉兜里的钱，绞尽脑汁，就像他们过去那样。罗格希望他们的结果会是一次反弹行动，把老夏普和他的孩子都打得丢盔卸甲。他们不能伸出脖子到克利夫兰的铡刀下去受死，而是要带着一份战斗计划出现在那里，去扭转红浆果活力谷大混乱带来的不利局面。从理论上和实际上，他们都知道，自己的胜机就像一个投手指望能打出一场无安打赛一样地微乎其微。 维克还有其它问题。在过去大约八个月里，他隐约觉得自己和妻子缓缓地漂开了。 他仍然爱着她，还有那该死的小太阳似的儿子泰德，但现在事情已经从有一点不对劲变得相当糟糕了，而且似乎还有更糟糕的事，更糟糕的时间，在远方的地平线上等着他。这次从波士顿到纽约，再到克利夫兰的大旅行，正处在他们原来的在家季节——他们一起在家一起做事的季节。真不是时候。最近他看着她的面孔时，在那些平面，那些角，那些线的下面，他似乎隐隐地看见一个陌生人闯进了他们的生活。 一个问题整夜整夜地一遍遍出现在他的脑海里，他难以入眠，近来这样的夜晚越来越多了，她是不是有了个情人？他们肯定不经常在一起。她干了那事吗？他希望没有，但他真这么想吗？说真话吧，特伦顿先生，否则你就要被迫自食恶果了。 他不能肯定，他不愿意肯定，他害怕真会那样……那时他的婚姻就完了。 他仍然倾心迷恋着她，从来没有像现在这样关心会不会有什么婚外事件。他可以原谅她许多，但不能容忍自己头上长出那些角来。No!你不愿意那样，不愿意那些角顺着耳根长出来，孩子们就会在街上嘲笑你这个可笑的男人。she-- “什么？”维克说着从恍惚中清醒过来，“我没听清，罗格。” “我说，'那该死的红色谷制品'。不带引号，确切的话。” “喔，”维克说，“我要为它干一杯、” 罗格举起比尔森玻璃杯。“干了它。”他说。 维克干了。 就在维克和罗格在黄色潜水艇压抑的会面大约一周之后，在3号镇道旁的七橡树山下，加利·佩尔维尔坐在他家前草坪的杂草丛里，喝着一杯桔汁酒，这种酒是由百分之二十五的乌限冻桔汁和百分之七十五的波波夫伏特加调成的。 他坐在一棵大榆树的阴影里，那棵大榆树在疯狂的荷兰榆树病的折磨下已经到了生命的最后阶段了。他的屁股坐在一把草坪椅磨得快烂了的木条上。这张椅子是一件西尔斯·罗帕克邮递品，也已经到了可用期的最后阶段了。他喝波波夫酒是因为它很便宜。 加利上一次买酒时，从新罕布什尔州买了大量的这种酒，那儿的烈性酒更便宜。波波夫酒在缅因州已经很便宜了，但在新罕布什尔州，它便宜得发贱。那个州在生活中的好东西方面是排得上号的，那儿有奖金丰厚的抽彩，便宜的烈性酒，便宜的香烟，还有圣诞老人树和六枪城这样的旅游名胜。 新罕布什尔是一个很棒的老地方。草坪倚已经陷入杂物丛生的草地，深深扎进草皮层中。草坪后面的那幢屋子也烂糟糟的，它是一个灰色、油漆剥落、屋顶下陷的烂摊子。百叶窗斜挂着，烟囱弯向天空，像一个跌倒后正爬起来的老酒鬼。一些屋顶板已经在去年冬季的狂风中被掀飞了，它们现在正在那棵垂死的老榆树的几根树枝上挂着。这儿不是印度的泰姬陵，加利有时说，但他连屁都不会放一个。 在这样一个热得让人发昏的晚秋的日子里，加利醉得像只黑鸭，这对他来说很平常。池一点都不他妈的认识罗格·布瑞克斯通，一点都不他妈的认识维克·特伦顿，一点都不他妈的认识多娜·待伦顿，即使认识她，要是来访的球队射出的边线球被她用接球员手套收住，他连屁都不会放一个。 他倒认识坎伯一家和他们的狗——库乔，那一家就在小山的上面，3号镇道的尽头。他经常和坎伯在一起喝酒，在迷迷糊糊中，加利觉察到乔·坎伯也已经顺着酒精中毒的路滑得很远了。这条路上加利自己总是远远地旅行着。 “只是毫无意义地喝醉，我连屁都不会放一个。”加利告诉垂死的榆树上的鸟和他的屋顶板。 他把酒杯喝了个底朝天，放了个屁，猛打着一只小虫。这时阳光和阴影落在他脸上，形成一些斑斑点点。住宅的后面，有几辆散了架的汽车，几乎被高高的杂草埋没了；屋西的长春藤疯长着，快要失去控制，它们几乎把整个小楼都覆盖住，只留下一扇窗露在外面，晴朗的日子里，这扇窗会眩目得像一颗肮脏的钻石。 两年前，在一阵阴郁的疯狂中，加利把楼上屋里的一个柜子连根拔起，从这扇窗中扔了出去，他现在已经记不清为什么了。他后来又为窗户重安了玻璃，因为冬天一腿从那扇开着的窗户里跨了进来。但柜子还和它落下去的时候一模一样地呆着，一个抽屉跳出来，像伸出的舌头。 1944年，加利·佩尔维尔二十岁时，曾单枪匹马地在法国炸掉了一个德军的碉堡。这次业绩后，他又带着班上剩下的士兵前进了十英里，直到他带着六处枪伤倒下，伤是他在担任机关枪手时受的。 他因此被满怀感激的祖国授予最高荣誉——杰出服务十字勋章。 1968年，他在福尔堡的商业区找到布迪·托格逊，把勋章变成了一个烟灰缸。当时布迪很震惊，加利要求把十字勋章做成一个马桶，这样他可以在里面拉屎，但它没有那么大，布迪延续了故事，也许这符合加利的原意，也许没有。 不管怎么样，这都让当地的嬉皮土崇敬得要命。1968年的夏天，大多数嬉皮士正和他们富有的父母一起在大湖区度假。这之后，他们就要在九月回到大学，显然，他们在那里终日研习的只是抗议、酗酒和姑娘。 布迪·托洛逊在福尔堡的埃索车站附近工作，空闲时间他也做些定制铸造的活。就在他把加利的勋章变成一个烟灰缸之后，这段故事上了罗克堡的《呼唤》报。 故事是一个当地的乡巴佬记者写的，他把这件事理解成一种反战姿态。故事登出来之后，喀皮士们就在3号镇道路边加利的住所前陆续出现。他们中的大多数想告诉他，他“很激进”，一些想要告诉他“重了一点”，有几个想要告诉他“真地妈太过分了”。 加利给他们看的却只是同一样东西，他的温切斯特30－06手枪。他告诉他们，从他的领地滚出去，对他来说，他们都只不过是一群长头发，四处乱窜，爱发牢骚的蠢猪或思想激进的性交机器。 他告诫他们，他会一枪把他们的肠子从罗克堡打到弗赖伊堡，而且连屁都不会放一个。过了一段时间，喀皮士们就不来了，这就是有关他的杰出服务十字勋章的事情。 有一颗德国人的子弹把加利·佩尔维尔的右睾丸打掉了。一个军医发现它被打烂，飞溅在军用内裤的裤底上，另外一只则基本保存了下来，所以他有时还可以很自尊地勃起。偶尔加利会告诉乔·坎伯，他还能通过其它这样或那样的方式精神过。他满怀感激的国家授予他杰出服务十字勋章，巴黎一家医院满怀感激的全体员工在1945年2月给了他百分之八十的伤残抚恤金，除此之外还送给他一只镀金的猴子。 1945年的7月4日，满怀感激的家乡小镇为他举行了一次游行（那时他已经二十一岁，而不是二十岁，两鬓灰白，看上去有七百岁）。感激的市镇管理委员会成员永久地免去了他的房地产税，那很好，否则二十年后他就无家可归了。他再也弄不到吗啡，就改喝烈性酒，这成了他的终生职业，他可以要多慢有多慢，要多快乐有多快乐地自杀了。 现在，1980年，他五十六岁，头发已经全灰，比一头屁股后面架着一个什么把手的公牛还瘦。这世上他可以忍受的活物只有三个：乔·坎伯，乔的儿子布莱特，还有布莱特的大圣·伯奈特狗——库乔。 他在正在腐烂的草坪椅上向后靠下去，几乎要把整个背都贴上去了，然后又喝了一口他的桔对酒。 这些桔对酒装在一个地从麦当劳拿来的免费杯子里，免费杯的杯壁上有一种紫色的动物，它叫做鬼脸。加利经常在罗克堡麦当劳吃饭，那儿还有便宜的汉堡包。汉堡包倒挺好，至于鬼脸……麦克奶酪市长，还有罗纳德他妈的麦当劳先生……加利·佩尔维尔对他们连个屁都不会放一个。 一个宽阔的黄褐色形体正在穿越他左边的高草，过了一会儿，库乔悠闲地在加利乱糟糟的院子里出现了。它看见加利，友好地叫了一声，摇着尾巴老过来。 “库乔，你这老野种。”加利说着，放下法计酒．开始熟练地把手伸进兜里找喂狗食饼干。他总是给库乔留几块，库乔是那种老式的，彻头彻尾的好狗。 他在上衣口袋里找到了一些，把它们掏了出来。 “坐，孩子，坐起来。” 不管自己感觉多么下贱，情绪多么低落，一条两百磅的大狗像只兔子那样坐在面前，总可以让他觉得非常有趣。 库乔坐了起来，加利看见这条狗的鼻吻上有一道短小而丑陋的划痕正在愈合。加利扔给它一些饼干，那些东西看起来像是骨头，库乔毫不费力地在空中接住它们。它用前爪截住了一个，同时已经在吃另一片。 “好狗，”加利说，他伸出手去拍库乔的头，“好——” 库乔开始在喉间深处发出一声嗥叫，那是一种轰隆隆的振荡声。它抬头看着加利，眼中像有什么东西在冷冷地思索着。加利不禁打了个冷颤，迅速把手收回来，最好别和一条库乔这么大的狗瞎胡闹，除非你准备今后总用钩子擦屁股——以后会痛苦一辈子。 “你撞到什么了，孩子？”加利问道。他从来没有听见库乔嗥叫过，坎伯家要来它这么多年，他都没听过。说真的，他实在难以相信老库乔会对他嗥叫。 库乔摇着尾巴到加利面前让他拍它，好像对自己刚才的失态感到害臊了。 “嘿，这才像是库乔。”加利说，抚磨着狗身上的毛。 这是酷热的一周，而且越来越热，正如乔治·米亚拉所说，他从埃维伊·查尔梅尔斯阿姨那儿听到过这些，他估计也是这样。狗类对热的感受远比人类敏感。他觉得没有什么道理要求一条杂种狗不能偶尔烦躁一次。但听见库乔那样爆叫，确实很有趣，如果乔·坎伯告诉他，他一定不会相信的。 “吃你的另一片饼干去。”加利说着，指着一个方向。 库乔又一次接住了狗饼干，把它吃了下去。 “这样很好，一点热不会杀了你，也不会杀了我，但它把我的痔弄出狗屎来了。好了，它们就是大得像个鸡蛋，我连屁都不会放一个，你知道吗？”他啪地一声打死一只蚊子。 加利又开始喝桔汁酒的时候，库乔在椅子旁伏了下来。该回去洗澡了，就像乡村俱乐部的那些贱女人说的那样。 “洗洗我的屁股，”加利说。他对着屋顶摆了个姿态，桔汁和伏特加粘乎乎的混合物滴到他晒得黝黑、骨瘦如柴的胳膊上，“看着这些东西，他妈地这样流下来，你清我会怎么样？我连屁都不会放一个，这里所有的东西都会倒塌，对于这样的小东西，我连屁都不会放一个，你知道吗？” 库乔的尾巴微微在地上拍了一下，砰！它听不懂这个男人在说什么，但那种节奏它很熟悉，那种形式让它感到舒心。 这种想法一星期来已经有一、二十次了，最早是……呃，对库乔来说，从很早开始。库乔喜欢这个男人，他总有东西给它吃，尽管最近库乔不想吃东西，但只要这个男人要它吃，它就会吃。 它然后就会躺在这里，就像它现在这样——倾听那种舒心的谈话。总地来说，库乔感觉不太好。它对这个男人海叫并不是因为它热了，只是它感觉不太好，有一刻——仅仅有一刻——它想咬这个男人。 “把你的鼻子碰到荆棘上？好像是这样，”加利说，“你在追什么呢？土投鼠，兔子？” 库乔又砰地一声拍了一下尾巴。草丛中有只蛐蛐在鸣叫，屋子后面，金银花四处疯长，在夏日的下午呼唤着那些昏昏欲睡的蜜蜂。库乔生活中的每一件事都应该是正确的，但不知怎么，它只是觉得一点都不好。 “要是佐治亚的乡巴佬的牙都掉光了，我连屁都不会放一个，里根的牙掉光，我也一样。”加利说着，摇摇晃晃地站了起来。草坪椅翻倒，终于塌了。如果你猜加利连屁都不会放一个，那你就对了。“对不起，孩子。”他走进屋，又给自己倒了一杯桔汁。厨房是一个满是嗡嗡声，沾满了蝇卵，让人极其讨厌的地方，四处丢弃着扯开的绿色垃圾包，空罐子和空酒瓶。称之为商业街，但多娜始终不习惯这种缅因式的称呼）回来，在那儿，她把泰德送往白日夏令营，然后从阿加维市场选了一些日用品。她很热，很疲倦。看到斯蒂夫·坎普的那辆外壁漆着花俏壁饰的破福特·埃考诺林车时，她突然怒气冲天。 怒气已经在酷热中积蓄了一天了。 今天吃早饭时，维克告诉她他就要去旅行，这让她很不高兴。她不愿意只和泰德孤儿寡母似地在家里呆十天，或两个星期，或天知道有多长时间。 他向她说明了问题的紧迫性，这吓坏了她，她不愿意受惊吓。今天一早以前，她还认为红浆果活力谷事件只是一个玩笑——一个让维克和罗格付出高昂代价的有趣的玩笑，她从未想过这种荒唐的事会有那么严重的后果。 一提到去夏令营，泰德就很烦躁，他抱怨说上星期五有一个大男孩把他推倒了。 那个大男孩叫斯坦利·多普森。他害怕斯坦利今天又会把他推倒。多娜带泰德去举办夏令营的美国退伍军人营地时，他在她怀里又哭又闹，最后她只好一个手指一个手指地把他的小手从自己的衬衫上掰下来，感觉自己更像个纳粹，而不是个母亲：你去夏令营，ya?Ja,mein Mamma。 有时，泰德相对他现在这个年纪显得那么小，那么脆弱，难道孩子们看起来都只是早熟、机智吗？他的小手指上沾满了巧克力，指印留在了她的衬衫上。这让她想起那些廉价侦探杂志中的血手印。 更糟的是，她的品拓汽车从超市开回家时，开始一路滑稽地蹦跳，晃当起来，好像得了汽车打嗝症。现在它刚静了短短一阵。当然发生过的还会发生，而且—— ——而且，更可恶的是，斯蒂夫·坎普来了。，“噢，妈的。”她喃喃地说着，抓起装满目用品的袋子从车里出来。她是一个漂亮的黑发女人，二十九岁，个子高挑，有一双黑色的眼睛。她的衬衫上印着泰德的指印，学院灰的短裤刚盖庄臀部，有点可笑。她在无情的酷热中，还能让自己勉强显得清爽一点。 她快步走上台阶，穿过走廊的门进了屋。 斯蒂夫正坐在维克卧室的椅子上，喝着一林维克的啤酒，抽着一支烟——可能是他自己的。电视开着，正放着《普通医院》里的那些痛苦场景，屋里一片生活的情调。 “公主回来了，”斯蒂夫歪咧着嘴冲着她笑，这种笑曾让她觉得迷人，危险但又很有趣。“我想你永远不会——” “我希望你出去，拘娘养的。”她冷冰冰地径直走进了厨房，她把日杂品包放到橱台上，开始向外拿东西。 她记不得过去什么时候也这样恼火，这样激怒过。她的胃缩起来，成了一个咬紧的、呻吟的结。也许上次她这样，是在她和母亲无休止地争吵后，她去学校前发生的。 斯蒂夫到了她身后，黝黑的手顺着她的腰向裸露的小腹滑过去，她想都没想就开始反击，她的胳膊向他胸口下猛砸过去，显然他早就预料到了她会有这么一手，这让她的怒气更无法消去。他常打网球，她的胳膊就像打在一块包着硬橡胶的岩石上。 她转过身来看着他，他那张满是胡须的脸正露齿笑着。她站直时有五英尺十一英寸，穿上高跟鞋比维克还高一英寸，但斯蒂夫几乎有六英尺五英寸。 “听见没有？我要你出去！” “现在，为什么？”他问，“小家伙已经出去做缀满珠子的缅饰，或用他的小弓箭去射领队头上的苹果，或是玩着其它什么游戏……老公在办公室里和重要人物们在周旋……现在应该是罗克堡最漂亮的家庭主妇和罗克堡的居民诗人、棒球庸手在爱的和谐中撞击出性爱的国会大钟的所有钟声的时候了。” “我看见你把车停在后面车道上。”多娜说，“为什么你不在车上贴一张大招牌，写上我正在和多娜·特伦顿性交，或其它什么诙谐的话？” “我有足够理由把车停在车道上，”斯蒂夫说，他仍咧着嘴笑着，“我的车后是梳妆台，剥得很干净，我就是不碰你也可以停在那儿，亲爱的。” “你可以把它放进门廊里。然后我会处理，你搬的时候我会给你开一张支票。” 他脸上的笑意退去了一点。这也是从她进来后，他表面的魅力第一次滑下去了一点，逐渐现出底下真实的人。 这个人她一点都不喜欢，这是一个一想起来她就会非常手足无措的人：她欺骗了维克，背着他和斯蒂夫·坎普上床，她希望现在所感受到的，只是一次肮脏的重感冒后对自己的重新发现，重新发现自己是维克的配偶。你揭去事情动人的外衣时，就会看到简单的事实，斯蒂夫·坎普——有出版物的诗人，巡游家具剥皮和修整工，编藤椅者，一个不错的业余网球选手，优秀的午后情人——只不过是个粪块儿。 “认真点。”他说。 “是，没有谁能拒绝得了英俊、敏感的斯蒂夫·坎普。”她说，“这真该是个玩笑，可惜它不是。但现在你要做的，英俊。敏感的斯蒂夫·坎普，只是把梳妆台放到走廊上，拿着你的支票，滚！” “不要这样对我说话，多娜。”他把手移到她乳房上捏了捏，这刺疼了她。她现在不仅很恼火，而且有点害怕了，但她不是一直都有点害怕吗？这种害怕不一直都是那种肮脏、龌龊的刺激的一部分吗？ 她把他的手拍开。 “还没有迷上我，多娜？”他一点笑意都没有了，“真地妈热。” “我？迷上你？我进来的时候你就在这里。”受到惊吓已经让她比以前更恼火了。他一脸浓密的黑胡子，一直爬上他的颧骨。突然间她想到，虽然曾见过他的阴茎在自己面前高高竖起——她甚至还把它含进嘴里——但她从来没有真正看清楚过他的脸是什么样。 “什么意思？”他说，“是不是你有点痒病，发作了，就想把它玩掉，我说得对吗？有没有考虑过我会怎么想？” “你已经凑到我脸上了。”她把他推开，拿着牛奶向冰箱走去。这次他没有准备，向后晃了一步，差点失去平衡。他的前额突然被几道线分开，颧骨上出现一片深红。 她记起在布里奇顿学院宿舍后的网球场上，有时他也这样。他网球打得不错，她看过几次——其中两场他不费吹灰之力就打垮了她气喘吁吁、汗流泱背的丈夫；偶尔他也输，那时他的表请让她一想起和这样的人交往，就非常不自在。他在超过两打的杂志上发表过诗，还出过一本书——《追逐日落》。 这本书是巴吞鲁日的一班人发表的，他们自称车库上的出版社。坎普毕业的学校是新泽西州的德鲁学院，他在现代艺术，缅因州即将举行的反核问题的全民公决，和安迪·华尔霍尔的电影上持有强硬的看法。他碰到两次发球失误时的神情，就和泰德听到“该上床休息了”时一样。 他向她追过去，一把抓住她的肩，扭向自己。牛奶盒从她手上掉下来，在地上摔开了。 “喂，你看看。”多娜说，“客气点，自命不凡的家伙。” “听着，你想摆布我？你难道——－” “滚出去！”她对着他的脸尖叫起来，唾沫飞溅到他的面颊和前额上，“你要我怎么告诉你？你是不是想要一张照片？我不欢迎你，找别的女人去！” “你这下践、挠人的小母狗。”他的声音阴沉，面色丑陋，不放开她的肩。 “你可以把梳妆台带走，扔到垃圾堆里去。” 她挣开他，伸手把水龙头上挂的洗碗布拿了过来。她的手在颤抖，胃在翻滚，头开始发疼，她觉得自己快要吐了。 她跪下来擦溅了一地的牛奶； “好，你自以为了不起。”他说，“想想你胯下发红的时候！你喜欢这样，你尖叫着要更多！” “你感觉对了，是这样，冠军！”她说，头也不抬，头发垂下来，她就躲在头发后面。她不愿意被他看见自己那张苍白。病态的脸，她觉得自己被推进了一个恶梦，如果她现在去看镜子，看到的会是个丑陋的、洋相百出的老巫婆。“出去，斯蒂夫，我不想再告诉你一遍了。” “如果我不怎么样？你会打电话给班那曼长官？当然，你就说：你好，乔治，我是商人的老婆，这个背地里和我上床的男人不肯走，能不能过来把他轰出去？你是不是要这样说？” 多娜的恐惧加深了。 在和维克结婚前，她一直是西切斯特学校系统的一名图书管理员。一个总是缠绕她的恶梦发生在她把嗓门提到最高，第三次喊道——一始我马上静下来的时候，那时候，他们一般，至少就在那一段时期，顺服了——如果他们不呢？这就是她的恶梦：如果他们坚决不顺眼，以后会怎么样？这个问题惊扰着她，因为她永远要面对这样的问题，既使只有她一个人，在黑暗中，她也害怕把嗓音提到最高，惟有绝对必要时她才会那么做，因为文明那时也会尖叫着骤然停止。他们如果还不听你，那你剩下的，就只有尖叫了。 现在她又感到同样的恐惧，对于面前这个男人的提问，她惟一的回答，就是他向她靠近时，她要尖叫，但她会吗？ “走吧，”她的声音不高，“请走吧，一切都结束了。” “要是我决定不呢？要是我决定就在那摊牛奶中强奸你呢？” 她从缠结的头发中向他看去，她面无血色，两眼瞪得那么大，眼白都出来了：“那你就准备动手搏斗，只要有机会，我就会扯下你的率九，挖出你的眼珠，不会有一丝犹豫。” 他的脸贴近之前，有一瞬间，她看出他有些拿不定主意。 他知道她身手敏捷，打网球时他可以赢她，但她也会让他出一身汗。他的睾九和眼珠也许会保住，但很可能她会在他脸上抓出几道痕来。 问题是他今天要走多远。她嗅到厨房的空气中有某种东西，混浊，让她难受，像大丛林里的一阵雾气，最后她沮丧地弄清那只是她的恐惧和他的暴怒，正从他们的毛孔中散发出来，形成的一种混合物。 “我要把柜子带回店里，”他说，“为什么不可以让你英俊的老公到商业区去取它，多娜？他可以和我好好地谈谈，谈谈剥皮。” 他于是走了，猛地拉上门（这扇门连通起居室和门廊），那声音几乎要震碎窗上的玻璃。过了一会儿，她听见他货车的马达轰鸣，响响停停了几次，又降回到正常的工作音高，汽车发动起来，轮胎在地上滋滋地擦了几声，他走了。 多娜慢慢地擦着地，不时起身到水槽边把布拧干。 牛奶沿着水槽向下淌，她颤抖着，那是一种紧张后的虚脱，也是一种解脱。她只模糊地记得斯蒂夫威胁过要告诉维克，她能做的只是想，一遍一遍地回忆造成眼前这幅惨景的那一连串事件。 她起先不愿意来缅因，维克突然提出这个主意时，她慌得不知所措。尽管他们去缅因度过假（他们亲身度的假本来应该可以说服她），但她总觉得这个州是个林深山远的末开发区，是个冬天会吹起二十英尺高的雪，把人们和外界隔绝开的地方。 一想到把孩子带到这样一个环境中，她就会害怕。她对自己，也高声地对维克描述过这样一个画面——暴风雪骤然刮起，把地阻绝在波特兰，而她在罗克堡。她想，也说过，泰德在这样的情形下大慨会独自吞食什么药丸，或跳进了火炉，或天知道会干些什么。但也许她抗拒的一部分原因，只是她顽固地拒绝离开纽约的激动和繁华。 好了，面对它吧——最坏的不是上面这些，而是一种无休止的判断，判断伍尔克斯广告公司会失败，夹着尾巴爬回去。 这种事情没有发生，因为维克和罗植拼命工作，累得屁股都快脱了。但这也意味着她要和孩子在一起，有太多的时间要自己来支配。 她用一只手的手指就可以数尽一生中的好友。 她确信自己交往的朋友，无论上天入地都会永远是她的朋友，但她从来不会很快很容易地交上个朋友。她也曾胡乱想过要办一个缅因州的教员合格证——缅因和纽约可以互相换证，所需要的，只是填几张表格。然后她就可以去找罗克堡中校的总监，把名字挂在学校的名单上。这个主意其实很荒唐，她用兜里的计算器算了一阵，还是放弃了：汽油费和雇人看孩子们的费用就会耗尽她每天挣的二十八美元。 我已经变成了小说中幸福的美国家庭主妇了，去年冬天的一天晚上，她一边沮丧地想着，一边看着冻雨渐渐沥沥地打在走廊的外重窗上。可