绿里奇迹(英文版)-第2部分

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d　the　high…wire　aspect　of　it；　too：　fall　down　on　the　job；　fail　to　carry　through；　and　all　at　once　about　a　million　readers　are　howling　for　your　blood。　No　one　knows　this　any　better　than　me；　unless　it's　my　secretary；　Juliann　Eugley；　we　get　dozens　of　angry　letters　each　week；　demanding　the　next　book　in　the　Dark　Tower　cycle　（patience；　followers　of　Roland；　another　year　or　so　and　your　wait　will　end；　I　promise）。　One　of　these　contained　a　Polaroid　of　a　teddy…bear　in　chains；　with　a　message　cut　out　of　newspaper　headlines　and　magazine　covers：　RELEASE　THE　NEXT　DARK　TOWER　BOOK　AT　ONCE　OR　THE　BEAR　DIES；　it　said。　I　put　it　up　in　my　office　to　remind　myself　both　of　my　responsibility　and　of　how　wonderful　it　is　to　have　people　actually　care　…　a　little…about　the　creatures　of　one's　imagination。　
In　any　case；　I've　decided　to　publish　The　Green　Mile　in　a　series　of　small　paperbacks；　in　the　nieenthcentury　manner；　and　I　hope　you'll　write　and　tell　me　（a）　if　you　liked　the　story；　and　（b）　if　you　liked　the　seldom　used　but　rather　amusing　delivery　system。　It　has　certainly　energized　the　writing　of　the　story；　although　at　this　moment　（a　rainy　evening　in　October　of　1995）　it　is　still　far　from　done；　even　in　rough　draft；　and　the　oute　remains　in　some　doubt。　That　is　part　of　the　excitement　of　the　whole　thing；　though…at　this　point　I'm　driving　through　thick　fog　with　the　pedal　all　the　way　to　the　metal。　
Most　of　all；　I　want　to　say　that　if　you　have　even　half　as　much　fun　reading　this　as　I　did　writing　it；　we'll　both　be　well　off。　Enjoy　。。。　and　why　not　read　this　aloud；　with　a　friend？　If　nothing　else；　it　will　shorten　the　time　until　the　next　installment　appears　on　your　newsstand　or　in　your　local　bookstore。　
In　the　meantime；　take　care；　and　be　good　to　one　another。　
Stephen　King　

Part　One：
The　Two　Dead　Girls　
1。　
This　happened　in　1932；　when　the　state　penitentiary　was　still　at　Cold　Mountain。　And　the　electric　chair　was　there；　too；　of　course。　
The　inmates　made　jokes　about　the　chair；　the　way　people　always　make　jokes　about　things　that　frighten　them　but　can't　be　gotten　away　from。　They　called　it　Old　Sparky；　or　the　Big　Juicy。　They　made　cracks　about　the　power　bill；　and　how　Warden　Moores　would　cook　his　Thanksgiving　dinner　that　fall；　with　his　wife；　Melinda；　too　sick　to　cook。　
But　for　the　ones　who　actually　had　to　sit　down　in　that　chair；　the　humor　went　out　of　the　situation　in　a　hurry。　I　presided　over　seventy…eight　executions　during　my　time　at　Cold　Mountain　（that's　one　figure　I've　never　been　confused　about；　I'll　remember　it　on　my　deathbed）；　and　I　think　that；　for　most　of　those　men；　the　truth　of　what　was　happening　to　them　finally　hit　all　the　way　home　when　their　ankles　were　being　clamped　to　the　stout　oak　of　〃Old　Sparky's〃　legs。　The　realization　came　then　（you　would　see　it　rising　in　their　eyes；　a　kind　of　cold　dismay）　that　their　own　legs　had　finished　their　careers。　The　blood　still　ran　in　them；　the　muscles　were　still　strong；　but　they　were　finished；　all　the　same；　they　were　never　going　to　walk　another　country　mile　or　dance　with　a　girl　at　a　barn…raising。　Old　Sparky's　clients　came　to　a　knowledge　of　their　deaths　from　the　ankles　up。　There　was　a　black　silk　bag　that　went　over　their　heads　after　they　had　finished　their　rambling　and　mostly　disjointed　last　remarks。　It　was　supposed　to　be　for　them；　but　I　always　thought：　it　was　really　for　us；　to　keep　us　from　seeing　the　awful　tide　of　dismay　in　their　eyes　as　they　realized　they　were　going　to　die　with　their　knees　bent。　
There　was　no　death　row　at　Cold　Mountain；　only　E　Block；　set　apart　from　the　other　four　and　about　a　quarter　their　size；　brick　instead　of　wood；　with　a　horrible　bare　metal　roof　that　glared　in　the　summer　sun　like　a　delirious　eyeball。　Six　cells　inside；　three　on　each　side　of　a　wide　center　aisle；　each　almost　twice　as　big　as　the　cells　in　the　other　four　blocks。　Singles；　too。　Great　acmodations　for　a　prison　（especially　in　the　thirties）；　but　the　inmates　would　have　traded　for　cells　in　any　of　the　other　four。　Believe　me；　they　would　have　traded。　
There　was　never　a　time　during　my　years　as　block　superintendent　when　all　six　cells　were　occupied　at　one　time…thank　God　for　small　favors。　Four　was　the　most；　mixed　black　and　white　（at　Cold　Mountain；　there　was　no　segregation　among　the　walking　dead）；　and　that　was　a　little　piece　of　hell。　One　was　a　woman；　Beverly　McCall。　She　was　black　as　the　ace　of　spades　and　as　beautiful　as　the　sin　you　never　had　nerve　enough　to　mit。　She　put　up　with　six　years　of　her　husband　beating　her；　but　wouldn't　put　up　with　his　creeping　around　for　a　single　day。　On　the　evening　after　she　found　out　he　was　cheating；　she　stood　waiting　for　the　unfortunate　Lester　McCall；　known　to　his　pals　（and；　presumably；　to　his　extremely　short…term　mistress）　as　Cutter；　at　the　top　of　the　stairs　leading　to　the　apartment　over　his　barber　shop。　She　waited　until　he　got　his　overcoat　half　off；　then　dropped　his　cheating　guts　onto　his　two…tone　shoes。　Used　one　of　Cutter's　own　razors　to　do　it。　Two　nights　before　she　was　due　to　sit　in　Old　Sparky；　she　called　me　to　her　cell　and　said　she　had　been　visited　by　her　African　spirit…father　in　a　dream。　He　told　her　to　discard　her　slave…name　and　to　die　under　her　free　name；　Matuomi。　That　was　her　request；　that　her　death　warrant　should　be　read　under　the　name　of　Beverly　Matuomi。　I　guess　her　spirit…father　didn't　give　her　any　first　name；　or　one　she　could　make　out；　anyhow。　I　said　yes；　okay；　fine。　One　thing　those　years　serving　as　the　bull…goose　screw　taught　me　was　never　to　refuse　the　condemned　unless　I　absolutely　had　to。　In　the　case　of　Beverly　Matuomi；　it　made　no　difference　anyway。　The　governor　called　the　next　day　around　three　in　the　afternoon；　muting　her　sentence　to　life　in　the　Grassy　Valley　Penal　Facility　for　Women…all　penal　and　no　penis；　we　used　to　say　back　then。　I　was　glad　to　see　Bev's　round　ass　going　left　instead　of　right　when　she　got　to　the　duty　desk；　let　me　tell　you。　
Thirty…five　years　or　so　later　…　had　to　be　at　least　thirty…five　…　I　saw　that　name　on　the　obituary　page　of　the　paper；　under　a　picture　of　a　skinny…faced　black　lady　with　a　cloud　of　white　hair　and　glasses　with　rhinestones　at　the　corners。　It　was　Beverly。　She'd　spent　the　last　ten　years　of　her　life　a　free　woman；　the　obituary　said；　and　had　rescued　the　small…town　library　of　Raines　Falls　pretty　much　single…handed。　She　had　also　taught　Sunday　school　and　had　been　much　loved　in　that　little　backwater。　LIBRARIAN　DIES　OF　HEART　FAILURE；　the　headline　said；　and　below　that；　in　smaller　type；　almost　as　an　afterthought：　Served　Over　Two　Decades　in　Prison　for　Murder。　Only　the　eyes；　wide　and　blazing　behind　the　glasses　with　the　rhinestones　at　the　corners；　were　the　same。　They　were　the　eyes　of　a　woman　who　even　at　seventy…whatever　would　not　hesitate　to　pluck　a　safety　razor　from　its　blue　jar　of　disinfectant；　if　the　urge　seemed　pressing。　You　know　murderers；　even　if　they　finish　up　as　old　lady　librarians　in　dozey　little　towns。　At　least　you　do　if　you've　spent　as　much　time　minding　murderers　as　I　did。　There　was　only　one　time　I　ever　had　a　question　about　the　nature　of　my　job。　That；　I　reckon；　is　why　I'm　writing　this。　
The　wide　corridor　up　the　center　of　E　Block　was　floored　with　linoleum　the　color　of　tired　old　limes；　and　so　what　was　called　the　Last　Mile　at　other　prisons　was　called　the　Green　Mile　at　Cold　Mountain。　It　ran；　I　guess；　sixty　long　paces　from　south　to　north；　bottom　to　top。　At　the　bottom　was　the　restraint　room。　At　the　top　end　was　a　T…junction。　A　left　turn　meant　life…if　you　called　what　went　on　in　the　sunbaked　exercise　yard　life；　and　many　did；　many　lived　it　for　years；　with　no　apparent　ill　effects。　Thieves　and　arsonists　and　sex　criminals；　all　talking　their　talk　and　walking　their　walk　and　making　their　little　deals。　
A　right　turn；　though　…　that　was　different。　First　you　went　into　my　office　（where　the　carpet　was　also　green；　a　thing　I　kept　meaning　to　change　and　not　getting　around　to）；　and　crossed　in　front　of　my　desk；　which　was　flanked　by　the　American　flag　on　the　left　and　the　state　flag　on　the　right。　On　the　far　side　were　two　doors。　One　led　into　the　small　W。C。　that　I　and　the　Block　E　guards　（sometimes　even　Warden　Moores）　used；　the　other　opened　on　a　kind　of　storage　shed。　This　was　where　you　ended　up　when　you　walked　the　Green　Mile。　
It　was　a　small　door　…　I　had　to　duck　my　head　when　I　went　through；　and　John　Coffey　actually　had　to　sit　a