dk.solesurvivor-第2部分

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　battered　before　him。
　　'You　could　do　other　kinds　of　reporting。　You're　a　good　writer；　Joe。　Write　some　human　interest　stories。　You　need　to　be　working；　doing　something　that'll　make　you　feel　useful　again。'
　　Instead　of　answering　her；　he　said；　'I　don't　function　alone。　I　just　want　to　be　with　Michelle。　I　want　to　be　with　Chrissie　and　Nina。'
　　'Someday　you　will　be；'　she　said；　for　in　spite　of　everything；　she　remained　a　woman　of　faith。
　　'I　want　to　be　with　them　now。'　His　voice　broke；　and　he　paused　to　put　it　back　together。　'I'm　finished　here；　but　I　don't　have　the　guts　to　move　on。'
　　'Don't　talk　like　that；　Joe。'
　　He　didn't　have　the　courage　to　end　his　life；　because　he　had　no　convictions　about　what　came　after　this　world。　He　did　not　truly　believe　that　he　would　find　his　wife　and　daughters　again　in　a　realm　of　light　and　loving　spirits。　Lately；　when　he　gazed　at　a　night　sky；　he　Saw　only　distant　stuns　in　a　meaningless　void；　but　he　couldn't　bear　to　voice　his　doubt；　because　to　do　so　would　be　to　imply　that　Michelle's　and　the　girls'　lives　had　been　meaningless　as　well。
　　Beth　said；　'We're　all　here　for　a　purpose。'
　　'They　were　my　purpose。　They're　gone。'
　　'then　there's　another　purpose　you're　meant　for。　It's　your　job　now　to　find　it。　There's　a　reason　you're　still　here。'
　　'No　reason；'　he　disagreed。　'Tell　me　about　the　sky；　Beth。'
　　After　a　hesitation；　she　said；　'The　clouds　to　the　east　aren't　gilded　any　more。　The　pink　is　gone　too。　They're　white　clouds；　no　rain　in　them；　and　not　dense　but　like　a　filigree　against　the　blue。'
　　He　listened　to　her　describe　the　morning　at　the　other　end　of　the　continent。　Then　they　talked　about　fireflies；　which　she　and　Henry　had　enjoyed　watching　from　their　back　porch　the　previous　night。　Southern　California　had　no　fireflies；　but　Joe　remembered　them　from　his　boyhood　in　Pennsylvania。　They　talked　about　Henry's　garden；　too；　in　which　strawberries　were　ripening；　and　in　time　Joe　grew　sleepy。
　　Beth's　last　words　to　him　were：　'It's　full　daylight　here　now。　Morning's　going　past　us　and　heading　your　way；　Joey。　You　give　it　a　chance；　morning's　going　to　bring　you　the　reason　you　need；　some　purpose；　because　that's　what　the　morning　does。'
　　After　he　hung　up；　Joe　lay　on　his　side；　staring　at　the　window；　from　which　the　silvery　lunar　light　had　faded。　The　moon　had　set。　He　was　in　the　blackest　depths　of　the　night。
　　When　he　returned　to　sleep；　he　dreamed　not　of　any　glorious　approaching　purpose　but　of　an　unseen；　indefinable；　looming　menace。　Like　a　great　weight　falling　through　the　sky　above　him。
　　
　　　2
　　Later　Saturday　morning；　driving　to　Santa　Monica；　Joe　Carpenter　suffered　an　anxiety　attack。　His　chest　tightened；　and　he　was　able　to　draw　breath　only　with　effort。　When　he　lifted　one　hand　from　the　wheel；　his　fingers　quivered　like　those　of　a　palsied　old　man。
　　He　was　overe　by　a　sense　of　falling；　as　from　a　great　height；　as　though　his　Honda　had　driven　off　the　freeway　into　an　inexplicable　and　bottomless　abyss。　The　pavement　stretched　unbroken　ahead　of　him；　and　the　tyres　sang　against　the　blacktop；　but　he　could　not　reason　himself　back　to　a　perception　of　stability。
　　Indeed；　the　plummeting　sensation　grew　so　severe　and　terrifying　that　he　took　his　foot　off　the　accelerator　and　tapped　the　brake　pedal。
　　Horns　blared　and　skidding　tyres　squealed　as　traffic　adjusted　to　his　sudden　deceleration。　As　cars　and　trucks　swept　past　the　Honda；　the　drivers　glared　murderously　at　Joe　or　mouthed　offensive　words；　or　made　obscene　gestures。　This　was　greater　Los　Angeles　in　an　age　of　change；　crackling　with　the　energy　of　doom；　yearning　for　the　Apocalypse；　where　an　unintended　slight　or　an　inadvertent　trespass　on　someone　else's　turf　might　result　in　a　thermonuclear　response。
　　His　sense　of　falling　did　not　abate。　His　stomach　turned　over　as　if　he　were　aboard　a　roller　coaster；　plunging　along　a　precipitous　length　of　track。　Although　he　was　alone　in　the　car；　he　heard　the　screams　of　passengers；　faint　at　first　and　then　louder；　not　the　good…humoured　shrieks　of　thrill　seekers　at　an　amusement　park；　but　cries　of　genuine　anguish。
　　As　though　from　a　distance；　he　listened　to　himself　whispering；　'No；　no；　no；　no。；
　　A　brief　gap　in　traffic　allowed　him　to　angle　the　Honda　off　the　pavement。　The　shoulder　of　the　freeway　was　narrow。　He　stopped　as　close　as　possible　to　the　guardrail；　over　which　lush　oleander　bushes　loomed　like　a　great　cresting　green　tide。
　　He　put　the　car　in　park　but　didn't　switch　off　the　engine。　Even　though　he　was　sheathed　in　cold　sweat；　he　needed　the　chill　blasts　of　air…conditioning　to　be　able　to　breathe。　The　pressure　on　his　chest　increased。　Each　stuttering　inhalation　was　a　struggle；　and　each　hot　exhalation　burst　from　him　with　an　explosive　wheeze。
　　Although　the　air　in　the　Honda　was　clear；　Joe　smelled　smoke。　He　tasted　it　too：　the　acrid　melange　of　burning　oil；　melting　plastic；　smouldering　vinyl；　scorched　metal。
　　When　he　glanced　at　the　dense　clusters　of　leaves　and　the　deep…red　flowers　of　the　oleander　pressing　against　the　windows　on　the　passenger　side；　his　imagination　morphed　them　into　billowing　clouds　of　greasy　smoke。　The　window　became　a　rectangular　porthole　with　rounded　corners　and　thick　dual…pane　glass。
　　Joe　might　have　thought　he　was　losing　his　mind…if　he　hadn't　suffered　similar　anxiety　attacks　during　the　past　year。　Although　sometimes　as　much　as　two　weeks　passed　between　episodes；　he　often　endured　as　many　as　three　in　one　day；　each　lasting　between　ten　minutes　and　half　an　hour。
　　He　had　seen　a　therapist。　The　counselling　had　not　helped。
　　His　doctor　remended　anti…anxiety　medication。　He　rejected　the　prescription。　He　wanted　to　feel　the　pain。　It　was　all　he　had。
　　Closing　his　eyes；　covering　his　face　with　his　icy　hands；　he　strove　to　regain　control　of　himself；　but　the　catastrophe　continued　to　unfold　around　him。　The　sense　of　falling　intensified。　The　smell　of　smoke　thickened。　The　screams　of　phantom　passengers　grew　louder。
　　Everything　shook。　The　floor　beneath　his　feet。　The　cabin　walls。　The　ceiling。　Horrendous　rattling　and　twanging　and　banging　and　gong…like　clanging　acpanied　the　shaking；　shaking；　shaking。
　　'Please；'　he　pleaded。
　　Without　opening　his　eyes；　he　lowered　his　hands　from　his　face。　They　lay　fisted　at　his　sides。
　　After　a　moment；　the　small　hands　of　frightened　children　clutched　at　his　hands；　and　he　held　them　tightly。
　　The　children　were　not　in　the　car；　of　course；　but　in　their　seats　in　the　doomed　airliner。　Joe　was　flashing　back　to　the　crash　of　Flight　353。　For　the　duration　of　this　seizure；　he　would　be　in　two　places　at　once：
　　in　the　real　world　of　the　Honda　and　in　the　Nationwide　Air　747　as　it　found　its　way　down　from　the　serenity　of　the　stratosphere；　through
　　overcast　night　sky；　into　a　meadow　as　unforgiving　as　iron。
　　Michelle　had　been　sitting　between　the　kids。　Her　hands；　not　Joe's；　were　those　that　Chrissie　and　Nina　gripped　in　their　last　long　minutes　of　unimaginable　dread。
　　As　the　shaking　grew　worse；　the　air　was　filled　with　projectiles。
　　
　　Paperback　books；　laptop　puters；　pocket　calculators；　flatware　and　dishes…because　a　few　passengers　had　not　yet　finished　dinner　when　disaster　struck…plastic　drinking　glasses；　single…serving　bottles　of　liquor；　pencils　and　pens　ricocheted　through　the　cabin。
　　Coughing　because　of　the　smoke；　Michelle　would　have　urged　the　girls　to　keep　their　heads　down。　Heads　down。　Protect　your　faces。
　　Such　faces。　Beloved　faces。　Seven…year…old　Chrissie　had　her　mother's　high　cheekbones　and　clear　green　eyes。　Joe　would　never　forget　the　flush　of　joy　that　suffused　Chrissie's　face　when　she　was　taking　a　ballet　lesson；　or　the　squint…eyed　concentration　with　which　she　approached　home　plate　to　take　her　turn　at　bat　in　Little　League　baseball　games。　Nina；　only　four；　the　pug…nosed　munchkin　with　eyes　as　blue　as　sapphires；　had　a　way　of　crinkling　her　sweet　face　in　pure　delight　at　the　sight　of　a　dog　or　cat。　Animals　were　drawn　to　her…and　she　to　them…as　though　she　were　the　reincarnation　of　St。　Francis　of　Assisi；　which　was　not　a　far…fetched　idea　when　one　saw　her　gazing　with　wonder　and　love　upon　even　an　ugly　garden　lizard　cupped　in　her　small；　careful　hands。
　　Heads　down。　Protect　your　faces。
　　In　that　advice　was　hope；　the　implication　that　they　would　all　survive　and　that　the　worst　thing　that　might