Chapter 7 ５-2

Neither of them slept much that night, and Vic had completely forgotten to call Joe Campbell and ask if he could fix his wife's sick Pinto. Joe Camber was with Gary Pellville, sitting on a collapsing lawn chair in Gary's overgrown backyard, Under a sky full of stars, they were sipping vodka martinis from McDonald's glasses. Fireflies twinkled across the air, and clusters of honeysuckle climbed Gary's fence, filling the hot night sky with their heavy aroma. Usually at this time, Cujo would be chasing the fireflies, sometimes barking while chasing them, giving the two men a lot of fun.But today, it just lay between them, its nose sticking out on its front paws.

They thought it was sleeping, but it wasn't.It just lay there, feeling that piercing pain going back and forth all over its head.It is too difficult for him to consider what the future holds in the dog's simple life.It just feels like something is changing its nature.When falling asleep, it seemed to experience some strange and unpleasant scenes. One of them, it violently threw itself at the boy, ripping open his throat and ripping out his internal organs. Those things were like hot air The steaming bag, and then it awoke biting and howling. It was always thirsty, but at some point it began to be unwilling to touch the water dish again.When he bites the bullet and drinks, the water feels like steel shavings, causing a sharp pain in his throat that goes all the way to his eyes.

Now it is lying on the grass, not bothering to pay attention to those fireflies.The man's voice was just an insignificant rumble to it from above.Compared with its growing pain, these voices have little meaning. "Boston!" Gary chuckled, "Boston! What the hell are you going to Boston for? How do you think I have the money to go with you? If I don't cash the check, I'm afraid I won't get anywhere. " "Damn you, you're old," replied Jo, who was quite drunk, "you'll just have to look under the mattress, and there you'll be."

"It's just bugs," Gary said, still giggling, "It's full of bugs, I can't even fart, are you ready for another orgy?" Joe handed him the glass, and Gary sat in a chair and mixed the drink, slowly in the dark with one skilled, steady, heavy hand of the old alcoholic. "Boston!" He handed the wine to Joe carefully, "Joy, I think your feet are itching again." Gary is Castle Rock, and probably the only person in the world who calls him Joey strangely , "I think you're going on a carnival, I've never seen you go further than Portsmouth."

"I've been to Boston once or twice," said Joe. "You'd better watch out, Perville, or I'll let my dog ​​bite you." "You don't let a dog go for a nigger with a straight razor in both hands and yelling at it," Gary said, leaning down and stroking Cujo's fur. "What does your wife say?" "She doesn't know we're going, she doesn't need to know." "Oh, is it?" "She's taking that boy down south to Connecticut to meet her sister and the decadent guy she's married to and they're going for a week. She won the lottery and it's okay to tell you, all the money comes from there here."

"She won some money, didn't she?" "Five thousand dollars." Gary whistled, and Cujo pricked up his ears uncomfortably. Joe told Gary what Charity had said to him at dinner, without mentioning the quarrel, as if the whole deal had been his idea, that the boy could go down with her to Connecticut for a week and then Autumn went with him to Moosehead. "So you can go to Boston and spend one of her winnings, you dirty old dog," Gary patted Joe on the shoulder and laughed, "Oh, you dog, well done!" "Why can't I? Do you remember when was the last day I had a day off? I can't remember. I've barely had a day off this week. I was planning to spend a day and a half lifting the motor out of Ritchie's International and fixing the valves, and now I have Chain crane, I only need four hours. I will do it tomorrow morning, and I can finish it in the afternoon. There is also a transmission job, and the owner is just a junior high school teacher. I can postpone it, and several other jobs can also be delayed. I just need to Call and tell them I'm going on vacation."

"What are you doing in Bington?" "Well, go to Fenway Park and watch the goddamn Red Stars play doubles. Go to Washington Street Mall—one" "Battle zone! Damn it, I know it!" Gary snorted and laughed. He slapped his thigh. "Watching a dirty show and applauding like hell?" "There's no point in going alone." "Well, as long as you're willing to part with me before I cash the check, I think I can go with you." "I'd love to." Joe knew that Gary was an old drunk, but he was always cautious about borrowing money.

"I don't think I've touched a woman in four years," Gary recalled. "In France, I lost most of the old sperm factory. The ones that were left, sometimes worked, sometimes didn't, It will be interesting to see if there is any powder in my powder gun." "Okay," said Joe, slurring his words and ringing in his ears, "don't forget about baseball. Do you know when I last went to Fenway?" "have no idea." "1--9--6--8-years," said Joe, leaning into Gary's arm.Spit out all the wine he just drank while saying, "My boy is not born yet, they played the Tigers, 6 to 4, lost, these sucklings. Norm Cash in the eighth Hit a home run right off the bat."

"When do you want to go?" "Around three o'clock on a Monday afternoon, I think my wife and kids leave that morning. I'll drop them off at the Portland dog station so I can spend the rest of the morning and half of the afternoon getting ready." "By car or by truck?" "Car." Gary looked at the night sky with soft, dreamy eyes. "Old wine, baseball, women," he said, straightening up a little, "I can't even pass a fart." "are you going?" "certainly." Joe gave a little cheer, and they all laughed, none of them noticing that Cujo's head was lifted from the sharp front paws, and there was a little howl.

Monday morning came amidst spots of pearl and dark gray. The fog was thick.Brett Campbell couldn't see the tree out of the window, it was about thirty meters away. Xiaolou was still asleep, but he couldn't sleep anymore. He was going on a trip, and it thrilled every cell in him.It was just him and his mother, and he felt it would be a good trip, and in the back of his mind he was glad his father wasn't going with him, that he would be free, not have to struggle to live according to some mysterious masculine ideal, he Knowing that his father had achieved that ideal, he had trouble even understanding it.He felt good, unbelievably good, unbelievably alive.

He felt sorry for those who hadn't traveled on this fine, foggy morning, because the fog would be followed by another hot day.He planned to sit by the window of the car and see every mile from Spring Street Greyhound Station to Stuart Ford.Although he went to bed very late yesterday, and it's not yet five o'clock...but if he stays in bed again, he will explode. He tiptoed into jeans and a Castle Rock Cougar T-shirt, then a pair of white sneakers and his Katz shoes.He went downstairs and made a bowl of coco bears.He ate as quietly as he could, but when the crunching of the cereal passed through his head and into his ears, he believed he could hear it all over the building.Upstairs, his father turned over on the double bed with a snoring sound, and his mother turned over too, the springs of the double bed creaked and his jaw stopped.He thought for a while, then took a second bowl of Cocoa Bears from the cupboard on the back porch, and closed the screen door softly. The air had begun to warm, but everything in summer smelled much purer in the mist. To the east, in a shadowy thing (he knew it was the belt of pine forests at the end of the eastern slopes), he could see the sun, rising above the horizon, looking as small as a full moon and shining silvery.The humidity was heavy, and the surroundings were still silent. The fog will subside after eight or nine o'clock, but it will be very humid all day today. Brett saw a white mysterious world, and he was filled with its mysterious joy: the smell of the hay that was about to be cut for the second time in a week, the manure, and the mother's rose.He could even smell some of Gary Perville's flamboyant honeysuckle. These honeysuckles, like a sea of ​​greasy, greedy vines, are slowly burying the hedge that marks Gary's estate. He put down the bowl and walked in the direction of what he knew was the barn.When he walked to the middle of the yard, he looked back over his shoulder, and the small building of their house faded away in the white mist, leaving only a vague outline.A few more steps and the silhouette is completely swallowed up.Only himself and the little silver-white sun looking down at him were left in the white.He could smell dust and damp and roses and honeysuckle. A howl. His heart beat into his throat, and he took a step back unconsciously, all the muscles in his body contracted into bundles of wire. He was like a child who suddenly fell into a fairy tale, and the first thought in his fear was: Wolf!He looked around in a panic, but there was only white around him. Cujo emerged from the fog. A growl growled in Brett's throat. The dog he grew up with, the little Brett, a five-year-old who sits in a flying machine and sits in a full suit of "armor" that Joe made for him in the shop patiently. The dog running around the yard, the dog that waited quietly in the mailbox for him to get back from school every afternoon, rain or shine... bears little resemblance to the muddy, shaggy ghost that apparently emerges in the morning mist place.The poor St. Bernard's eyes were a little red now, looking stupidly down, not like a dog's eyes, but like a pair of pig's eyes.Its body was covered with a brown-green mud, as if it had just rolled in a swamp at the bottom of the grass, and its snout wrinkled upwards, grinning horribly at Brett in a human-like way, leaving him petrified. up.All Brett felt was his heart, pounding out of his throat. Cloudy foam was slowly dripping from between Cujo's teeth. "Cujo?" Brett called softly. "Cujo?" Cujo looked at the boy, no longer recognizing him. It does not recognize his face.Can't recognize the color of his clothes (it can't distinguish colors as finely as a human), can't recognize his smell. What it saw was a two-legged demon.Cujo is sick, everything he sees is absurd and horrible, only murder is on his mind, he wants to bite, he wants to tear, and deep in his heart he sees a misty shadow of himself rushing towards the boy, Throw him to the ground, tear his flesh apart, and drink the blood that throbs from the dying heart. Then the horrible shape spoke, and Cujo recognized his voice.It was the boy... the boy, the boy who had never hurt it, the boy who had loved him, and he wanted it to die, and it would die. This feeling dispelled the murderous impression, made it blur like the white mist around it, and vanished. The rushing, noisy river in its illness was cut off and reconnected. "Cujo, what's the matter?" But the Cujo before the editor scratched his nose eventually disappeared, the sick, dangerous dog, flipped out for the last time. Cujo stumbled and turned and walked into the depths of the white mist.Foam splashed from its snout onto the dust. It began to run lumberingly, trying to run away from the disease, but the disease followed it, humming and complaining loudly, making it ache with hatred and murder. It started rolling in the tall dogtail grass, and it gnawed at them, and its eyes rolled too. The world is a crazy sea of ​​smells, to find the source of each one and tear them apart. Cujo barked again. It stood up. It, a nearly two hundred-pound dog, slid into the depths of the mist. Cujo disappeared. Brett stood there in the foggy courtyard for fifteen minutes, bewildered. Cujo was sick.It probably ate poison bait or something.Brett had heard of rabies, and if he ever saw a woodchuck, fox, or wild boar showing signs of rabies, he would think of rabies. But it never occurred to him that his dog would suffer from that horrific brain and nervous system disease.It seems most likely to have eaten poison bait. He would tell his father, and his father would tell the veterinarian, and maybe his father would do something for Cujo himself. Two years ago, he had used tweezers to remove the boar quills from Cujo's snout. He had erected the quills, laid them flat, and pulled them out, being careful not to snap them in or they would fester.Yes, he should go and tell his father, and his father would do something for him like Cujo had done the last time he met Mr. Pork Floss. But what about travel? No one would tell him that his mother had won them the trip through desperate strategy, or luck, or a combination of the two. Like most children, he can feel the ups and downs between his parents, just like an experienced guide can clearly know every twist and turn of the common river in the north.He could feel how the river of emotion flowed from yesterday to today and to tomorrow.This time the travel report was reluctant, although Dad agreed, but Brett felt that there was reluctance and unhappiness behind this agreement.It was questionable whether the trip would happen before he sent them on the road, and if he told Dad that Cujo was sick, would he use that as an excuse to keep them at home? He stood motionless in the yard, and for the first time in his life, his feelings and his thoughts were caught between a rock and a rock.After a while, he went to the back of the barn to find Cujo, and he called it under his breath—his parents were still asleep, and he knew how sound carried in the morning mist.But Cujo was nowhere to be found. Fortunately not. The alarm clock woke Vic up at a quarter past four.He got up and turned it off, and stumbled into the bathroom, cursing Roger Brickstone in his mind.Roger never arrived at the airport twenty minutes before check-in, as the average traveler does.Can't blame Roger, he's just a person who always encounters accidents, he always encounters flat tires, traffic jams, road collapses or earthquakes, and the aliens in outer space will probably make it to 22 today on the airstrip. He showered, shaved, took a few vitamins, and went back to the bedroom to get dressed.The queen bed was empty, he sighed.The weekend with Donna hadn't been a good one...in fact, he had to honestly admit that he'd never want another weekend like this in his life.They kept their normal, happy faces in front of the kids, but Vic felt like he was at a masquerade ball.He didn't like laughing and feeling how the muscles in his face worked. They shared a bed, but for the first time Vic felt that the double bed, which was designed for kings, was too small.They lay on each side, with a crumpled no man's land in between.He stayed up all night on Friday and Saturday, and every movement of Donna, every sound of her body rubbing her nightgown came clearly to his ears.It almost drove him crazy.On the other side of that blank space, he found himself wondering, had Donna been awake, too? Last night, Sunday night, they worked their way through the open space in the middle.The sex was barely a success (just a little tentative), at least when it was over neither of them screamed, and for some reason Vic thought morbidly that at least one of them should.But Vic wasn't sure if what they were doing could be called making love. He put on a gray summer suit and packed two handbags.One was much heavier than the other, and the heavy bag contained most of Sharp Cereal's documentation, with all the illustrations in Rogue's.Donna was in the kitchen making waffles and the teakettle was just chugging on the stove.She was wearing his flannel nightgown, and her face was a little swollen, as if sleep had not rested her, but had been hitting her face unconsciously. "Can an airplane take off in this weather?" she asked. "It will burn, and you can see the sun now." He pointed out the window, and kissed the bare part of her neck lightly, "You don't need to get up." "It's okay." She lifted the lid of the splint iron mold for making waffles, and briskly took out a cake onto a plate, and handed it to him, "I really hope you don't leave me." Her voice was low, " Don't leave now, I've been hoping since last night." "It's not that bad, is it?" "Not before," Donna said.A painful, almost secret smile touched her lips and flew out.She beat the waffle mixture with a wire whisk, poured a spoonful over the tin and covered it.Hiss.In two glasses (one marked Vic and the other Donna) she poured some boiling water and served it. "Have a waffle, and if you want strawberry jam, there's that in the cupboard." He got some jam and sat down and he spread some butter on the quiche and watched it melt into those little square holes, as he always did when he was a kid.The strawberry jam was Smuckle's, which he liked.He's scribbling on the pie, it looks great now, but he's not hungry. "Are you going to Boston or New York?" she asked, her back turned to him. "Solve the problem? Or stick with them?" He jumped slightly, and his face also turned red.He was very happy that she turned her back, and he didn't want her to see the expression on his face.He wasn't angry, he had a mental feeling of passing the man ten dollars instead of the usual one, and then asking him a few questions, which Roger did sometimes. "I'm going to be very busy today, and I don't have the mood to have fun." "What did the ad say? Jelly is always available." "Are you trying to drive me crazy, Donna? Or what?" "No, keep eating, you're about to feed the plane." She served herself a waffle and sat down.No butter, just a splash of Vermont maiden juice, and that's all she wanted.How well we know each other, he thought. "When are you going to pick Roger up?" she asked. "After intense negotiations, we set a time of six." She laughed again, but this time it was warm and affectionate, "Does he want to be a morning bird again?" "No, I wonder why he hasn't called to see if I'm up." The phone rang. They looked at each other from the table, and after a long silence, they both laughed at the same time.It was a precious moment, certainly more precious than last night's discreet lovemaking.He saw that her eyes were beautiful and clear, with a charming gray like the morning dew outside the window. "Come on, don't wake Taddle," she said. He did it.It's Rollo.He assured Roger that he was up, dressed, and mentally prepared to pick him up at six as agreed.He hung up, considering whether to talk about Donna and Steve Kemp on the way.Let's not mention it, it's not that Rogge won't have good suggestions, of course he will.But even if Roger promised not to tell Orthea, he would probably tell her.He suspected that Althea would find it difficult to resist the temptation to share this tasty tale with others as they chatted at the bridge table.This long line of reasoning made him very depressed from head to toe.It seemed as soon as he said it, they both buried themselves. "Dear old Roger," he said, standing up again.He tried to make a smile, but it didn't work, he missed the moment. "Can you pack all your stuff in 'Jaguar'?" "Of course, that's the way to go. Orthea needs their car, and you've got—oh shit, I totally forgot about Joe Campbell's pinto." "You have other things on your mind." There was a hint of sarcasm in her tone. "It's okay, I'm not sending Ted to camp today, he's sniffing a bit. I can keep him there for the rest of the summer if you see fit." At home, I always get in trouble when he's out." Tears welled up in her eyes, her voice was choked, thin, and vague, and he didn't know what to say. Seeing her sobbing with a tissue covering her face, he was at a loss. "Anything." His voice trembled. "Anything will be fine." He hurried without letting himself go. "You just give Camber a call. He's always there, and I don't think he'll be there in twenty minutes." fix it even if he gets another carburetor "Will you continue to think about it after you leave?" she asked. "Will you still think about what will happen to the two of us? Both of us?" "It will," he said. "Me too. Another quiche?" "No thanks." The conversation was already starting to get surreal.Suddenly he wanted to go out, get away from here, and suddenly he felt that trip was very important and very attractive.It occurred to him that he would get away from this mass of things, to distance himself from them.He felt that he was suddenly injected with a potion that could produce premonitions, and in his mind he saw the plane flying out of the tangled sea of ​​fog and into the blue sky. "Can I have a quiche?" The two looked around, startled.It was Ted, in yellow pajamas, with the ear of a toy wolf in his hand, and a red blanket draped over his shoulder, standing in the hallway, looking like a sleepy-eyed little Indian. "I think I can make you one now," said Donna, a little surprised that Ted wasn't an early riser. "Did the phone wake you up, Tad?" Vic asked. Ted shook his head. "I'm trying to find a way to wake up early, so I can see you again, Dad, do you really want to go?" "not long time." "Too long," Thad said gloomily. "I circled the day you came back on my calendar and my mother had already told me which day it was. I used to cross out the day that just passed every day before. My mother said she would read me 'The Devil's Words' every night .” "That's good, isn't it?" "Will you call back?" "I call back every other night at night," Vic said. "Every night," Tad insisted, climbing into Vic's lap, putting the toy wolf on a plate, and squeaking into a slice of toast himself. "Every night, Dad." "I can't every night," Vic said, thinking again of Roger's suffocating schedule. "why not?" "because--" "Because Uncle Roger has a tight schedule," said Donna as she served Ted's waffle. "Take your wolf toy and come over here to eat. Daddy will be calling from Boston tomorrow night to talk about what happened." Ted went to his seat at the end of the table and sat down.In front of him was a fork mat that said, "Ted, can you bring me a toy?" "Maybe, if you're a good boy. I might call back tonight and you'll know I'm in Boston..." Vic watched in fascination as Ted poured a lot of juice on the quiche, "You What kind of toy do you want? We'll go and see." Watching Ted eat the quiche, it occurred to him that Ted liked to eat eggs, scrambled, fried, hard-boiled, and hard-boiled eggs. Germans will be devoured like gobble up. "Ted?" "What, Dad?" "If you wanted people to buy eggs, what would you tell them?" Ted thought for a moment. "I'll tell them eggs taste good," he said. Vic's and his wife's eyes met again, and they had that same moment when the phone rang, and this time they smiled knowingly. Their breakup was uneventful.Only Ted, who still can't grasp how short the future will be, cries. "Would you consider it?" Donna asked again as he climbed into the Jaguar. "Will do." But on the drive to Bridgetown to pick up Rogue, all he could think about was those two moments of near-perfect communication.Twice in one morning, not too bad.They have been together for a total of eight or nine years, almost a quarter of his entire life.He started thinking about how ludicrous the whole concept of human communication is—it takes an infinite number of repetitions of that absurdity to get a little bit of it.When you put in the time and want to get good results, you have to be careful.Yes, he's thinking about it.They used to be fine, and while some of the passages are now closed and filled with God knows how much messy black filth (and some of them are still squirming), tons of other passages are still open, still in the Very good working condition. It has to be thought through carefully - but maybe not much at once.Things will gradually magnify by themselves. He turned on the radio and began to think of poor old Professor Sharp's Cereal. At seven-fifty Joe Camber pulled out of Portland Greyhound Station, the fog had been cleared by the sun, and the digital clock atop the Cascade Bank and Trust was pointing to 73 degrees. He drives with his hat straight on his head, ready to snap at anyone who drives off the road or cuts in front of him.He hates driving in the city.When he and Gary got to Boston, he was going to put the car aside until they were going home, take the subway if they got lost, walk if they didn't. Charity was wearing her best leggings—it was a serene green—and a white cotton blouse with a frilly neckline, and she wore earrings, which somewhat surprised Brett, except for going into church. , he couldn't remember a time when his mother ever carried earrings. Brett went upstairs alone to get dressed after Brett saw her get Dad ready with cereal for breakfast.Joe hardly said a word, just babbled at any problem once or twice, then turned on the radio to hear the ball game results and cut off the conversation altogether.They all worried that the silence portended a devastating outburst, a sudden shift in thinking about their travels. Charity had put on her leggings and was putting on her shirt.Brett noticed that she was wearing a pink bra, which also surprised him, not knowing that his mother had underwear that wasn't white. "Mom," he said eagerly. She turned to him—almost she turned to him. "Did he say anything to you?" "No... no. I mean Cujo." "Cujo? What's the matter with Cujo?" "It's sick." "What do you mean, sick?" Brett told her about his second bowl of Cocoa Bears on the back steps, his walk into the mist, and Cujo's sudden appearance, eyes red and wild, nose foaming down his nose. "He's not walking right," Brett said at last. "He's kind of, you know, waddling. I think it's best to tell Dad." "No," his mother snapped, grabbing him by the shoulder, which hurt him. "Don't tell him!" He looked at her in panic.She let go of her hand slightly, and said in a slightly calmer tone: "It's mostly the way it came out of the fog, which frightened you. Maybe there's nothing wrong with it, you know?" Brett's mind was searching for some exact words, wanted her to know how horrible Cujo looked, and how, for a moment, he felt the dog was about to jump on him.He didn't find it, and maybe he didn't want to find it. "If there's anything wrong," Charity said, "it might just be something wrong, it might have eaten a skunk—" "I don't smell anything—" "Or it could be chasing a woodchuck, or a rabbit, it could even startle a moose in the swamp below, or it could eat some nettles." "Maybe it will," said Brett doubtfully. "Your father probably just jumps up when he hears something like that," she said. "I can hear him right now saying, 'Is it sick? Well, it's your dog, Brett, yourself Take care of it, I have too much to do with that wild dog of yours."' Brett nodded unhappily.He thought so himself, and Joe sullenly ate in the kitchen, blaring the sporting news, convincing him of it. "If you leave him like that, he'll go to your dad for food and your dad will take care of him," Charity said, "almost as much as you love Cujo, even though he never says it, If he finds something wrong, he sends it to the veterinarian in South Paris." "Well, I think he will." Mom's words sounded reasonable, but he was still not too happy. She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. "I want to tell you that we can call your dad tonight if you want. What do you think? When you talk to him, you just ask casually, 'Are you feeding my dog, Dad?' And then You'll know." "Okay," said Brett, and he looked at his mother with satisfaction, and she smiled back at him, confident that trouble was out of the way. It backfired, however, before Joe backed the car up to the porch steps and began silently packing their four pieces of luggage (one of which Charity had surreptitiously put all six of her snapshot books in). For what seemed an infinite amount of time, they ran into new annoyances—would Cujo slip into the backyard and stalk Joe before Joe drove away, and then the problem came up again? But Cujo didn't show up. Joe put down the tailgate of the Squire, handed Brett the two small carriages, and took the two large ones himself. "Woman, with all the luggage you're packing, I doubt you're going on a divorce trip to Reno, instead of going south to Connecticut." Charity and Brett smiled uncomfortably.It sounds like you're trying to be humorous, but you can't be sure of anything with Joe Campbell. "Maybe there will be such a day," she said. "I think I'll have to catch up with you and drag you back with my new chain hoist." There was no smile on his face, and the green hat was stuck on the back of his head stiffly. "Son, will you take care of your mother?" Bright nodded. "Okay, that's good." He measured Brett. "You've grown so tall you probably won't give your old dad a kiss anymore." "I think I will, Dad," said Brett.He hugged his father tightly and kissed his rough cheek, and he smelled of sweat and overnight vodka.The love for his father surprised him very much, he felt it sometimes, and always when he didn't notice it (it has become less and less in the past two years, his mother probably didn't know it, told her maybe Nor would she believe it).This love has nothing to do with what Joe Campbell does to him and his mother day in and day out, it's a raw biological thing from which he may never be free, it's a An impression formed by multiple dreamlike contents that will haunt a person for a lifetime: the smell of cigarettes, the shadow of a double-edged razor in a mirror, trousers hanging from a chair, certain expletives. His father hugged him, then turned to Charity.He put a finger under her chin and lifted her face up a bit.In the parking lot behind the low red brick house, there was a muffled sound of a car starting. It was the sound of a rumbling diesel engine. "Have fun," he said. Her eyes were flooded with tears, and she wiped them away quickly, in a sort of rage. "It will," she said. Suddenly that tense, closed, uncertain expression fell on his face again, like a warrior's visor snapped shut.He was a complete countryman again. "Get those bags in there, boy! Looks like this has lead in it... God help!" He stayed with them until all four bags had been checked.He read the labels on each bag carefully, not noticing the condescending amusement of the bag bearers.He watched the bag bearer push the luggage out on a wheelbarrow into the aisle of the car, then turned to Brett. "Come with me on the sidewalk," he said. Charity watched them go out.She sat on a hard seat, opened her handbag, and took out a handkerchief, much annoyed.It looked as if he was just wishing her a good time and was going to take the baby home. On the sidewalk, Joe said, "Let me give you two pieces of advice, boy. You may not use either, as boys always do, but I don't think that will stop Father from saying them. The first is this: You The guy you're going to meet, the Jim, he's nothing, he's just a piece of shit. One of the reasons I'm giving you permission to go on this short little trip is because I think you're ten years old, and a ten-year-old should already be able to You can tell the difference between a dung block and a perfume rose. You'll know when you see him. He does nothing but sit in his office and flip through some papers. Half the troubles in the world come from here种人身上，因为他们的脑子和手之间的联系已经断开了。”乔的面颊像开始在发烧，“他只是一块狗屎，可能你现在会不同意我的话，去那儿看看就知道了。” “好的。”布莱特说，他的声音不高，但是很沉着。 乔·坎伯微微笑了。“第二个建议是，让你的手捂好你的口袋。” “我没有钞——” 坎伯取出一张皱巴巴的五美元纸币：“有，你现在有了。不要在一个地方把它花光。笨蛋总是很快和他的钱分开的。” "okay, thank you." “再见。”坎伯说，他没有要第二个吻。 “再见，爸爸。”布莱特站在人行道上，看着父亲钻进汽车开走了。这是布莱特最后一次见到他。 同一天早上八点一刻，加利·佩尔维尔穿着尿渍斑斑的内裤从屋里出来，对着金银花撒尿。他固执地认为，有一天他的带着酒气的尿会让金银花作呕得枯萎。但这一天还没有来到。 “啊——我的头！”他大喊，浇灌爬上他篱笆的金银花时，他用空出来的那只手抓着头。他眼睛里有一道道鲜红的小点。最近他的心脏像个老水泵那样卡喀卡塔地轰鸣，好像抽的不是血，而是空气。在他快把自己拉光（近来这种情况越来越多），又从皮包骨的两腿间咕噜咕噜地大量地排出他那恶臭的肠胀气后，他感觉到一阵猛烈的胃痉挛。 他转身要回去，就在这时候，他听见了降叫声。这是一种低沉、有力的声音，它就从他长满金银花的庭院边缘和外面的干草场相汇处的外侧传来。 他迅速转向那声音，他忘了头痛，忘了心脏卡喀卡哈的轰鸣，忘了胃痉挛。已经有很长时间他的脑海中没有重现法国战争中的幻景，但是现在他有了，突然间他的思想在尖叫：德国人！德国人！全班卧倒！ 但不是德国人。草分开的时候，出现在那里的是库乔。 “嘿，孩子，你嗥叫什——”加利说着，结巴了。 从他上次看见疯狗到现在，已经有二十年了，但他永远忘不了那一幕。那时他刚结束一次露营旅行，顺着东港线回头，正路过马基亚斯的阿摩考车站。他开的是那辆地五十年代中期买的印第安摩托车。一只喘着粗气、骨瘦鳞峋的黄狗像一个鬼魂，在那个阿靡考车站外游荡。它侧面的躯体随着急促的呼吸凸凹变化着，泡沫像稳定的水流从嘴角滴下，它的眼珠狂乱地翻着，后半身粘着一块块粪便。它几乎不是在走，而是在滚，好像有某个刻薄鬼半小时前刚掰开它的嘴，向里面灌满了廉价威士忌酒。 “棒极了，它在那儿。”修车工说，他扔下活动扳手，冲进连通到车站停车场的一间拥挤、昏暗的小办公室里，出来时他沾满油污、指节粗大的手里握着一支·30——30手枪。他迅速跑上柏油停车场，单膝点地，开始射击。第一枪低了，一片血云中子弹削飞了那只狗的一条后腿，但它却几乎纹丝不动（那情景加利记得很清楚、库乔现在就这样），然后它只是四面看了看，不知道自己身上发生了什么事。修车工的第二枪几乎要把它劈成两半，黑红色的溅射中，那条狗劈开的躯体撞上车站旁的一辆摩托车。不一会儿，又有三个男人开车进了车站，他们是华盛顿县三个个头最小的男人，肩靠肩挤在一辆1940年造的道奇小货车的驾驶室里，都带了武器。他们鱼贯而出，对着死狗又开枪射击了八到九枪。一小时后，当修车工刚在加利的印第安摩托车前按上一个新前灯时，县狗类官员驾着一辆乘客测设有车门的斯都德贝克尔车来了。她戴上一副长橡胶手套，切下黄狗脑袋的残留物，送到州健康福利部去了。 库乔看起来比多年以前的那条黄狗敏捷得多，但其它特征几乎完全一样。还没有病入膏盲，他想，更危险！圣耶酥，该去拿我的枪—— 他开始往回跑，“嗨，库乔……好狗，好孩子，好狗子——”库乔站在草坪的边缘，巨大的脑袋低着，眼睛发红，像蒙着一层薄膜。他在嗥叫。 “好孩子——” 在库乔听来，这个男人的话就像风一样毫无意义。它能感到的只是这个男人发出的气味，一种热、恶臭、刺鼻的气味，一种恐怖的气味，一种让它要发疯的不能忍受的气味。它突然知道，是这个男人让它得了病。它向前猛冲过去，胸中的嗥叫骤然变成震撼一切的怒吼。