pzb.drawingblood-第13部分

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　　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。　New　Orleans。　And　North　Carolina；　until　now。
　　His　twenty…fifth　birthday　had　recently　e　and　gone；　celebrated　only　by　the　crossing　of　state　lines；　a　thing　that　always　exhilarated　him　a　little　no　matter　how　often　he　did　it。　Trevor　often　came　close　to　forgetting　his　own　birthday。　All　it　had　meant　in　the　Boys'　Home　was　an　ugly　new　shirt　and　a　cupcake　with　a　single　candle　on　it；　reminders　of　everything　he　didn't　have。
　　And　besides；　his　birthday　was　overshadowed　by　the　more　important　anniversary　just　after　it。　The　anniversary　that　fell　tomorrow。
　　Twenty　years　since　it　happened；　and　every　year　strung　heavy　as　a　millstone　round　his　heart。　Four…fifths　of　his　life　spent　wondering　why　he　wasn't　dead。　It　was　too　long。
　　Recently　he　had　started　having　a　dream　of　the　house　on　Violin　Road。　All　through　his　childhood　Trevor　had　dreamed　of　that　last　morning；　that　bloody　morning　that　seemed　to　drip　through　his　memory　like　molasses；　dark　and　slow。　That　was　a　familiar　nightmare；　infrequent　now。　But　this　new　dream　was　different；　and　had　been　ing　several　times　a　week。
　　He　would　find　himself　sitting　in　the　little　back　bedroom　Bobby　had　used　as　a　studio；　staring　at　a　blank　sheet　of　paper　on　the　drawing　board。　Trevor　usually　drew　ics　in　his　sketchbook；　but　Bobby　had　used　looseleaf　paper　for　Birdland。　Only　there　was　no　Birdland　on　this　sheet　of　paper。　There　was　nothing　on　it；　and　he　could　think　of　nothing　to　put　on　it。　It　stared　him　in　the　eye　and　laughed　at　him；　and　Trevor　could　almost　hear　its　dry　sardonic　whisper：　The　abyss　stares　back　into　you？　Ha！　Nothing　to　see　but　a　liver　pickled　in　whiskey　and　the　ashes　of　a　million　burnt…out　dreams。
　　Awake；　Trevor　couldn't　imagine　not　being　able　to　draw。　He　could　always　make　his　hand　move。　An　empty　page　had　always　been　a　challenge；　a　space　for　him　to　fill。　Awake；　it　still　was。　But　in　this　dream；　the　blank　sheet　of　paper　was　a　mockery。
　　And　he　didn't　drink　whiskey；　or　any　other　kind　of　alcohol。　He　had　never　taken　a　drink　in　his　life。
　　Trevor　found　that　this　dream　bothered　him　more　than　the　ones　in　which　he　saw　his　family　dead。　Drawing　had　been　the　only　thing　he　cared　about　for　such　a　long　time。　Now　he　was　beginning　to　understand　how　the　loss　of　it　could　drive　someone　insane。
　　He　started　to　worry：　what　if　the　hollow；　paralyzed　feeling　of　the　dream　infiltrated　his　waking　life？　What　if　someday　he　opened　his　sketchbook　and　his　hand　went　stiff；　his　mind　numb？
　　The　night　he　woke　up　with　a　broken　pencil　in　his　hands；　the　edges　of　the　wood　as　raw　as　a　fractured　bone；　the　sound　of　the　snap　still　echoing　like　a　leftover　shred　of　nightmare　through　his　lonely　boardinghouse　room；　Trevor　knew　he　had　to　go　back　to　the　house。　He　was　sick　of　wearing　his　past　like　a　millstone。　He　would　not　let　his　art　bee　one　too。
　　The　bus　passed　a　wreck　just　outside　Missing　Mile；　a　small　car　crumpled　in　a　ditch；　sparkling　shards　of　glass　picking　up　the　whirling　red　and　blue　lights；　making　the　scene　seem　to　revolve　psychedelically。　Trevor　cupped　his　hands　to　the　window；　pressed　his　forehead　to　the　glass。　Paramedics　were　loading　someone　into　the　ambulance；　strapped　to　a　stretcher；　already　punctured　with　needles　and　tubes。　Trevor　looked　straight　down　into　the　person's　face　and　saw　that　it　was　a　girl；　maybe　close　to　his　age；　face　drenched　with　blood；　chest　crushed　in；　eyelids　still　fluttering。
　　Then…he　saw　it…the　life　left　her。　Her　lids　stopped　moving　and　he　saw　her　eyes　freeze　on　a　point　beyond　him；　beyond　anything　he　would　ever　see　in　this　world。　The　medics　kept　moving；　shoved　her　into　the　ambulance　and　slammed　the　doors；　and　she　was　gone。　Yes；　she　was　gone。
　　Great；　he　thought。　An　omen。　Just　what　I　needed。
　　A　few　minutes　later　the　bus　pulled　into　the　parking　lot　of　the　Farmers　Hardware　Store；　the　flatiron…shaped　building　that　stood　lone　and　proud　among　lesser　downtown　structures　like　the　prow　of　some　landlocked　ship。　A　small　ticket　office　at　the　back　and　a　bench　in　the　parking　lot　served　as　Missing　Mile's　bus　station。　The　Greyhound　groaned　to　a　stop　alongside　the　deserted　bench。
　　Trevor　hoisted　his　backpack　and　made　his　way　down　the　aisle；　then　down　the　steps。　His　feet　touched　North　Carolina　ground　for　the　first　time　in　two　decades；　and　a　shiver　ran　through　him　like　a　tiny　electric　chill。　No　one　else　got　off。
　　The　bus　had　seemed　hot；　but　the　humid　swelter　of　the　night　outside　made　him　realize　it　had　been　air…conditioned。　The　air　pressed　like　a　soft　damp　palm　against　his　face；　delicious　with　the　scents　of　honeysuckle；　wet　grass；　hot　charcoal　and　the　rich　oils　of　roasting　pork。　Someone　nearby　was　cooking　out　tonight。
　　The　smell　of　barbecue　made　his　stomach　roll　over；　then　growl：　he　was　either　sick　or　starved。　Years　of　institutional　food　had　blurred　the　two　sensations。　The　Boys'　Home　was　not　quite　Dickensian；　but　second　helpings　were　neither　kindly　looked　upon　by　the　cafeteria　ladies　nor　much　desired　by　the　boys。
　　Maybe　by　now　Missing　Mile　had　somewhere　to　eat　besides　that　greasy　diner。　But　if　not；　the　diner　would　do。　Trevor　decided　to　take　a　walk　through　downtown。　He　couldn't　go　out　to　the　house　yet。　Not　at　night。　He　was　ready　for　anything；　but　he　was　still　scared。
　　He　would　be　there　tomorrow；　for　the　twenty…year　reunion。
　　Trevor　only　hoped　he　was　invited　this　time。
　　
　　Kinsey　knew　tonight　was　going　to　suck。　Rima　was　scheduled　to　work；　and　Rima　was　gone；　finding　someone　else　to　rip　off；　having　raw　meat　scraped　out　of　her　womb；　coking　up　her　little　brain　until　it　spun　like　a　whirligig；　or　maybe　all　of　the　above。
　　So　Kinsey　would　be　working　by　himself。　Terry　Buckett's　new　band　Gumbo　was　playing。　Owner　and　manager　of　the　Whirling　Disc　record　store；　Terry　also　played　drums　and　sang　whenever　he　could　get　a　gig。　Gumbo　was　one　of　the　Yew's　biggest　draws　now　that　Lost　Souls？　were　on　the　road；　and　it　would　be　a　busy　night。
　　To　distract　himself；　Kinsey　decided　to　have　a　dinner　special。　It　would　make　him　even　busier；　but　he　loved　feeding　his　kids。　He　ran　through　his　limited　repertoire。　Curry？　。　。　。　no；　it　would　take　too　long　。　。　。　lentil　soup？　no；　he'd　had　that　one　twice　last　week　。　。　。　gumbo；　for　the　band　。　。　。　but　his　skills　weren't　up　to　it；　and　there　was　nowhere　to　get　fresh　seafood；　and　he　never　had　been　convinced　you　could　make　good　gumbo　anywhere　but　New　Orleans。　The　Mississippi　River　water　gave　it　that　special　flavor；　maybe。　At　last　Kinsey　decided　tonight　would　be　Japanese　Night。
　　He　hiked　home　and　put　together　a　quick　broth　from　some　elderly　vegetables　and　a　few　pork　bones　in　his　freezer；　loaded　it　into　his　car；　and　drove　slowly　back　into　town　so　as　not　to　slosh　it。　The　railroad　tracks　were　tricky；　but　he　managed　them　with　aplomb。　In　town；　he　stopped　at　the　little　grocery　next　to　Farmers　Hardware　and　bought　twenty　packages　of　Oodles　of　Noodles　and　several　bunches　of　green　onions。　The　rain　had　stopped；　which　meant　it　would　be　even　busier。
　　Back　at　the　Yew；　Kinsey　took　down　the　chalkboard　over　the　bar；　selected　a　piece　of　purple　chalk；　and　with　a　flourish　Wrote　JAPANESE　NOODLE　SOUP！　1。00！
　　If　anyone　ordered　the　special；　Kinsey　would　ladle　up　a　bowl　of　his　homemade　broth；　pop　in　the　noodles；　throw　away　the　sodium…laden　〃flavor　packet；〃　and　zap　the　whole　thing　in　the　microwave　he　kept　behind　the　bar。　The　green　onions　were　for　a　garnish；　and　he　set　to　chopping　them　into　small；　fragrant　rounds。　It　was　getting　near　eight。　The　band　wouldn't　start　until　ten；　but　the　kids　often　started　drifting　in　this　early　to　drink　and　eat　and　talk。　Sometimes　he　opened　the　club　at　five　for　happy　hour；　but　he　hadn't　been　happy　enough　today。
　　An　hour　later　the　Sacred　Yew　was　nearly　full。　Admission　was　free　until　ten。　After　that　he　would　have　to　find　someone　to　work　the　door。　That　was　never　hard：　all　the　door　people　had　to　do　was　collect　money；　shoot　the　shit；　and　watch　the　band　for　free。　If　they　were　of　age　they　got　a　free　beer　too。　The　club　served　no　alcohol　but　beer…bottled；　canned；　and　draft。　Still；　the　vagaries　of　North　Carolina　law　made　the　Yew　a　bar　and　forbade　the　presence　of　those　under　twen