sk.petsematary-第66部分

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　　He　went　on　to　Johns　Hopkins；　made　the　Olympic　swimming　team；　and　on　one　long；　dazzling；　and　incredibly　proud　afternoon　sixteen　years　after　Louis　had　raced　an　Orinco　truck　for　his　son's　life；　he　and　Rachel…who　had　now　gone　almost　entirely　gray；　although　she　covered　it　with　a　rinse…watched　their　son　win　a　gold　medal　for　the　U。S。A。　When　the　NBC　cameras　moved　in　for　a　close…up　of　him；　standing　with　his　dripping；　seal…sleek　head　back；　his　eyes　open　and　calm　and　fixed　on　the　flag　as　the　national　anthem　played；　the　ribbon　around　his　neck；　and　the　gold　lying　against　the　smooth　skin　of　his　chest；　Louis　wept。　He　and　Rachel　both　wept。
　　〃I　guess　this　caps　everything；〃　he　said　huskily　and　turned　to　embrace　his　wife。　But　she　was　looking　at　him　with　dawning　horror；　her　face　seeming　to　age　before　his　eyes　as　if　whipped　by　days　and　months　and　years　of　evil　time；　the　sound　of　the　national　anthem　faded　and　when　Louis　looked　back　at　the　TV　he　saw　a　different　boy　there；　a　black　boy　with　a　head　of　tight　curls　in　which　gems　of　water　still　gleamed。
　　This　caps　everything。
　　His　cap。
　　His　cap　is。。。oh　dear　God；　his　cap　is　full　of　blood。
　　Louis　woke　up　in　the　cold　dead　light　of　a　rainy　seven　o'clock；　clutching　his　pillow　in　his　arms。　His　head　thumped　monstrously　with　his　heartbeat；　the　ache　swelled　and　faded；　swelled　and　faded。　He　burped　acid　that　tasted　like　old　beer；　and　his　stomach　heaved　miserably。　He　had　been　weeping；　the　pillow　was　wet　with　his　tears；　as　if　he　had　somehow　stumbled　in　and　then　out　of　one　of　those　hokey　country…and…western　laments　in　his　sleep。　Even　in　the　dream；　he　thought；　some　part　of　him　had　known　the　truth　and　had　cried　for　it。
　　He　got　up　and　stumbled　to　the　bathroom；　heart　racing　threadily　in　his　chest；　consciousness　itself　fragmented　by　the　fierceness　of　his　hangover。　He　reached　the　toilet　bowl　barely　in　time　and　threw　up　a　glut　of　last　night's　beer。
　　He　kneeled　on　the　floor；　eyes　closed；　until　he　felt　capable　of　actually　making　it　to　his　feet。　He　groped　for　the　handle　and　flushed　the　john。　He　went　to　the　mirror　to　see　how　badly　bloodshot　his　eyes　were；　but　the　glass　had　been　covered　with　a　square　of　sheeting。　Then　he　recalled。　Drawing　almost　randomly　on　a　past　she　professed　to　barely　remember；　Rachel　had　covered　all　the　mirrors　in　the　house；　and　she　took　off　her　shoes　before　entering　through　the　door。
　　No　Olympic　swimming　team；　Louis　thought　dully　as　he　walked　back　to　his　bed　and　sat　down　on　it。　The　sour　taste　of　beer　coated　his　mouth　and　throat；　and　he　swore　to　himself　（not　for　the　first　time　or　the　last）　that　he　would　never　touch　that　poison　again。　No　Olympic　swimming　team；　no　3。0　in　college；　no　little　Catholic　girlfriend　or　conversion；　no　Camp　Agawam；　no　nothing。　His　sneakers　had　been　torn　off；　his　jumper　turned　inside　out；　his　sweet　little　boy's　body；　so　tough　and　sturdy；　nearly　dismembered。　His　cap　had　been　full　of　blood。
　　Now；　sitting　on　his　bed　in　the　grip　of　this　numbing　hangover；　rainwater　spilling　its　lazy　courses　down　the　window　beside　him；　his　grief　came　for　him　fully；　like　some　gray　matron　from　Ward　Nine　in　purgatory。　It　came　and　dissolved　him；　unmanned　him；　took　away　whatever　defenses　remained；　and　he　put　his　face　in　his　hands　and　cried；　rocking　back　and　forth　on　his　bed；　thinking　he　would　do　anything　to　have　a　second　chance；　anything　at　all。
　　　41
　　Gage　was　buried　at　two　o'clock　that　afternoon。　By　then　the　rain　had　stopped。　Tattered　clouds　still　moved　overhead；　and　most　of　the　mourners　arrived　carrying　black　umbrellas　provided　by　the　undertaker。
　　At　Rachel's　request；　the　funeral　director；　who　officiated　at　the　short；　nonsectarian　graveside　service；　read　the　passage　from　Matthew　which　begins　〃Suffer　the　little　children　to　e　unto　Me。〃　Louis；　standing　on　one　side　of　the　grave；　looked　across　at　his　father…in…law。　For　a　moment　Goldman　looked　back　at　him；　and　then　he　dropped　his　eyes。　There　was　no　fight　left　in　him　today。　The　pouches　under　his　eyes　now　resembled　mailbags；　and　around　his　black　silk　skullcap；　hair　as　fine　and　white　as　tattered　spiderwebs　flew　randomly　in　the　breeze。　With　his　grayish…black　beard　scragging　his　cheeks；　he　looked　more　like　a　wino　than　ever。　He　gave　Louis　the　impression　of　a　man　who　did　not　really　know　where　he　was。　Louis　tried　but　could　still　find　no　pity　in　his　heart　for　him。
　　Gage's　small　white　coffin；　its　latch　presumably　repaired；　sat　on　a　pair　of　chromed　runners　over　the　grave　liner。　The　verges　of　the　grave　had　been　carpeted　with　Astroturf　so　violently　green　it　hurt　Louis's　eyes。　Several　baskets　of　flowers　had　been　set　on　top　of　this　artificial　and　strangely　gay　surface。　Louis's　eyes　looked　over　the　funeral　director's　shoulder。　Here　was　a　low　hill；　covered　with　graves；　family　plots；　one　Romanesque　monument　with　the　name　PHIPPS　engraved　on　it。　Just　above　the　sloping　roof　of　PHIPPS；　he　could　see　a　sliver　of　yellow。　Louis　looked　at　this；　pondering　it。　He　continued　to　look　at　it　even　after　the　funeral　director　said；　〃Let　us　bow　our　heads　for　a　moment　of　silent　prayer。〃　It　took　Louis　a　few　minutes；　but　he　got　it。　It　was　a　payloader。　A　payloader　parked　over　the　hill　where　the　mourners　wouldn't　have　to　look　at　it。　And；　when　the　funeral　was　over；　Oz　would　crush　his　cigarette　on　the　heel　of　his　tewwible　workboot；　put　it　in　whatever　container　he　carried　around　with　him　（in　a　cemetery；　sextons　caught　depositing　their　butts　on　the　ground　were　almost　always　summarily　fired…it　looked　bad；　too　many　of　the　clientele　had　died　of　lung　cancer）；　jump　in　the　payloader；　fire　that　sucker　up；　and　cut　his　son　off　from　the　sun　forever　。　。　。　or　at　least　until　the　day　of　the　Resurrection。
　　Resurrection。　。　。　ah；　there's　a　word
　　（that　you　should　put　right　the　fuck　out　of　your　mind　and　you　know　it）。
　　When　the　funeral　director　said　〃Amen；〃　Louis　took　Rachel's　arm　and　guided　her　away。　Rachel　murmured　some　protest…she　wanted　to　stay　a　bit　longer；　please；　Louis…but　Louis　was　firm。　They　approached　the　cars。　He　saw　the　funeral　director　taking　umbrellas　with　the　home's　name　discreetly　printed　on　the　handles　from　the　mourners　who　passed　and　handing　them　to　an　assistant。　The　assistant　put　them　in　an　umbrella　stand　which　looked　surreal；　standing　there　on　the　dewy　turf。　He　held　Rachel's　arm　with　his　right　hand　and　Ellie's　white…gloved　hand　with　his　left。　Ellie　was　wearing　the　same　dress　she　had　worn　to　Norma　Crandall's　funeral。
　　Jud　came　over　as　Louis　handed　his　ladies　into　the　car。　Jud　also　looked　as　if　he'd　had　a　hard　night。
　　〃You　okay；　Louis？〃
　　Louis　nodded。
　　Jud　bent　to　look　into　the　car。　〃How　are　you；　Rachel？〃　he　asked。
　　〃I'm　all　right；　Jud；〃　she　whispered。
　　Jud　touched　her　shoulder　gently　and　then　looked　at　Ellie。　How　about　you；　dear　one？〃
　　〃I'm　fine；〃　Ellie　said　and　produced　a　hideous　smile　of　sharklike　proportions　to　show　him　how　fine　she　was。
　　〃What's　that　picture　you　got　there？〃
　　For　a　moment　Louis　thought　she　would　hold　it；　refuse　to　show　him；　and　then　with　a　painful　shyness　she　passed　it　to　Jud。　He　held　it　in　his　big　fingers；　fingers　that　were　so　splayed　and　somehow　clumsy…looking；　fingers　that　looked　fit　mostly　for　grappling　with　the　transmissions　of　big　road　machines　or　making　couplings　on　the　B　&　M　Line…but　they　were　also　the　fingers　that　had　pulled　a　bee　stinger　from　Gage's　neck　with　all　the　offhand　skill　of　a　magician。　。　。　or　a　surgeon。
　　〃Why；　that's　real　nice；〃　Jud　said。　〃You　pullin　him　on　a　sled。　Bet　he　liked　that；　didn't　he；　Ellie？〃
　　Beginning　to　weep；　Ellie　nodded。
　　Rachel　began　to　say　something；　but　Louis　squeezed　her　arm…　be　still　awhile。
　　〃I　used　to　pull　im　a　lot；〃　Ellie　said；　weeping；　〃and　he'd　laugh　and　laugh。　Then　we'd　go　in　and　Mommy　would　fix　us　cocoa　and　say；　'Put　your　boots　away；'　and　Gage　would　grab　them　all　up　and　scream　'Boots！　Boots！'　so　loud　it　hurt　your　ears。　Remember　that；　Mom？〃
　　Rachel　nodded。
　　〃Yeah；　I　bet　that　was　a　good　time；　all　right；〃　Jud　said；　handing　the　picture　back。　〃And　he　may　be　dead　now；　Ellie；　but　you　can　keep　your　memories　of　him。〃
　　〃I'm　going　to；〃　she　said；　wiping　at　her　face。　〃I　loved　Gage；　Mr。　Crandall。〃
　　〃I　know　you　did；　dear。〃　He　leaned　in　and　kissed　her；　and　when　he　withdrew；　his　eyes　swept　Louis　and　Rachel　stonily。　Rachel　met　his　gaze；　puzzled