sk.dreamcatcher-第35部分

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　　　　He　lay　where　he　was　for　a　moment；　giving　anything　broken　ample　opportunity　to　announce　itself　When　nothing　did；　he　reached　around　and　prodded　the　small　of　his　back。　Pain；　but　no　agony。　When　they　were　ten　and　eleven　and　spent　what　seemed　like　whole　winters　sledding　in　Strawford　Park；　he　had　taken　worse　hits　than　this　and　gotten　up　laughing。　Once；　with　the　idiotic　Pete　Moore　piloting　his　Flexible　Flyer　and　Henry　riding　behind　him；　they　had　gone　head…on　into　the　big　pine　at　the　foot　of　the　hill；　the　one　all　the　kids　called　the　Death　Tree；　and　survived　with　nothing　more　than　a　few　bruises　and　a　couple　of　loose　teeth　each。　The　trouble　was；　he　hadn't　been　ten　or　eleven　for　a　lot　of　years。
　　　　'Get　up；　ya　baby；　you're　okay；'　he　said；　and　carefully　came　to　a　sitting　position。　Twinges　from　his　back；　but　nothing　worse。　just　shaken　up。　Nothing　hurt　but　your　fuckin　pride；　as　they　used　to　say。　Still；　he'd　maybe　sit　here　another　minute　or　two。　He　was　making　great　time　and　he　deserved　a　rest。　Besides；　those　memories　had　shaken　him。　Richie　Grenadeau；　fucking　Richie　Grenadeau；　who　had；　it　turned　out；　flunked　off　the　football　team　…　it　hadn't　been　the　broken　nose　at　all。　Gonna　see　you　fellas　again；　he　had　told　them；　and　Henry　guessed　he　had　meant　it；　but　the　threatened　confrontation　had　never　happened；　no；　never　happened。　Something　else　had　happened　instead。
　　　　And　all　that　was　a　long　time　ago。　Right　now　Banbury　Cross　awaited　…　Hole　in　the　Wall；　at　least　…　and　he　had　no　cock　horse　to　ride　there；　only　that　poor　man's　steed；　shank's　mare。　Henry　got　to　his　feet；　began　to　brush　snow　from　his　ass；　and　then　someone　screamed　inside　his　head。
　　　　'Ow；　ow；　ow！'　he　cried。　It　was　like　something　played　through　a　Walkman　you　could　turn　up　to　concert…hall　levels；　like　a　shotgun　blast　that　had　gone　off　directly　behind　his　eyes。　He　staggered　backward；　flailing　for　balance；　and　had　he　not　run　into　the　stiffly　jutting　branches　of　a　pine　growing　at　the　left　side　of　the　road；　he　surely　would　have　fallen　down　again。
　　　　He　disengaged　himself　from　the　tree's　clutch；　ears　still　ringing　…　hell；　his　entire　head　was　ringing　…　and　stepped　forward；　hardly　believing　he　was　still　alive。　He　raised　one　of　his　hands　to　his　nose；　and　the　palm　of　his　hand　came　away　wet　with　blood。　There　was　something　loose　in　his　mouth；　too。　He　held　his　hand　under　it；　spat　out　a　tooth；　looked　at　it　wonderingly；　then　tossed　it　aside；　ignoring　his　first　impulse；　which　had　been　to　put　it　in　his　coat　pocket。　No　one；　as　far　as　he　knew；　did　surgical　implants　of　teeth；　and　he　strongly　doubted　that　the　Tooth　Fairy　came　this　far　out　in　the　boonies。
　　　　He　couldn't　say　for　sure　whose　scream　that　had　been；　but　he　had　an　idea　Pete　Moore　had　maybe　just　run　into　a　big　load　of　bad　trouble。
　　　　Henry　listened　for　other　voices；　other　thoughts；　and　heard　none。　Excellent。　Although　he　had　to　admit　that；　even　without　voices；　this　had　certainly　turned　into　the　hunting　trip　of　a　lifetime。
　　　　'Go；　big　boy；　on　you　huskies；'　he　said；　and　started　running　toward　Hole　in　the　Wall　again。　His　sense　that　something　had　gone　wrong　there　was　stronger　than　ever；　and　it　was　all　he　could　do　to　hold　himself　to　a　fast　jog。
　　　　Go　look　in　the　chamber　pot。
　　　　Why　don't　we　just　knock　on　the　bathroom　door　and　ask　him　how　he　is？
　　　　Had　he　actually　heard　those　voices？　Yes；　they　were　gone　now；　but　he　had　heard　them；　just　as　he　had　heard　that　terrible　agonal　scream。　Pete？　Or　had　it　been　the　woman？　Pretty　Becky　Shue？
　　　　'Pete；'　he　said；　the　word　ing　out　in　a　puff　of　vapor。　'It　was　Pete。'　Not　entirely　sure；　even　now；　but　pretty　sure。
　　　　At　first　he　was　afraid　he　wouldn't　be　able　to　find　his　rhythm　again；　but　then；　while　he　was　still　worrying　about　it；　it　came　back　…　the　synchronicity　of　his　hurrying　breath　and　thudding　feet；　beautiful　in　its　simplicity。
　　　　Three　more　miles　to　Banbury　Cross；　he　thought。　Going　home。　Just　like　we　took　Duddits　home　that　day。
　　　　（if　you　tell　anybody　I　did　this　I'll　never　chum　with　you　guys　again）
　　　　Henry　returned　to　that　October　afternoon　as　to　a　deep　dream。　He　dropped　down　the　well　of　memory　so　far　and　so　fast　that　at　first　he　didn't　sense　the　cloud　rushing　toward　him；　the　cloud　that　was　not　words　or　thoughts　or　screams　but　only　its　redblack　self；　a　thing　with　places　to　go　and　things　to　do。


5

Beaver　steps　forward；　hesitates　for　a　moment；　then　drops　to　his　knees。　The　retard　doesn't　see　him；　he　is　still　wailing；　eyes　squeezed　shut　and　narrow　chest　heaving。　Both　the　Underoos　and　Beaver's　zipper…studded　old　motorcycle　jacket　are　ical；　but　none　of　the　other　boys　are　laughing。　Henry　only　wants　the　retard　to　stop　crying。　That　crying　is　killing　him。
　　　　Beaver　shuffles　forward　a　little　bit　on　his　knees；　then　takes　the　weeping　boy　into　his　arms。
　　　　'Baby's　boat's　a　silver　dream；　sailing　near　and　far　。　。　。'
　　　　Henry　has　never　heard　Beaver　sing　before；　except　maybe　along　with　the　radio　…　the　Clarendons　are　most　certainly　not　churchgoers　…　and　he　is　astounded　by　the　clear　tenor　sweetness　of　his　friend's　voice。　In　another　year　or　so　the　Beav's　voice　will　change　pletely　and　bee　unremarkable；　but　now；　in　the　weedy　vacant　lot　behind　the　empty　building；　it　pierces　them　all；　astounds　them。　The　retarded　boy　reacts　as　well；　stops　crying　and　looks　at　Beaver　with　wonder。
　　　　'It　sails　from　here　in　Baby's　room　and　to　the　nearest　star；　Sail；　Baby；　sail；　sail　on　home　to　me；　sail　the　seas　and　sail　the　stars；　sail　on　home　to　me　。　。　。'　　　　
　　　　The　last　note　drifts　on　the　air　and　for　a　moment　nothing　in　the　world　breathes　for　beauty。　Henry　feels　like　crying。　The　retarded　boy　looks　at　Beaver；　who　has　been　rocking　him　back　and　forth　in　rhythm　with　the　song。　On　his　teary　face　is　an　expression　of　blissful　astonishment。　He　has　forgotten　his　split　lip　and　bruised　cheek；　his　missing　clothes；　his　lost　lunchbox。　To　Beaver　he　says　ooo　or；　open　syllables　that　could　mean　almost　anything；　but　Henry　understands　them　perfectly　and　sees　Beaver　does；　too。
　　　　'I　can't　do　more；'　the　Beav　says。　He　realizes　his　arm　is　still　around　the　kid's　shirtless　shoulders　and　takes　it　away。
　　　　As　soon　as　he　does；　the　kid's　face　clouds　over；　not　with　fear　this　time；　or　with　the　petulance　of　one　balked　of　getting　his　way；　but　in　pure　sorrow。　Tears　fill　those　amazingly　green　eyes　of　his　and　spill　down　the　clean　tracks　on　his　dirty　cheeks。　He　takes　Beaver's　hand　and　puts　Beaver's　arm　back　over　his　shoulders。　'Ooo　or！　Ooo　or！'　he　says。　Beaver　looks　at　them；　panicked。　'That's　all　my　mother　ever　sang　me；　he　says。　'I　always　went　right　to　fuckin　sleep。'
　　　　Henry　and　Jonesy　exchange　a　look　and　burst　out　laughing。　Not　a　good　idea；　it'll　probably　scare　the　kid　and　he'll　start　that　terrible　bawling　again；　but　neither　of　them　can　help　it。　And　the　kid　doesn't　cry。　He　smiles　at　Henry　and　Jonesy　instead；　a　sunny　smile　that　displays　a　mouthful　of　white　crammed…together　teeth；　and　then　looks　back　at　Beaver。　He　continues　to　hold　Beaver's　arm　firmly　around　his　shoulders。
　　　　'Ooo　or！'　he　mands。
　　　　'Aw；　fuck；　sing　it　again；'　Pete　says。　'The　part　you　know。'　Beaver　ends　up　singing　it　three　more　times　before　the　kid　will　let　him　stop；　will　let　the　boys　work　him　into　his　pants　and　his　tom　shirt；　the　one　with　Richie　Grenadeau's　number　on　it。　Henry　has　never　forgotten　that　haunting　fragment　and　will　sometimes　recall　it　at　the　oddest　times：　after　losing　his　virginity　at　a　UNH　fraternity　party　with　'Smoke　on　the　Water'　pounding　through　the　speakers　downstairs；　after　opening　his　paper　to　the　obituary　page　and　seeing　Barry　Newman's　rather　charming　smile　above　his　multiple　chins；　feeding　his　father；　who　had　e　down　with　Alzheimer's　at　the　ferociously　unfair　age　of　fifty…three；　his　father　insisting　that　Henry　was　someone　named　Sam。　'A　real　man　pays　off　his　debts；　Sammy；'　his　father　had　said；　and　when　he　accepted　the　next　bite　of　cereal；　milk　ran　down　his　chin。　At　these　times　what　he　thinks　of　as　Beaver's　Lullaby　will　e　back　to　him；　and　he　will　feel　transiently　forted。　No　bounce；　no　play。
　　　　Finally　they've　got　the　kid　all　dressed　except　for　one　red　sneaker。　He's　trying　to　put　it　on　himself；　but　he's　got　it　pointing　backward。　He　is　one　fucked…up　young　American；　and　Henry　is　at　a　loss　to　know　how　the　three　big　boys　could　have　bullied　up　on　him。　Even　aside　from　the　c