pzb.drawingblood-第12部分

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fine　with　them　on。　〃Me？〃
　　〃Yeah；　you；　who　the　fuck　you　think　I　mean；　him？〃　The　redneck　gestured　at　an　ancient　black　man　asleep　across　the　aisle；　toothless　cavern　of　his　mouth　gaping；　gnarled　hands　twisting　around　the　nearly　empty　bottle　of　Night　Train　in　his　lap。
　　Ever　so　slowly　Trevor　shook　his　head；　never　looking　away　from　the　redneck's　bleary；　glittering　eyes。
　　〃Well　anyway；　you　mind　turnin'　that　goddamn　light　off？　I　got　a　real　bad　headache；　you　know？〃
　　Hangover；　more　like。　Trevor　shook　his　head　again；　even　more　slowly；　even　more　firmly。　〃I　can't。　I　have　to　work　on　this　drawing。〃
　　〃The　fuck　you　do！〃　More　of　the　redneck's　head　rose　over　the　seat；　though　there　was　still　no　neck　in　evidence。　A　large　scarred　hand　appeared　as　well。　Trevor　saw　black　half…moons　of　dirt　under　each　thick　nail。　〃What's　a　freak　like　you　drawin'　that's　so　goddamn　important？〃
　　Silently　Trevor　turned　his　sketchbook　around　so　that　the　redneck　could　see　it。　The　light　showed　every　detail　of　the　drawing：　a　slender　woman　half…seated；　half…sprawled　in　a　doorway；　head　thrown　back；　yawning　mouth　full　of　blood　and　broken　teeth。　Her　left　temple　and　forehead　were　smashed　in；　her　hair　and　face　and　the　front　of　her　blouse　black　with　blood。　The　draftsmanship　was　stark　and　flawless；　the　frozen　agony　eloquent　in　every　line　of　her　body；　in　every　stroke　of　her　ruined　face。
　　〃My　mother；〃　Trevor　said。
　　The　redneck's　fat　face　quivered。　His　lips　twitched；　his　eyes　went　shocked；　momentarily　defenseless；　then　flat。　〃Fuckin'　freak；〃　he　muttered　loudly。　But　he　didn't　say　anything　else　about　the　light；　not　for　the　rest　of　the　trip。
　　The　bus　turned　off　the　interstate　at　Pittsboro　and　got　on　the　narrow　two…lane　state　highway。　It　stopped　for　minutes　at　a　tiny　dark　station　in　Corinth；　then　there　were　no　more　stops；　and　it　was　irrevocable；　it　was　true；　he　was　really　going　back　to　Missing　Mile。
　　Trevor　looked　back　down　at　his　drawing。　A　line　appeared　between　his　eyebrows　as　he　frowned　at　it。　How　weird。　In　the　lower　right…hand　corner；　without　being　aware　of　it；　he　had　labeled　the　drawing。　And　he　had　labeled　it　wrong。　In　big；　dark　block　letters　he　had　printed　the　name　ROSENA　BLACK。
　　But　his　mother's　name　had　been　Rosena　McGee。　She　had　been　born　Rosena　Parks；　but　she　had　died　a　McGee。　Black　was　the　name　Trevor　had　chosen　for　himself　years　ago；　the　name　he　drew　under。
　　He　didn't　erase　the　mislabel；　it　was　too　heavily　penciled；　would　fuck　up　the　paper。　He　wasn't　much　for　erasing　anyway。　Sometimes　your　mistakes　showed　you　the　really　interesting　connections　between　your　brain；　your　hand；　and　your　heart；　the　ones　you　might　otherwise　never　know　were　there。　They　were　important　even　if　you　had　no　idea　what　they　meant。
　　Like　now；　for　instance。　ing　back　here　might　be　the　biggest　mistake　he'd　ever　made。　But　it　might　also　be　the　most　important　thing　he　had　ever　done。
　　He　couldn't　remember　his　last　sight　of　Missing　Mile。　His　mother's　friends　had　carried　him　out　of　the　house　that　morning；　and　that　was　all　he　had　known　for　a　while。　Only　one　of　them；　a　man　with　large；　gentle　hands；　had　been　brave　enough　to　edge　past　Bobby's　dangling　body　and　pry　Trevor　from　his　niche　between　the　toilet　and　the　sink。　The　next　thing　he　remembered　was　waking　up　in　a　blank　white　room；　smelling　medicine　and　vomit；　then　screaming　at　the　sight　of　a　tube　that　snaked　out　of　a　bag　hanging　by　the　bed　and　ran　straight　into　the　crook　of　his　arm。　The　flesh　where　it　went　in　was　puffy；　red；　sore。
　　Trevor　had　thought　the　thing　was　alive；　burrowing　into　him　as　he　slept。　He　would　never　really　trust　sleep　again。　You　closed　your　eyes　and　went　somewhere　else　for　a　few　hours；　and　while　you　were　gone；　anything　could　happen　…　anything　at　all。　The　whole　world　could　be　ripped　out　from　under　you。
　　The　nurse　said　Trevor　had　not　been　able　to　hear　people　trying　to　talk　to　him；　and　could　not　eat　or　drink。　The　tube　had　pumped　ground…up　food　into　his　arm　to　keep　him　from　starving　to　death；　or　so　he　understood　it。　He　was　embarrassed　to　find　himself　wearing　a　diaper。　Even　Didi　was　too　old　for　diapers。　Then　he　remembered　that　Didi　wasn't　anything　anymore　but　a　memory　of　a　smashed　shape　on　a　stained　mattress。　His　family　had　been　dead　five　days；　had　been　buried　while　Trevor　floated　in　that　hazy　twilight　world。
　　The　doctors　at　the　hospital　in　Raleigh　called　it　catatonia。　Trevor　knew　it　was　Birdland。　Not　just　the　place　where　no　one　else　could　touch　you；　but　the　place　you　went　when　the　real　world　scared　you　away。
　　After　it　became　apparent　that　no　relative　or　friend　of　the　family　was　going　to　claim　him；　and　a　series　of　cognitive　tests　proved　he　was　functional　（if　withdrawn）；　the　court　declared　Trevor　McGee　a　ward　of　the　state。　He　was　placed　in　the　North　Carolina　Boys'　Home　on　the　outskirts　of　Charlotte；　an　orphanage　and　school　whose　operating　budget　had　been　shaved　to　the　bone　the　previous　year。　There　was　no　foster　family　program；　no　special　training　for　the　gifted；　no　therapy　for　the　disturbed。　There　was　only　an　enormous　drafty　pillared　school　building　and　four　outlying　dorms　all　built　of　smooth　gray　stone　that　held　a　chill　even　in　the　heart　of　summer。　There　were　only　three　hundred　boys　aged　five　to　eighteen；　all　kept　crew…cut　and　conservatively　dressed；　each　with　his　own　personal　hell　and　none　of　them　much　inclined　to　help　ease　the　weight　of　anyone　else's。
　　The　place　seemed　to　have　no　color；　no　texture。　Trevor's　thirteen　years　there　were　a　collage　of　blurred　edges；　featureless　gray　expanses；　empty　city　streets　sectioned　into　little　diamonds　by　the　chain…link　fence　that　surrounded　the　Home　and　its　grounds。　His　room　was　a　cold　square　box；　but　safe　because　he　could　draw　there　without　anyone　looking　over　his　shoulder。
　　Most　of　the　other　boys　used　sports　as　their　escape；　built　their　dreams　around　athletic　scholarships　to　State　or　UNC。　Trevor　was　painfully　clumsy；　except　for　his　right　hand；　his　body　felt　wrong　to　him；　like　something　he　wasn't　entitled　to　and　shouldn't　have。　He　dreaded　the　afternoons　he　was　forced　out　to　the　playing　fields　with　his　gym　class；　hot　dusty　tedium　broken　only　by　occasional　panic　when　someone　screamed　at　him　to　run　or　swing　or　catch　a　hurtling　ball　that　looked　like　a　bomb　falling　at　a　thousand　miles　per　hour　out　of　a　dizzying　clear　blue　sky。
　　His　life　at　the　Boys'　Home　had　been　neither　good　nor　terrible。　He　never　tried　to　make　friends；　and　mostly　he　was　ignored。　On　the　rare　occasions　that　a　group　of　predators　chose　him　as　their　next　target；　Trevor　returned　their　taunts　until　he　goaded　them　into　attacking　him。　They　always　attacked　him　eventually。　Then　he　would　hurt　as　many　of　them　as　badly　as　he　could。　He　learned　to　land　a　hard　punch　with　his　left　fist；　to　kick　and　claw　and　bite；　anything　that　did　not　risk　his　drawing　hand。　He　usually　got　the　worst　of　it；　but　that　particular　group　would　leave　him　alone　afterward；　and　Trevor　would　mind　his　own　business　until　the　next　group　came　along。　From　things　he　read；　he　suspected　it　was　a　lot　like　prison。
　　The　state　had　cut　him　loose　at　eighteen　with　an　option　to　attend　vocational　school。　Instead；　Trevor　headed　for　the　Greyhound　station　and　bought　a　ticket　for　as　far　as　the　hundred　dollars　in　his　pocket　would　take　him。
　　He　had　traveled　haphazardly　in　those　years；　zigzagging　between　cities　and　coasts；　picking　up　work　here　and　there；　occasionally　selling　a　sketch　or　a　ic　strip　for　the　price　of　a　bus　ticket；　often　more。　Sometimes　he　met　people　that　under　other　circumstances　he　thought　he　might　have　called　friends。　At　any　rate；　people　in　the　real　world　were　more　interesting　than　any　he　had　met　in　the　Home。　But　as　soon　as　he　left　a　place；　these　acquaintances　were　gone　as　if　erased　from　the　world。
　　He　never　let　anyone　touch　him。　Mostly　he　preferred　to　be　alone。　If　he　was　ever　unable　to　draw；　Trevor　thought　he　would　probably　die。　It　was　a　possibility　he　always　kept　tucked　away　in　a　corner　of　his　mind；　the　fort　of　the　razor　or　the　rope；　the　security　of　poison　on　the　shelf　waiting　to　be　swallowed。　But　he　wouldn't　take　anyone　with　him　when　he　went。
　　He　had　not　cut　his　hair　for　seven　years。　He　had　never　had　a　permanent　address。　He　seldom　visited　a　town　or　a　city　more　than　once。　There　were　only　a　few　places　he　avoided。　Austin。