Chapter 12 10

At half past three on that hot, sunny afternoon, Steve's car passed Donna Trenton's house.Out of an unconscious caution, he didn't slow down as he drove past the house.He parked on a corner about a quarter of a mile away and walked back. There was no car in the driveway, and he felt a twinge of disappointment after a rough ride. He wouldn't admit it—she didn't seem to be there now—he had wanted to give her the taste she'd been craving all spring.In any case, all the way from Seabrook to Castle Rock, he has been in a state of half a quarter, and he has not let up until now.

she left. No, the car is gone. One thing doesn't necessarily prove the other, does it? Steve considered it carefully. What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a quiet street in summer, most of the kids are napping, and most of the little wives are either doing the same thing or sitting in front of the TV watching Life Love", or "Searching for Tomorrow".All the handsome hubbys are busy rushing a road to a higher tax bracket, or quite possibly a bed in an intensive care unit at Eastern Maine Medical Center.Two small children played kicking stones on a chalk-lined grid that had been trampled into obscurity; they were sweaty in bathrobes.An old woman was coming back from town pushing a wire mesh shopping trolley, which, from a distance, looked like she and the trolley were made of the finest bone china.She carefully kept a considerable distance from the children playing games.

In a word, nothing happened. The street dozed off in the heat. Steve walked up the sloping driveway as if he had every reason to be there.He first looked at the small garage that could only hold one car. He never saw Donna use it, and once she told him she was terrified to drive there because the door was so narrow.If she made a hole in the car, the handsome husband would scold her severely. There are no cars in the garage.The Pinto wasn't in it, nor was the aging Jaguar - Donna's handsome husband was in what's called racing menopause, she didn't like him being called that, but Steve never found a more dramatic example .

Steve leaves the garage.After he climbed the three steps, he entered the back porch.He tried pushing the door, it didn't lock.He looked around nonchalantly, making sure no one was around, and went in without knocking. He closed the door, and the room was silent. His heart was beating heavily in his chest again, and his whole chest seemed to be shaking.Once again he didn't admit something, he didn't have to admit it, it was all the same anyway. "Hello? Is anyone in the house?" His voice was bright, honest, cheerful, and he was asking. "Hello?" He had already reached the middle of the hall.

Evidently no one was in the house, and the whole house was quiet, stuffy, and devoid of feeling.If an empty house full of furniture isn't your home, for some reason it always makes you feel creepy, and you feel like you're being watched. "Hello? Is there anyone in the room?" The last voice. Then leave her something to let her know you've been there, and slip away. He went into the living room and stood looking around, his sleeves rolled up and his forearms greasy with sweat.He won't admit anything.How he'd wanted to kill her when she called him a son of a bitch, when she spit all over his face.She made him feel old and frightened and unable to look his best, which made him want her so much.Faith is one thing, but faith is not enough.

There are many trinkets on the glass shelf to his right. He turned around and suddenly kicked hard at the bottom of the shelf.It fell apart, its frame wobbled and then fell over, and the glass shards were scattered all over the place, and all kinds of little china figures--cats and sheepdogs and all these middle-class goddamn things--were all over the place.A sudden impulse danced in the center of his forehead.His face was twisting, but he didn't know it.He carefully found the small porcelain statues that were not yet broken, and trampled them into powder.He tore a family portrait off the wall, stared curiously at Vic's smiling face for a moment (Ted was sitting on his lap, his arm around Donna's waist), and then he let the picture fall. He fell to the ground and stomped hard on the glass.

He looked around, panting as if he had just finished a run. Suddenly he ran about the house, as if it were some living thing, which had hurt him so badly, and he wanted to punish it, as if the house had caused his pain. He overturned Vic's couch.Turned the sofa upside down, its bottom stood upright for a brief moment, then it tipped slowly and fell with a clatter, smashing the coffee table in front of it. He threw all the books out of the shelf, cursing that they all stink of the excrement of the man who bought them.He picked up the web jib and threw it over his shoulder, hitting a mirror on the fireplace.

The mirror shattered, and large chunks of black-bottomed glass fell to the floor.He was snorting like a hungry cow in a fever, and his cheeks had turned almost purple. He went through the dining room into the kitchen.He passed a small dining table that Donna's parents had given her as a housewarming present. He stretched out his arms straight and swept everything to the floor—the lazy Susan and the accompanying condiments, a carve Donna bought for a quarter and a half from the Carolingian's in Bridgetown last summer. Glass bottles, Vic's graduated beer jugs, salt and pepper jars, the jars burst like bombs on the ground.He was getting erect again, his passion surging.The cautious thought of being found out was out of his mind.He is already in the depths of a place, he is in the depths of a dark hole.

He yanked out the drawer under the stove and threw the bottles and jars everywhere. They make a horrible clatter, but just the clack is never satisfying.A row of cupboards had been thrown open; they had filled three of the four corners of the room, and he had pulled them out one by one and thrown them out.He grabbed the dishes with both hands and threw them to the floor.The ceramics jingled and jingled.He swept the glasses down with him, grunting as he watched them shatter.Among the glasses he swept down was a set of eight delicate stemmed wine glasses that Donna had acquired when she was twelve.

When Donna was a child, she read "The Cabinet of Hope" in a certain magazine, and she made up her mind to have such a cabinet after that.As a result, she only had this set of wine glasses in her cabinet, then lost interest (her original grand idea was to fill her bridal chamber or her entire house), and she kept them hidden for most of her life, regarded as treasures. The marinade dish flew out, and so did the big serving plate.The Sears VCR fell to the floor with a bang, and Steve Kemp danced on it, doing the jib.His cock, hard as a rock, twitched in his pants, and the veins in the middle of his forehead twitched in time.He found some hard liquor under the chrome sink in the corner.He would yank out these half-full bottles and throw them one by one against the side cabinet door; the next day he would have a case where his right arm was so stiff and painful that he couldn't lift it to shoulder height.Soon Gilbert's gin was dripping from the blue cabinet door.Jack Daniel's gin, J&B whiskey and sticky mint julep, which was a Christmas present from Roger and Althea Brickstone.On a hot afternoon, the sun shone through the window over the sink, and the glass blinked affectionately in the sunlight.

Steve ran into the laundry room, where he saw boxes of bleach, "Speek and Span" detergent, Dhoni fabric softener in a large blue plastic bottle, Restor, " Best Live", and three powders.He was running back and forth in the kitchen like a crazy New York night reveler, pouring the cleaning solution all over the place. He had just emptied the last carton—an economy-capacity Ted box nearly full—and he saw the message indicator L Donna's scribbled handwriting: Ted and I are going to Camber's repair garage on a Pinto, right away. return. It was like a loud bang that brought him back to reality.He had been at Trenton's house for at least half an hour, and the time was passing imperceptibly, and he could not stay longer.How much time had she been away when he delivered?Who is this message for?Anyone who happens to drop by, or someone in particular?He had to leave...but he had to do one more thing before he left. He wiped the message with a wave of his sleeve, and then he wrote a line of big characters: I left something for you upstairs, dear. He galloped up the stairs, two steps at a time, into their bedroom, which was on the left of the second-floor landing.He felt that time was very tight, that the doorbell might soon ring, or that someone—presumably another happy wife—would poke in through the back door and call (as he did), "Hello, is anyone in the house? " But the thought only irritated him more. He unbuttoned his belt, kicked off his shoes, let his jeans fall to his knees, and he had no underwear, which he rarely wore. His cock protruded stiffly from a mass of red-gold pubic hair.It won't be long, he's so excited.He clenched his fist and pumped it two or three times, and the orgasm came, immediately and brutally.With a jerk he squirted his cum all over the sheets. He zips up his jeans quickly, zipping them tight (the little gold teeth of the zipper almost bite into the head of his penis - that's going to be a big laugh, okay), and he runs to the door, refastening his belt buckle as he goes . Who would he run into when he went out.Yes, he certainly will, as has been prearranged.Some happy wife would see his flushed face, staring eyes, and bearded jeans, and she'd freak out. He tried to prepare for the situation as he opened the back door and went out.In retrospect he made enough noise to wake the dead... those plates!Why is he throwing those plates all over the place? What was he thinking at that time?Every neighbor will hear it. But there was no one in the yard or driveway, and the afternoon was still quiet.The lawn sprinkler spins nonchalantly, and a child on roller skates passes him by. Directly in front was a tall hedge separating the Trenton house from a distant neighbor.Steve could see the town down the hill through the back porch on the left, and he could clearly see the intersection of 117th Avenue and High Street, with the Common City sitting on the corner of the intersection.He went out onto that porch and stood there for a moment, trying to get himself under control.His breathing slowed a little bit, returning to his normal pattern of breathing in and out.He found a face of a pleasant afternoon and hung it out.All this happened in exactly the same amount of time it took for the lights at the intersection to change from red to green and then from green to red. What if she was pulling the car up the driveway right now? It made him think again.He will give her a business card, and then he doesn't want to argue with her anymore. And there was nothing she could do, except call the police, which he didn't think she would do.There's so much he could talk about: happy American housewives having sex in their natural habitat, would be a wild scene.He'd better stay a few miles away from Castle Rock now.Maybe after a while he'd call her and ask how she felt about his work today.That's probably interesting. He walked down the driveway, turned left, and walked back to his van.He didn't stop.No one will look at him strangely.A kid roller skating passed him in a zigzag and called, "Hello!" and he immediately said "Hello," too. He got into the van and the car started. He took Route 117 north to Route 302, then drove all the way to its intersection with Interstate 95 in Portland, where he bought a toll ticket and headed south again.He's starting to get uneasy about what he's done—seeing no one in the house, where he unleashes a devastating red storm.Is his revenge too heavy, will it constitute a crime?If she can't accept it, what will happen to her?He was about to smash the damn house down, did he mean it? He began to think about these problems bit by bit, like ordinary people, passing a group of objective facts through a bath of various chemicals that, when mixed together, form a complex human feeling. The mechanism is called subjective.Like a schoolboy who first writes something with a pencil, erases some of it with an eraser, and continues with the pencil again, he may tear up what he has made and start over—rewriting it in his head— Until the facts and his feelings about them are all the way to the point where he can finally come to terms with them. After he got to the 495th road, he turned west and drove towards New York and further places. He was going to drive all the way to the quiet Idaho. Hemingway's father finally went to that place, where Hemingway grew old and committed suicide. He felt a familiar feeling arise in his heart, to cut off the old shackles and move forward-this wonderful thing that Hemingway called "rushing out of the lightning of terror."At such moments he felt himself reborn, and felt strongly that he had the greatest freedom of all—the freedom to rebuild himself.Even when some facts were pointed out to him, he could not make sense of them: whether in Maine or Idaho, he would throw away his racket in exasperated frustration after losing a game of tennis; Opponents shake hands, he always does that when he loses, he only shakes hands when he wins. He spent the night in a small town called Tegenham. He slept well. He had convinced himself that the smashing at the Trenton house was not an act of half-mad envious rage, but an anarchic revolution—he got rid of a pair of middle-class pigs of the very kind Let the fascist hegemons easily continue to be in power as long as they pay a little tax and telephone bills indiscriminately.It was a courageous act and sheer righteous anger.This is his way of saying that "power belongs to the people," and in all his poetry he has been trying to embody this idea. Lying in his narrow motel bed he was still brooding, wondering what Donna would think of the kid when she got home with him.In meditation, he fell asleep with a smile on the corner of his mouth. After three-thirty in the afternoon, Donna stopped thinking about the postman. She sat with one arm lightly around Tad, who was dozing off, his lips swollen brutally from the heat and his face flushed.And a little milk, and she'll make him drink it before long. For the last three-and-a-half hours—since lunchtime at home until now—the sun has been shining fiercely, and while both her and Ted's windows are a quarter open, the temperature in the car is still 100 degrees. Spend.This is what happens when you park your car in the sun.Usually, when your car becomes like this, all you do is roll up all the windows, pull down the handle that opens the air vent, and go for a ride.Let's go for a ride - how sweet those words sound! She is licking her lips. For a while, she opened the window all the way, and then there was a breeze.But she didn't dare to keep them like that, she was afraid she would fall asleep. The heat frightened her—because of herself, but also because of Ted, who didn't know what the constant heat would do to him—but what frightened her more was the face of the vicious dog, which was dripping with foam.Staring at her with those sullen red eyes. The last time she left the window open was when Cujo disappeared into the shadows of the repair garage, but now it's back. It sat in the long shadows in front of the barn, head down, eyes fixed on the blue Pinto.The ground between its front paws has been soaked in mud with its saliva.From time to time it howls and snaps into the air, as if experiencing hallucinations. how long?How long before it dies? She is a sensible woman. She doesn't believe in the devil in the closet, she believes in what she can see and touch.A drooling pile of St. Bernard's wreckage sitting in the shadows in front of a barn is by no means supernatural, it's just a bitten bitten by a rabies fox, or a skunk, or something. Only sick animals.It wasn't specifically trying to catch her either.It wasn't some vengeful demon, or some great white whale dog, or some four-legged god of doom. But...she was about to run to the back porch door of the Cambers' house when Cujo came tumbling out of the darkness of the barn. Ted, Ted is a problem. She has to take him away and can't stay here anymore.He can no longer answer questions coherently.His eyes rolled when she spoke to him, the way a boxer gets punched, punched, punched, mouthguard knocked out, sense of direction knocked out, just waiting for the last of the storm The blow knocked him unconscious onto the canvas—these thoughts terrified her and stirred up all her maternal instincts.Ted was a problem, and if she had been the only one, she would have rushed for that door a long time ago.She was here because of Ted, because her mind was running over and over of the dog knocking her down and leaving Ted alone in the car. Cujo had returned fifteen minutes ago, and until then she had been preparing to rush for the door. She ran it through her mind over and over like a home movie, until her mind had the faint impression that this had happened.She'd shake Tad fully awake, she'd even slap him in the face if need be, and she'd tell him not to go out with her—under any circumstances, no matter what happened.She'd get out of the car and run to the back porch door, try the handle, and if it didn't lock, it was over; but she was also prepared for the most realistic scenario, which was that the door locked.She had taken off her shirt and was sitting at the wheel wearing only a white cotton bra, the shirt now in her lap.When she went out, she would wrap her hands with a shirt. This was far from perfect protection, but it was better than nothing.She would smash the pane of glass closest to the doorknob and stick her hand in so she could gain access to that little back porch.If the inner door is also closed, she will do the same. But Cujo came out and she had no chance. It's okay, it'll go back, it's the way it was. But will it?Her mind repeatedly asked.Everything is too perfect, isn't it?The Campbells are out.Like good citizens they remember asking to stop the mail; Vic is out and the chances of him calling back by tomorrow look slim, because we really can't afford a long distance call a day, and even if he did, he'd Called earlier, if he didn't wait for any answer, he would think we might have gone to Mario's for food, or Haoweibing for ice cream.He won't call later because he'll miss us sleeping.Thoughtful Vic.Yes, everything is too perfect.In the story about the boatman on the Salon, isn't there a dog standing on the prow?It's the boatman's dog, call me Cujo, and let's go to Death Valley. Go in, she silently urged the dog with her thoughts.Go back to the barn, damn you. Cujo didn't move. She brushed Ted's hair back from his forehead and asked softly, "How are you doing, Ted?'" "Shhh," Thad said distractedly, "Duck..." She gave him a shake. "Ted? Baby? How are you? Talk to me!" Little by little his eyes opened, and he looked around, confused, feverish, terribly exhausted, "Mommy? Can we go home? I'm so hot..." "We'll be home," she reassured. "When, Mom? When?" he began to cry helplessly. Oh, Ted, save some water, she thought, you might need it.This has become crazy stuff to have to think about. The whole situation is almost insanely ridiculous, isn't it?A little boy is dying from dehydration (Stop, he's not about to die!) And it's crazy that the nearest well-equipped town is less than seven miles away. But that's the way it is, she reminded herself gruffly.Don't think about anything else, sister.It's like a mini-war, so now everything looks small and only zooms in to see it correctly.The least draft through a quarter-open windowpane is a breeze; from here to the back porch is a quarter of a mile of no man's land.If you want to believe that dogs are gods of fate, or ghosts of evil in memory, or the personification of Elvis Presley, believe it.In this bizarrely scaled-down situation—this life-or-death situation—even going to the bathroom becomes a skirmish. I want to solve it, I can't let some dog do anything to my son. "When are we leaving, Mommy?" He looked up at her, his eyes moist and his face white as cheese. "Soon," she said firmly, "soon." She brushed his hair back and drew him towards her.She looked out of Tad's window, her eyes once again focused on the thing lying in the tall grass, the old baseball bat with the friction straps on it. I'm going to smash your head in with it. Inside the house, the phone started ringing again. "Is it for us, Mimi, is the phone for us?" She didn't answer, she didn't know who it was for.But as long as they're lucky--their luck will improve soon, won't it?The caller might have started to wonder why the Campbells didn't answer the phone, that person would come out, would come and see. Cujo's head is up, out to the side, and for a moment it's like sickly Nebo, that RCA dog that loves to stick its ear to the phonograph horn.It wobbled to its feet and started toward the house.Run to the ringing phone. "Maybe the dog's going to answer the phone," Thad said, "Maybe—" Suddenly the big dog changed direction with frightening swiftness and alertness, and ran towards the Pinto, its wobbling gait completely gone, as if nothing had happened to him but the surreptitious play that had been going on.It's not barking, it's howling, it's growling, its red eyes are burning.It hit the car hard, bluntly, and bounced back—and Donna could see with startled eyes that the door had sunk a little. It's got to die, she thought hysterically, if it's got its sick brain hammered down its spine so hard it's going to have a deep concussion it's gonna-- Cujo climbed to his feet.Its muzzle was covered with blood, and its eyes became confused and empty again.In the house, the phone rang over and over again. The dog seemed to be moving away, and suddenly it snapped viciously at its side, as if stung, but it had already turned around and rushed towards Donna's window.Another blunt bang, it hit Donna straight in front of her, blood spattered the glass, and a long silver crack appeared. Tad screamed, and his hands slapped his face and pulled the Shuangton down, scratching it with his fingers. The dog swoops again.Foam flew back like threads down its bleeding muzzle, and she could see its teeth, thick as old yellow ivy.Its claws smacked against the glass.There was a bleeding gash between its eyes, and its eyes were fixed on hers, and they were numb and dull, but not--Donna could swear--not without knowledge, evil knowledge. . "Get out!" Donna screamed at it. Cujo hit the floor under her window again, hit it again, hit it again.Now her door was dented badly inward.Every time the dog's two-hundred-pound weight hit the Pinto, the car shook; and every time she heard that heavy, dull thud, she was sure he had killed herself, or at least hit herself. Passed out, but each time it got up, trotted towards the house, turned around, and sprinted towards the car again.Cujo's face was already a mask of blood and tangled fur, and its eyes, the brown eyes that had been kind and gentle, now just stared at her with foolish anger. She looked at Tad, who was in shock, squirming like a fetus into a constricted ball in his seat, his arms wrapped around his bare neck, his chest pulled tight. Maybe it's best, maybe— The phone in the house stopped ringing. Cujo, who was turning around, stopped too.It stretched out its head, and made that weird gesture again, as if calling for something. Donna held her breath.This period of silence seems very long.Cujo sat down, pointed his horrible, wounded nose skyward, and howled horribly—a dark, lonely sound!She couldn't help shivering, she was no longer hot, she was as cold as in a cellar.At this moment she knew—she had no feeling, no thought—she knew that this dog was more than just a dog. This moment passed. Cujo got up, very slowly, very tiredly, and it went to the front of the Pinto.She thought it lay there—she could see its tail no more.Even so she was tense for a while, her mind already imagining the dog jumping on the hood as before.it doesn't.Nothing happened, just silence. She took Tad in her arms and hummed to him in a low voice. Brett finally gave up and came out of the phone booth.Charity took him by the hand and led him into the coffee room of Caldor's store.They came to Caldor to see well-matched tablecloths and curtains. Holly is waiting for them.She sipped the last of the ice cream soda. "No problem, is it?" she asked. "Nothing serious," replied Charity, stroking Blaine's hair. "He's worried about his dog, isn't he, Brett?" Shilet shrugged—and nodded painfully. "Go first if you want," Charity told her. "We'll catch up with you." "Okay, I'm taking it." Holly finished her soda and said, "I bet your dog is awesome, Brady." Brett tried to smile at her.But no answer.They watched Holly go, looking very pretty in her black Burgundy dress and soft water-soled sandals, a beauty Charity knew she would never learn, and maybe she had been before. Learned, but can't learn now. Holly hired someone to babysit at home, and the three of them were out. At noon they went to Bridgeport.Holly bought them a nice lunch—she paid for it with her Dinas Club credit card—and they went out to shop.But Bright had been quiet all the way, worried about Cujo.Charity also showed little interest in shopping, and she was still disturbed by Brett's morning sleepwalking in the heat.Finally she suggested that he call home from a phone booth next to the snack bar...but it turned out exactly what Charity was afraid to see. The waitress is here.Charity ordered coffee, milk, and two Danish crusts. "Brett," she said, "when I spoke to your father about the trip, he didn't agree with it at first—" "Really? I guessed." "Then he changed his mind. He changed all of a sudden. I thought maybe... maybe he saw that this was an opportunity for him to go on a little trip by himself. Sometimes guys want to go out by themselves, you know, and do something—" "Like hunting?" (And whoring, and drinking, and God knows what else and God knows why.) "Yes, like hunting." "Or watch a movie," Bright said.Their snack arrived and he started munching loudly on his Danish pie crust. (Yes, watch that kind of X-rated film on Washington Street in what they call a battle zone.) "Probably, anyway, your father may spend a day or two in Boston—" "Oh, I don't think so," said Brett eagerly. "He's got a lot of work to do, a lot of work, he told me." "Probably not as much as he said," she said, wishing her sarcasm didn't come through in her voice, "that's what I was thinking anyway, and I think that's why he didn't answer the phone yesterday and today .Drink the milk, it will help you grow your bones." He half drank the milk, grew a beard like an old man, and put down his glass, "Maybe he will, he might take Gary with him, he likes Gary very much." "Yeah, maybe he did take Gary with him." She said it as if she'd never thought of anything like that.But in fact, when Brett and little Jim were playing together in the backyard early this morning, she called Gary's house, but no one answered.Wherever they were, she had no doubt that they were together. "You don't eat much pie crust." He picked it up, took a sip, and put it down again. "Mom, I think Cujo is sick. When I touched him yesterday, he looked very sick. I'm definitely not lying." "Bright—" ''It's sick, Mom.You didn't see it, it looked... well, brutish. " "If you know Cujo is fine, don't you feel relieved?" Bright nodded. "So let's call Alva Thornton on South Maple Sugar Road tonight," she said, "and ask him to go up the hill, will you? I guess your father called him when he was out, Ask him to feed Cujo." "You really think so?" "Yeah, I think so." People like Alva weren't really Joe's friends.Gary was Joe's only real friend, so far as she knew, but people sometimes offered to help, and they hoped it would pay off sometime later. Brett's expression became miraculously clear.Once again the adult answered correctly, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. She didn't cheer up, and for a moment her face was gloomy instead.What was she going to tell Brett if she called Alva and he replied that he hadn't seen Joe since the rainy season?Well, there must be a way before the car reaches the mountain, but she really didn't believe that Joe would leave Cujo at home, it wasn't like what Joe did. "Would you like to go to your aunt now?" "Of course, when I finish eating this." He ate the rest of the pie crust in three big gulps, followed by a gulp of milk, and then he pulled his chair away and stood up.She looked at him with pleasure and horror. Charity paid the bill, and they descended the escalator together. "Wow, that's a big store," said Brett curiously. "Like a big city, don't you think, Mom?" "When you get to New York, it's like Castle Rock," she said, "and don't say wow, Brett, it's like a curse." "Yes." He leaned on the moving armrest and looked around.To the right is a maze full of chirping parrots, and to the left is a grocery store gleaming with chrome.Brett saw a dishwasher, the entire front of which was made of glass, and the movement of the soapy water through the dishwasher could be clearly seen.When he stepped out of the escalator, he looked up at his mother, "Did you grow up together, Mom?" "I was just about to tell you that it is," Charity told him, laughing. "She's so nice," Brett said. "Well, I'm so glad you think so, I've always been very fond of her myself." "How did she get rich?" Charity paused. "Is that what you think of Holly and Jim? Rich?" "The house they live in is not cheap," he said.Once again she saw his father's invisible face peeping at them from some street corner, saw Joe Campbell with the invisible green hat slanted behind his head, eyes wide open and sideways. "That jukebox, and it's that expensive, and her wallet is full of credit cards, and all we have is Texas cards—" She turned to him: "Do you think it's smart for you to peek into their wallets when they pay their bills when they buy you a nice lunch?" His face looked stinging and surprised, but it quickly subsided and flattened, which was Joe Campa's trick again. "I just noticed, it was hard not to see, she flaunted those letters like that--" "She's not showing them off!" Charity said, shocked.She stopped again, and they had reached the door of the fabric store. "Yes, she's showing off," said Bright. "If her purse was a ~accordion, she'd use it to pull up the 'Spanish lady.'" She was suddenly angry with him—partly because he might be right. "She wants you to see everything," Brett said. "That's what I do." "I'm not particularly interested in your subject, Brett Campbell." Her face was hot, her hand was itchy, and she wanted to press him.Just now, in the cafeteria, she loved him... and just as importantly, she felt like his friend.Where have all these good feelings gone? "I really don't understand how she got so many coppers." "That word is rude, don't you think so?" He shrugged his shoulders in open disapproval, and she guessed he was provoking her. Her thoughts went back to what he had said about the credit card, but it had gone further. He was comparing another way of life with his own, his father's way of life.她是不是觉得只要她希望他喜欢上霍莉和吉姆的活法————一种她自己因为运气不济，或因为愚蠢，或两者因素都有，而被拒之门外的生活方式——他就会自动喜欢上它？他难道就没有权力去批评……或分析'？ 是的，她承认他有这个权力，但她没有预料到他的观察会这么让人不安（从直觉看）、复杂、精确，或这么让人压抑地消极。 “我想钱是吉姆赚的。”她说，“你知道他是做什么的吗？” “我知道，他是个笔杆子。” 这一次她不再跟他争了。 “你尽可以这么想。霍莉和他结婚的时候，他正在缅因大学波特兰分校读法律预科。他在丹佛法学院读书的时候，霍莉没日没夜地工作来支撑他的学业。事情总是这样。妻子们工作，这样她们的丈夫可以安心读书，学一些特殊的技能……” 她的眼睛在找霍莉，最后她在左边的某个巷子里看见了妹妹的头顶。 “总之，最后吉姆从法学院毕业了，他和霍莉搬到了东部，他在布里奇波特的一家法律事务所工作的时候，还没有挣到多少钱。他们住在一套在三楼的公寓套间里，夏天没有空调，冬天没有多少暖气。但他最终走出一条路来，现在他是一个所谓的初级合作者。我想，就我们的标准，他确实已经赚了不少钱了。 “也许她炫耀那些信用卡，是因为有时她内心仍觉得贫穷。”布莱特说。 她被这种怪诞的认识惊呆了，算了。她理了理他额前的头发，没有再对他生气：“你确实说过喜欢她。” “是的，我说过。她在那儿，就在那儿。” "I saw it." 他们和霍莉走到了一起，霍莉已经抱了一大棒窗帘，正要去看桌布。 太阳终于落到房子后面去了。 品托车里的火炉一点点地冷却了下来。一阵时大时小，但总能感到的微风起来了，泰德高兴地把头转过去。 他感觉好些了，至少比一天中的其它时候都好些了，实际上，一天中的其它时间他都像是在做恶梦。 好几次他出去了，他真的就离开车走出去了，他还能记得很清楚。他骑上了一匹马，他骑着马在一段长长的场地上跑着，他的身边有几只兔子在玩耍，那情景就和他妈妈、他爸爸带他到市里奇顿的魔灯剧院看到的一部卡通片里的故事一样。场地的末端有一个池塘，池塘里有鸭子。鸭子很友好，泰德和它们一起玩。这比和妈咪在一起要好，因为恶魔和妈咪在一起，就是那个从他衣橱里走出来的恶魔。恶魔不在鸭子呆的地方。 尽管泰德隐隐地知道，如果他在那个地方呆的时间太长，他可能就会忘了回来，但他还是喜欢那儿。 这时太阳已经落到了房子后面，阴凉的阴影出现了，阴影几乎密集到可以形成纹理，就像天鹅绒。恶魔已经不再试图抓他们了。邮递员没有来。但至少他可以舒适地休息了。 最糟的是他这么渴，一辈子中他从来没有像现在这样想喝水。这就是为什么有鸭子的地方让他这样着迷——那是一片潮湿的绿地。 “你在说什么，宝贝？”妈咪的脸向他弯下来。 “渴。”他说话的声音很嘶哑，像一只青蛙，“我真渴，妈咪。” 他记得过去他总是发错“渴”字，但夏令营的的小孩都像奖兰地·霍夫奈格尔发错“早餐”那样笑他，叫他婴儿。所以这以后他就发对了，每一次忘记“渴”字怎么读时，他就会在。心里狠狠地责备自己。 “是的，我知道，妈咪也渴。” “我打赌屋里有水。” “宝贝，我们进不了屋，确实进不了，那条坏狗就在车库前面。” “在哪儿？”泰德跪起来，他惊异地感到有一种轻飘飘的感觉正在穿过他的脑袋，就像一阵慢慢断裂开来着的波。 他把一只手放在仪表板上支撑住自己，那只手好像是在一个一英里长的手臂的末端，“我看不见他。”甚至他的声音也很遥远，回荡着。 “坐下来，泰德，你会……” 她仍在说话，他感觉到她扶他坐回到自己的座位上，但一切都是那么遥远。声音也像是从灰蒙蒙的远方传来的，他和她之间像隔着迷雾，就像今天早上……或总之那个他爸爸出门旅行去的早上。但就在前方有一块明亮的地方，所以他离开妈妈向那个地方走去。 那里是鸭子呆的地方，鸭子、池塘、睡莲叶。妈咪的声音变成了遥远的嗡嗡声，她美丽的睑，那么大，总在那儿，那么平静，像有时看向他窗户的月亮的脸，昨天晚上很晚他爬起来去窗口尿尿……那张脸也变得灰蒙蒙的，看不清边界了。它融进了迷雾中。她的声音变成了蜜蜂懒洋洋的嗡嗡声，被那些蜜蜂叶一下很不好，它们轻拍着水面。 泰德和鸭子一起玩耍。 多娜打起了瞌睡，她醒来的时候，所有的阴影都已经连成了一片，坎伯家汽车道上只剩下了一片灰色。不知何时又已经到了黄昏，而他们——真不可置信——还在这儿。 太阳坐在地平线上，圆圆的，桔红中带着血。它看着她，像一见曾落入血中的篮球的脸。她在嘴里转了一圈舌头。结成了粘胶的口水不情愿地分离了，又变成或多或少正常的唾沫。她喉咙里的感觉就像法兰绒。她在想，如果她躺在家中花园里的水龙头下，把龙头开到最大，让冰凉的水像瀑布那样冲下来，那该有多好。这幅画面这样清晰、强烈地出现，以至于她开始发抖。起了一身鸡皮疙瘩，它是这样强烈，她的头已经开始痛了。 那条狗还在车前面吗？ 她看了看，但实际上她当然看不见。 她只知道它不在谷仓前。她按了一下喇叭，但喇叭只是嘶哑地响了一声，什么都没发生。它可能在任何地方。她的手沿着银白色的玻璃缝滑过去，她不知道如果狗再向玻璃上撞几次，会发生什么结果。它会冲破玻璃进来吗？二十四小时以前她不会相信，但现在她已经不能确定了。 她又看向通进坎伯家门廊的那扇门。它好像比以前要远一些。这让她想起上大学时心理学课上曾讨论过的一个概念。成见，她的任课老师——一个谨小慎微，留着一撮牙刷似的胡子的小男人——这么叫它。如果你走上一个并不在动的下行电动扶梯，你突然会发现移步非常困难。 这让她觉得非常好笑，以至于她终于在布鲁明戴尔找到了一个向下的电动扶梯，扶梯旁标着：已出故障。她沿着它向下走。 让她觉得更好笑的是她发现那个谨小慎微的小副教授的话是对的——你的腿就是不想动。她又进一步想象着如果你正在向楼下走，楼梯突然动了起来，你会有什么感觉。正是这个想法让她大笑了出来。 但它现在已经不好笑了，事实上，一点也不好笑了。 门廊看上去确实远了一点。 狗想吓破我的胆。 这种想法一出现，她就试图把它从脑海中扔出去，但接着她就不再试了。 事情已经危急到不容她再欺骗自己了。不管有意无意，狗是在吓破着她的胆。也许她是可以用她自己的“成见”来想象世界会是什么样。但情况变了。平滑的扶梯的运行已经停了。她已经不能再和儿子呆站在一动不动的扶梯上等什么人来重新开动马达了。事实是，她和泰德被狗围困了。 泰德在睡觉。如果狗在谷仓里，她现在可以冲出去了。“但如果它仍在车前面？或下面？ 她记得有时她在电视里看职业橄榄球赛时，父亲常说的一些东西。 她的父亲这时候几乎总是喝醉了酒，还经常吃一大盘从周末夜晚餐剩下来的冷豆子。结果是，每年一到第四季度，电视间里就无法进行正常的世俗生活；就是狗也会溜出去，脸上带着一种难看的遗弃者的笑。 她父亲的那句名言总是保留在抱球队员被漂亮地扑倒或传球被截住的时候，“他在高灌木丛中把那个人放回去了！”她的父亲会大叫。这会让她的母亲发疯……那时多娜还只是个十几岁的孩子，几乎她父亲的每一件事都会让她母亲发疯。 她眼中出现了一幅库乔的幻象，它就在品拓前面，蹲在那儿，后腿给曲着，眼睛紧盯着她从品托车出来时的落脚的那一点。它在等她，希望她蠢到会从车里出来。它会在高灌木丛中把她放回去。她的两只手在脸上擦着，那是一种迅速的紧张不安的洗脸的姿势。天上，金星从越变越深的蓝色中窥视出来。太阳已经下山了，在远方的田野上空留下一片宁静，但不知怎的有点疯狂的黄光。共处有一只鸟在歌唱，它停下了，然后又开始唱起来。 现在，她已经远没有昨天下午那样急切地想离开汽车，冲向那扇门了。部分原因是她打瞌睡迷糊过去后，再醒来就找不到了狗在哪儿，部分原因是热已经回退——那折磨人的热，和它把泰德变成的样子，是刺激她出去的最大因素。泰德已经从那种半抱头、半晕厥的状态中挣脱出来，完全恢复了正常的睡眠，他现在正舒服地休息着。 但她之所以还留在这儿，上面的因素只是次要的，主要原因是——一点一点地，某个准备好要做什么事的心理极点已经到了，又过了。 她还记得此时在塔波温哥营的跳水课，你第一次站在高台前时，有这么一个瞬间，你或者不得不上去尝试，或者可耻地退回来，这样后面的女孩可以往下跳；在你学车的经历中，会有这么一天，你不得不离开空荡荡的乡村公路，尝试着把车开进城市。会有这么一个时刻，总会有这么一个时刻，一个跳水的时刻，一个开车的时刻，一个冲向后门的时刻。 迟早狗会出现。局势很糟，当然是这样，但还没有糟到完全令人绝望的程度。 合适的时刻会绕着圈子一遍一遍地出现——这不是她在心理学课上学到的，这是她本能地感知到的一种东西。你星期一从高台上缩回来，并不意味着你星期二就不能再去试。you can 但她的思想很不情愿地告诉她，这是一种完全错误的逻辑。 她今天晚上没有昨天晚上那么强健，明天早上她会更虚弱。但那还不是最糟的地方。 她一直坐在这儿——多长时间了？说出来好像不太可能，但实际上已经有二十八个小时了。 如果她已经僵得动不了怎么办？如果她跑到一半，却垮了下来，大腿抽筋，重重地倒在地上怎么办？ 在生和死的问题上，她的思想执拗地告诉她，恰当的时间只有一次——一次，然后就过去了。 她的呼吸和心跳在加速。 在她的意识知道之前，她的身体已经知道她就要去尝试了。她把衬衫更紧地包在右手上，左手停留在门把手上。她的意识中还没有任何决定，但突然间她就去了，她现在已经出去了，泰德沉睡着，他不会跟她出去。 她把门把手拉上去，手上是滑滑的汗。 她屏住呼吸，听外面有什么动静。 鸟又叫了，如此而且。 如果它把门撞得形变得太厉害，它甚至可能打不开，她想。那将是一种痛苦的解脱。她可以坐回来，重新考虑一下各种方案，看看计划中有什么被遗漏的……更渴了一点……更虚弱了一点……更慢了一点…… 她把自己的压力靠到门上，重重地用左肩靠上去，逐渐把自己的重量加上去。她的右手在棉衬衫里流汗。她的拳头握得这样紧，以至于手指已经开始疼厂。她隐约感到指甲的半月型喷进了手掌。她思想里的眼睛看见她击碎后门把手旁的窗玻璃，她听见碎玻璃掉在屋里地板上发出叮当的声音，看见她的手伸向门把手…… 但小车的门没有开。 她使出所有的力气推过去，她全身都绷紧了，脖子上的血管鼓了出来。但是它不开。it-- 它开了，突然就开了。 它在一种可怕的闷响声中飞转出去，几乎让她摔翻在地。 她抓向门把手，没有抓住，又去抓。她抓住了，突然间，一种地确信无疑，但又令她万分惊恐的念头悄悄钻进她的脑海，它就像医生宣告病人得了不治之症那样冷，那样让人浑身麻木。她已经把门撞开了，但它不会再合上。狗就要扑进来把他们都咬死，有一瞬间泰德会醒来，迷惑着，在他最后这个瞬间里老天会仁慈让他相信他还是在做梦，然后库乔的牙就会把他的喉咙撕开。 她喉中的气息息促地进进出出，像在穿过～根麦管。 她好像能看清汽车道上的每一颗砾石，所有的砾石，但她无法思考，她的思想在狂乱地翻滚。 她眼前的场景绕着之字穿进她思想的前景，就像正在上演一部游行的电影，它不断加速，直到乐队、马上的骑士和指挥女郎像在逃避什么超自然的罪恶那样向前疯狂地浪奔家穷而去。 垃圾粉碎机里喷出一大团绿色的污秽东西，它们冲上厨房的天花板，溅得到处都是。 她五岁时从后门廊上掉下来，摔断了手腕。 中学一年级某天的第二节课——一代数课——上，她低下头，极度羞愧而惊恐地在她淡蓝色的亚麻裙子上看到几滴血，她开始有了月经。 下课铃响的时候她该怎样站起来，才能不让每个人都看见，不让每一个人都知道多娜正有月经？ 她张开嘴吻的第一个男孩，壮怀特·山普森。 她用双臂把新生的泰德抱在怀里，这时护士过来把他带走，她想要告诉护士别那样做——把他还给我，我还没有完成，这些话只穿过她的思想——她太虚弱，虚弱得说不出话来，接着她就发出了那种可怕的、碎裂的、但充满勇气的产后的声音，她记得她在想，我要把他的生命支持系统一起吐出来，然后她昏了过去。 她父亲，他在她的婚礼上痛哭，他在后来的招待会上喝醉了。 面孔。声音。Room.场景。书籍。 这一刻的恐惧，想着我就要死了—— 经过巨大的努力下，她开始控制住自己。她用双手抓注品托的门把手，狠狠地猛拉了它一把，门飞转回去。被库乔撞歪了的铰链辗磨着又发出那种沉闷的声音，砰地一声重响中，门关上了。泰德在沉睡中跳起来，喃喃地叫了一声。 多娜靠回座位上，无助地浑身颤抖着，她无声地哭了。热泪从她眼睑下滑过，又斜流向双耳。 她一生中从没有像现在这样害怕过什么，即使小时候，她夜里一个人呆在自己的屋里，觉得到处都是蜘蛛时，也没有这样害怕过。她现在不能出去，她确告自己，这不可想象。她已经完全精疲力竭，浑身的神经几乎都要破碎。最好等一等，等一个更好的机会…… 但她不敢等到它变为“成见”。 不会有比现在更好的机会。 泰德没有注意到，那条狗也没有注意到。肯定是这样，所有的推理都断言是这样。那声沉闷的声音，她拉门时发出的另一声沉闷的声音，门关上时砰地再一声重响。如果它在车前，这些声音会让它发作起来。它大概在谷仓里，但她相信它在那儿也能听见这里的嘈杂声。它一定是游荡到什么地方去了。不会有比现在更好的机会了，即使她吓得不敢为自己冲出去，她也决不应该吓得不敢为泰德冲出去。 真是高尚得恰到好处。 但最终说服她的，是一幅她进了坎帕家后的幻景，和那种手头有电话的让她放心的感觉。她能听见自己在和班那曼长官的一个助手交谈，相当镇静。理智，然后把电话放下。然后去厨房找一杯凉水。 她又把门打开，这次她已经对那种沉闷的声音做好了准备，但它真的发出来的时候她还是缩了一下。她在心里诅咒着那条狗，希望它已经躺倒在某处，死了，身上爬满了苍蝇。 她把腿转出去，它们僵硬。发疼，这让她缩了一下。她的网球鞋踩上了地面。她逐渐在黑暗的天空下站了起来。 附近不知什么地方有只鸟在叫，它叫了三声，停下了。 库乔一直昏迷不醒地卧在汽车的前面，后来它在几声重响中醒了过来。它听见门开了，直觉告诉它它会开的。 它几乎就要绕过去抓住那个女人，她让它的头和身体可怕地疼痛着。它几乎就要绕过去了，但直觉命令它们静静地卧在那儿，那个女人只是试图引它出来，后来这被证明是对的。 当疾病在它身上缩紧，渗透进它的神经系统，就像草原上贪婪的野火，在四处升起鸽灰色的烟，燃起玫瑰色的火焰，接着又开始摧毁它既成的思想和行为模式的时候，它也加深了它的狡诈。它一定要抓住那个女人和那个男孩，他们造成了它的痛苦——它身体里的痛苦和它脑袋里的刺痛，那是它一遍一遍撞向那辆汽车时产生的。 库乔今天有两次忘了那个女人和那个男孩，它离开谷仓里的那个狗避难所——一乔·坎泊在后屋；'河上挖出来放帐单的一个大洞——下山去了后面的沼泽，两次立都很近地经过了那个住着编福的石灰石洞穴的大开口。 沼泽里有水，它也非常渴，但每次真的看到那些水时，它又都会狂暴起来。它想要喝那水，杀了那水，在那里洗澡，在里面拉屎撒尿，让它盖满脏物，摧毁了它，让它流血。每次这种狂乱的想法都最终又让它离开，它会鸡鸣叫着，浑身颤抖。这都是那个女人和那个男孩造成的，它不会再离开他们了。 没有哪个生活过的人会发现有一只狗这样忠于信念，这样执著于它的计划。它会等，直到它抓住他们。如果需要，它会等到世界的未回。它会等，它会守望。 主要是那个女人。她看着它的样子，好像在说，是的，是的，是我做的。我让你生病，我让你刺痛，我专门为你设计了痛苦，从今天起这痛苦会永远跟着你。 噢，杀了她！ kill her! 一个声音出现了。 那是一种轻轻的声音，但它没有逃过库乔的耳朵；它的耳朵现在已经能超自然地调向谷种声音了，声音世界里最完整的谱就是库乔的音谱了。它能听见天堂里的钟声，它能听见从地狱里传上来的嘶哑的尖叫声，疯狂之中它可以听见真实和不真实的声音。 那是一种小石头间相互滑动、相互摩擦的轻音。 库乔的后腿在身后紧紧地压着地面，只等她出来。尿，热而痛苦，毫无顾忌地流出来。它在等那个女人出现。她出来的时候，它会杀了她。 特伦顿家楼下的废墟中，电话铃开始响起来。 它嘶哑地叫了六声，八亩，十声，然后沉默了。紧接着，特伦顿家订的罗克堡《呼唤》报砰地撞到门上，比利·弗里曼肩头背着帆布包，吹着口哨，踩着车继续向瑞利家骑去。 泰德屋里的衣橱门开着，一种说不出的干热的气味，凶暴而野蛮，迷漫在空气中。 在波士顿，一个接线员问维克·特伦顿要不要她继续试试，“不，这就行了，接线员。”他说着挂断了电话。 罗格在38频道发现了红星队和堪萨斯城队的比赛，他穿着内衣坐在沙发里，面前放着由服务员送进屋的一块三明治和一杯牛奶，他正在着队员们做热身运动。 “你的那些习惯中。”维克说，“大多数都具有主动的冒犯性，至少也让人厌恶，我觉得其中最糟的大概就是穿着内裤吃东西了。” “听听这个家伙的话。”罗格对着面前的空气温和地说，“他三十二岁了，还把内衣短裤称之为内裤。” "Is there anything wrong?" “没什么……除非你还只是个夏令营里不开化的小孩。” “我今天晚上会割断你的喉咙，罗格。”维克快意地说，“你会醒来，发现你倒在自己的血泊中，你窒息了，你会想道歉，但……太迟了！”他拿起半决罗格的熏牛肉三明治，狠狠咬了一口。 “真他妈太不正常，”罗格说，他把三明治的屑子从裸露的毛绒绒的胸前掸掉，“多娜不在家，嗯？” “嗯，她大概和泰德到南面的多味冰吃汉堡或什么东西去了，我真希望我在那儿，而不是在波士顿。” “哦，只要想一想。”罗格说，他恶意地笑着，“我们明天晚上就会到爱波尔，然后准时到比尔特摩旅馆喝鸡尾酒……” “去你妈的比尔特摩旅馆，去你妈的准时，”维克说，“无论谁不在缅因好好呆着，硬要花一个星期去波士顿或纽约进行商务旅行——我是说在夏天——他准要疯了。” “好，我让机”罗格说，电视屏幕上，鲍勃·斯坦利开出一个漂亮的弧线球，比赛开始了，“真他妈狗屎。” “三明治相当棒，罗格。”维克说，他得胜地对合伙人笑着。 罗格把盘子抓到胸前：“打电话去要你自己的，你这该死的揩油鬼。” "What's the number?" “六八一，它写在拨号盘上。” “要不要给你再来些啤酒？”维克问，他走向了电话。 罗格摇摇头：“我午饭吃得太多。我的头在疼，我的胃在疼，可能明天早上我就会得香蕉软腐病。我很快发现就是这样，好伙计，我没有开玩笑。” 维克打电话要了一份黑麦熏牛肉三明治和两瓶上堡啤酒。他挂上电话，转眼看向罗格，罗格坐在那儿，眼睛盯着电视。三明治盘正端放在他的大肚子上，他正在哭。 维克起先以为他没有看清楚，以为他产生了某种幻觉。但不是，他清楚地看见了眼泪，它们正像棱镜那样把彩电来的光晶莹地映进他的眼睛。 有一刻维克站在那儿，不知道他是该走向罗格，还是要走到屋的另一侧拿起一张报纸，假装什么都没看到。这时罗格已经在看他，他的脸抽泣着毕露无遗，它脆弱、毫无戒备，就像泰德从秋千上掉下来擦破了膝盖，或在人行道上滑了一跤时的样子。 “我该怎么做，维克？”他声音嘶哑地问。 “罗格，你在说什——” “你知道我在说什么。”他说。电视中波士顿人在双杀中结束了第一局，芬威体育场中的观众欢腾了起来。 “别紧张，罗格，你——” “我们会完全失败，我们都知道，”罗格说，“它闻起来就像一箱整周整周地放在太阳底下暴晒的鸡蛋。这是我们玩的一场小游戏，我们争取到了罗布·马丁，毫无疑问我们也可以争取到夏天市场调研公司，因为我们给他们钱。多好！除了真正说话算数的，我们已经争取到了每一个人。” “还没有产生任何决定，罗格，还没有。” “奥尔西亚还不太清楚利害关系。”罗格说，“是我的错，好，所以我是只小鸡，咯咯地叫。但她爱在布里奇顿的生活。维克，她爱那儿。那两个女孩，她们在学校里已经有了朋友……但她们一点不都清楚究竟会发生什么。” “是的，它是一场恐怖。我已经不需要再和你透彻地讨论了，罗格。” “多娜知道问题会有多糟吗？” “她起先只是认为这是一个开在我们身上的相当棒的玩笑，但现在她已经受到冲击了。” “但她不会像我们这样看缅因的生活。” “原来可能不是，如果我现在再提起把泰德带回纽约，她会恐惧得举起手来。” “我该怎么做产罗格又在问，“我早不是个孩子了，你三十二，维克，但我下个月就要四十了一。what should I do?带着我的简历到处跑？ J·沃尔特·汤姆逊会不会张开双臂欢迎我？ '你好，亲爱的罗格，我还留着你的老位子，你从三十五加五岁开始'，那就是他要说的？ " 维克只是摇着他的手，但他心中的那个影子已经开始被罗格搅烦了。 “过去我一定会疯的。好了，我还是会疯，但现在我更多的是惊恐，晚上我躺在床上，试图想象以后会怎么样。究竟会怎么样？我不能想象。你看着我，你对自己说'罗格在演戏'，你——” “我从来没有这样想。”维克说，是望声音里没有自责。 “我不会说你在撒谎，”罗格说，“但我已经和你共事了这么多年，很清楚你在怎么想。可能比你自己还清楚。不管怎么说，你这么想我不会责备你——但三十二和四十有很大的区别，维克，从三十二到四十你失去了许多血性。” “罗格，我想我们还有很多为这个提议战斗的机会。” “我想做的只是带上二十箱红浆果活力谷和我们一起去克利夫兰，”罗格说，“回来的时候我可以把它们绑在我的尾巴上，我的尾巴会足够长，你知道！” 维克拍在罗格的肩上：“是的，我知道。” “如果他们收回帐单你会怎么做？”罗格问。 维克想过。他从每一个可能的角度想过，公正地说，罗格开始考虑这个问题前相当久，他就已经被它困扰了。 “如果他们收回去，我会比我一生中任何时候都更刻苦地工作，”维克说，“如果必要，我会每天工作三十小时，如果我要串起六十个新英格兰小帐单才够夏普帐单的话，我也会去拼命。” “我们只会无谓地自杀。” “可能，”维克说，“但我们