sk.dreamcatcher-第93部分

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he　unremembered　part　of　their　shared　dream。
　　　　That's　what　keeps　him　where　he　is　and　makes　him　take　the　telephone　even　though　he　is　sweltering；　roasting；　fucking　melting。
　　　　'Duddits；'　he　says；　and　even　his　voice　sounds　hot。　'It's　really　okay。　I'm　gonna　let　you　talk　to　Henry　again；　it's　super…hot　in　here　and　I　have　to　get　a　breath　of　fresh…'
　　　　Duddits　interrupts　him；　his　voice　strong　and　urgent。　'Oh…oh…ow！　Ohee；　oh…oh…ow！　Ay！　Ay！　Isser　AY！'
　　　　They　have　always　understood　his　gabble　from　the　very　first；　and　Jonesy　understands　it　now：　Don't　go　out！　Jonesy；　don't　go　out！　Gray！　Gray！　Mister　GRAY！
　　　　Jonesy's　mouth　drops　open。　He　looks　past　the　heat…shimmering　stove；　down　the　aisle　where　Beaver's　hungover　father　is　now　making　a　listless　examination　of　the　canned　beans；　past　Mrs　Gosselin　at　the　old　scrolled　cash　register；　and　out　the　front　window。　That　window　is　dirty；　and　it's　filled　with　signs　advertising　everything　from　Winston　cigarettes　and　Moosehead　Ale　to　church　suppers　and　Fourth　of　July　picnics　that　happened　back　when　the　peanut…farmer　was　still　President　。　。　。　but　there's　still　enough　glass　for　him　to　look　through　and　see　the　thing　that's　waiting　for　him　outside。　It's　the　thing　that　came　up　behind　him　while　he　was　trying　to　hold　the　bathroom　door　closed；　the　thing　that　has　snatched　his　body。　A　naked　gray　figure　standing　beside　the　Citgo　pump　on　its　toeless　feet；　staring　at　him　with　its　black　eyes。　And　Jonesy　thinks：　It's　not　how　they　really　are；　it's　just　the　way　we　see　them。
　　　　As　if　to　emphasize　this；　Mr　Gray　raises　one　of　his　hands　and　brings　it　down。　From　the　tips　of　his　three　fingers；　little　specks　of　reddish…gold　float　upward　like　thistle。
　　　　Byrus；　Jonesy　thinks。
　　　　As　if　it　were　a　magic　word　in　a　fairy…tale；　everything　freezes。　Gosselin's　Market　bees　a　still…life。　Then　the　color　drains　out　of　it　and　it　bees　a　sepia…toned　photograph。　His　friends　are　growing　transparent　and　fading　before　his　eyes。　Only　two　things　still　seem　real：　the　heavy　black　receiver　of　the　pay　phone；　and　the　heat。　The　stifling　heat。
　　　　'Ay　UH！'　Duddits　cries　into　his　ear。　Jonesy　hears　a　long；　choking　intake　of　breath　which　he　remembers　so　well；　it　is　Duddits　readying　himself　to　speak　as　clearly　as　he　possibly　can。　'Ownzy！　Ownzy；　ake　UH！　Ake　UH！　Ake


2

up！　Wake　up！　Jonesy；　ake　up！
　　　　Jonesy　raised　his　head　and　for　a　moment　could　see　nothing。　His　hair；　heavy　and　sweat…clotted；　hung　in　his　eyes。　He　brushed　it　away；　hoping　for　his　own　bedroom　…　either　the　one　at　Hole　in　the　Wall；　or；　even　better；　the　one　back　home　in　Brookline　…　but　no　such　luck。　He　was　still　in　the　office　at　Tracker　Brothers。　He'd　fallen　asleep　at　the　desk　and　had　dreamed　of　how　they'd　called　Duddits　all　those　years　ago。　That　had　been　real　enough；　but　not　the　stuporous　heat。　If　anything；　Old　Man　Gosselin　had　always　kept　his　place　cold；　he　was　chintzy　that　way。　The　heat　had　crept　into　his　dream　because　it　was　hot　in　here；　Christ；　it　had　to　be　a　hundred　degrees；　maybe　a　hundred　and　ten。
　　　　Furnace　has　gone　nuts；　he　thought；　and　got　up。　Or　maybe　the　place　is　on　fire。　Either　way；　I　have　to　get　out。　Before　I　roast。
　　　　Jonesy　went　around　the　desk；　barely　registering　the　fact　that　the　desk　had　changed；　barely　registering　the　feel　of　something　brushing　the　top　of　his　head　as　he　burned　toward　the　door。　He　was　reaching　for　the　knob　with　one　hand　and　the　lock　with　the　other　when　he　remembered　Duddits　in　the　dream；　telling　him　not　to　go　out；　Mr　Gray　was　out　there　waiting。
　　　　And　he　was。　Right　outside　this　door。　Waiting　in　the　storehouse　of　memories；　to　which　he　now　had　total　access。
　　　　Jonesy　spread　his　sweaty　fingers　on　the　wood　of　the　door。　His　hair　fell　down　over　his　eyes　again；　but　he　barely　noticed。　'Mr　Gray；'　he　whispered。　'Are　you　out　there？　You　are；　aren't　you？'
　　　　No　response；　but　Mr　Gray　was；　all　right。　He　was　standing　with　his　hairless　rudiment　of　a　head　cocked　and　his　glass…black　eyes　fixed　on　the　doorknob；　waiting　for　it　to　turn。　Waiting　for　Jonesy　to　e　bursting　out。　And　then…？
　　　　Goodbye　annoying　human　thoughts。　Goodbye　distracting　and　disturbing　human　emotions。
　　　　Goodbye　Jonesy。
　　　　'Mr　Gray；　are　you　trying　to　smoke　me　out？'　
　　　　Still　no　answer。　Jonesy　didn't　need　one。　Mr　Gray　had　access　to　all　the　controls；　didn't　he？　Including　the　ones　that　controlled　his　temperature。　How　high　had　he　pushed　it？　Jonesy　didn't　know；　but　he　knew　it　was　still　going　up。　The　band　around　his　chest　was　hotter　and　heavier　than　ever；　and　he　could　hardly　breathe。　His　temples　were　pounding。
　　　　The　window。　What　about　the　window？
　　　　Feeling　a　burst　of　hope；　Jonesy　turned　in　that　direction；　putting　his　back　to　the　door。　The　window　was　dark　now　…　so　much　for　the　eternal　afternoon　in　October　of　1978　…　and　the　driveway　which　ran　up　the　side　of　Tracker　Brothers　was　buried　under　shifting　drifts　of　snow。　Never；　even　as　a　child；　had　snow　looked　so　inviting　to　Jonesy。　He　saw　himself　bursting　through　the　window　like　Errol　Flynn　in　some　old　pirate　movie；　saw　himself　charging　into　the　snow　and　then　throwing　himself　into　it；　bathing　his　burning　face　in　its　blessed　white　chill…
　　　　Yes；　and　then　the　feel　of　Mr　Gray's　hands　closing　around　his　neck。　Those　hands　had　only　three　digits　each；　but　they　would　be　strong；　they　would　choke　the　life　out　of　him　in　no　time。　If　he　even　cracked　the　window；　tried　to　let　in　some　of　the　cold　night　air；　Mr　Gray　would　be　in　and　battening　on　him　like　a　vampire。　Because　that　part　of　JonesyWorld　wasn't　safe。　That　part　was　conquered　territory。
　　　　Hobson's　choice。　Fucked　either　way。
　　　　'e　out。'　Mr　Gray　at　last　spoke　through　the　door；　and　in　Jonesy's　own　voice。　'I'll　make　it　quick。　You　don't　want　to　roast　in　there　。　。　。　or　do　you？'
　　　　Jonesy　suddenly　saw　the　desk　standing　in　front　of　the　window；　the　desk　that　hadn't　even　been　here　when　he　first　found　himself　in　this　room。　Before　he'd　fallen　asleep　it　had　just　been　a　plain　wooden　thing；　the　sort　of　bottom…of…the…line　model　you　might　buy　at　Office　Depot　if　you　were　on　a　budget。　At　some　point　…　he　couldn't　remember　exactly　when　…　it　had　gained　a　phone。　Just　a　plain　black　phone；　as　utilitarian　and　undecorative　as　the　desk　itself。
　　　　Now；　he　saw；　the　desk　was　an　oak　rolltop；　the　twin　of　the　one　in　his　Brookline　study。　And　the　phone　was　a　blue　Trimline；　like　the　one　in　his　office　at　Jay。　He　wiped　a　palmful　of　piss…warm　sweat　off　his　forehead；　and　as　he　did　it　he　saw　what　he　had　brushed　with　the　top　of　his　head。　　
　　　　It　was　the　dreamcatcher。
　　　　The　dreamcatcher　from　Hole　in　the　Wall。
　　　　'Holy　shit；'　he　whispered。　'I'm　decorating　the　place。'
　　　　Of　course　he　was；　why　not？　Didn't　even　prisoners　on　Death　Row　decorate　their　cells？　And　if　he　could　add　a　desk　and　a　dreamcatcher　and　a　Trimline　phone　in　his　sleep；　then　maybe　Jonesy　closed　his　eyes　and　concentrated。　He　tried　to　call　up　an　image　of　his　study　in　Brookline。　For　a　moment　this　gave　him　trouble；　because　a　question　intruded：　if　his　memories　were　out　there；　how　could　he　still　have　them　in　here？　The　answer；　he　realized；　was　probably　simple。　His　memories　were　still　in　his　head；　where　they　had　always　been。　The　cartons　in　the　storeroom　were　what　Henry　might　call　an　externalization；　his　way　of　visualizing　all　the　stuff　to　which　Mr　Gray　had　access。
　　　　Never　mind。　Pay　attention　to　what　needs　doing。　The　study　in　Brookline。　See　the　study　in　Brookline。
　　　　'What　are　you　doing？'　Mr　Gray　demanded。　The　smarmy　self…confidence　had　left　his　voice。　'What　the　doodlyfuck　are　you　doing？'
　　　　Jonesy　smiled　a　little　at　that　…　he　couldn't　help　it　…　but　he　held　onto　his　image。　Not　just　the　study；　but　one　wall　of　the　study　。　。　。　there　by　the　door　leading　into　the　little　half…bath　。　。　。　yes；　there　it　was。　The　Honeywell　thermostat。　And　what　was　he　supposed　to　say？　Was　there　a　magic　word；　something　like　alakazam？　　　　
　　　　Yeah。
　　　　With　his　eyes　still　closed　and　a　trace　of　a　smile　still　on　his　sweat…streaming　face；　Jonesy　whispered：　'Duddits。'
　　　　He　opened　his　eyes　and　looked　at　the　dusty；　nondescript　wall。
　　　　The　thermostat　was　there。


3

'Stop　it！'　Mr　Gray　shouted；　and　even　as　Jonesy　crossed　the　room　he　was　amazed　by　the　familiarity　of　that　voice；　it　was　like　listening　to　one　of　his　own　infrequent　tantrums　（the　wild　disorder　of　the　kids'　rooms　was　a　likely　f