sk.cujo-第16部分

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　closet；　finished　wall　on　one　side　and　bare　lathing　on　the　other；　stretched　back　some　eight　feet。　It　was　as　narrow　as　a　Pullman　car。　There　was　no　bogeyman　back　in　there；　and　Vic　most　certainly　did　not　e　out　in　Narnia。　He　got　a　few　cobwebs　in　his　hair。　That　was　all。
Donna　had　suggested　first　what　she　called　'good…dream　thoughts'　to　bat　Tad's　night　fears；　then　prayer。　Tad　responded　to　the　former　by　saying　that　the　thing　in　his　closet　stole　his　good…dream　thoughts；　he　responded　to　the　latter　by　saying　that　since　God　didn't　beheve　in　monsters；　prayers　were　useless。　Her　temper　had　snapped　…　perhaps　partly　because　she　had　been　spooked　by　Tad's　closet　herself。　Once；　while　hanging　some　of　Tad's　shirts　in　there；　the　door　had　swung　quietly　shut　behind　her　and　she'd　had　a　bad　forty　seconds　fumbling　her　way　back　to　the　door　and　getting　out。　She　had　smelled　something　in　there　that　time　…　something　hot　and　close　and　violent。　A　matted　smell。　It　reminded　her　a　little　of　Steve　Kemp's　sweat　after　they　finished　making　love。　The　upshot　was　her　curt　suggestion　that　since　there　were　no　such　things　as　monsters；　Tad　should　put　the　whole　thing　out　of　his　mind；　hug　his　Teddy；　and　go　to　sleep。
Vic　either　saw　more　deeply　or　remembered　more　clearly　about　the　closet　door　that　turned　into　an　unhinged　idiot　mouth　in　the　dark　of　night；　a　place　where　strange　things　sometimes　rustled；　a　place　where　hanging　clothes　sometimes　turned　into　hanging　men。　He　remembered　vaguely　about　the　shadows　the　streetlight　could　throw　on　the　wall　in　the　endless　four　hours　that　follow　the　turn　of　the　day；　and　the　creaking　sounds　that　might　have　been　the　house　settling　or　that　might　…　just　might　…be　something　creeping　up。
His　solution　had　been　the　Monster　Catechism；　or　just　the　Monster　Words　if　you　were　four　and　not　into　semantics。　Either　way；　it　was　nothing　more　（nor　less）　than　a　primitive　incantation　to　keep　evil　at　bay。　Vic　had　invented　it　one　day　on　his　lunch　hour；　and　to　Donna's　mixed　relief　and　chagrin；　it　worked　when　her　own　efforts　to　use　psychology；　Parent　Effectiveness　Training；　and；　finally；　blunt　discipline　had　failed。　Vic　spoke　it　over　Tad's　bed　every　night　like　a　benediction　as　Tad　lay　there　naked　under　a　single　sheet　in　the　sweltering　dark。
'Do　you　think　that's　going　to　do　him　any　good　in　the　long　run？'　Donna　asked。　Her　voice　held　both　amusement　and　irritation。　This　bad　been　in　mid…May；　when　the　tensions　between　them　had　been　running　high。
'Admen　don't　care　about　the　long　run；'　Vic　had　answered。　'They　care　about　fast；　fast；　fast　relief。　And　I'm　good　at　my　job。'
'Yeah；　nobody　to　say　the　Monster　Words；　that's　the　matter；　that's　a　lot　the　matter；'　Tad　answered　now；　wiping　the　tears　off　his　cheeks　in　disgust　and　embarrassment。
'Well；　listen；'　Vic　said。　'They're　written　down。　That's　how　I　can　say　them　the　same　every　night。　I'll　print　them　on　a　piece　of　paper　and　tack　them　to　your　wall。　And　Mommy　can　read　them　to　you　every　night　I'm　gone。'
'Yeah？　Will　you？'
'Sure。　Said　I　would。'
'You　won't　forget？'
'No　way；　man。　I'll　do　it　tonight。'
Tad　put　his　arms　around　his　father；　and　Vic　hugged　him　tight。
That　night；　after　Tad　slept；　Vic　went　quietly　into　the　boy's　room　and　tacked　a　sheet　of　paper　to　the　wall　with　a　pushpin。　He　put　it　right　next　to　Tad's　Mighty　Marvel　Calender；　where　the　kid　couldn't　miss　it。　Printed　in　large；　clear　letters　on　this　sheet　of　paper　was：
THE　MONSTER　WORDS
For　Tad
Monsters；　stay　out　of　this　room！　You　have　no　business　here。　No　monsters　under　Tad's　bed！　You　can't　fit　under　there。　No　monsters　hiding　in　Tad's　closet！　It's　too　small　in　there。　No　monsters　outside　of　Tad's　window！　You　can't　hold　on　out　there。　No　vampires；　no　werewolves；　no　things　that　bite。　You　have　no　business　here。　Nothing　will　touch　Tad；　or　hurt　Tad；　all　this　night。　You　have　no　business　here。
Vic　looked　at　this　for　a　long　time　and　reminded　himself　to　tell　Donna　at　least　twice　more　before　he　left　to　read　it　to　the　kid　every　night。　To　impress　on　her　how　important　the　Monster　Words　were　to　Tad。
On　his　way　out；　he　saw　the　closet　door　was　open。　just　a　crack。　He　closed　the　door　firmly　and　left　his　son's　room。
Sometime　much　later　that　evening；　the　door　swung　open　again。　Heat　lightning　flickered　sporadically；　tattooing　crazy　shadows　in　there。
But　Tad　did　not　wake。
The　next　day；　at　quarter　past　seven　in　the　morning；　Steve　Kemp's　van　backed　out　onto　Route　11。　Steve　made　miles；　heading　for　Route　302。　There　he　would　turn　left　and　drive　southeast；　crossing　the　state　to　Portland。　He　intended　to　flop　at　the　Portland　YMCA　for　a　while。
On　the　van's　dashboard　was　a　neat　pile　of　addressed　mail　…not　printed　in　block　letters　this　time　but　typed　on　his　own　machine。　The　typewriter　was　now　in　the　back　of　the　van；　along　with　the　rest　of　his　stuff。　It　had　taken　him　only　an　hour　and　a　half　to　pack　in　his　Castle　Rock　operation；　including　Bernie　Carbo；　who　was　now　snoozing　in　his　box　by　the　rear　doors。　He　and　Bernie　traveled　light。
The　typing　job　on　the　envelopes　was　a　professional　one。　Sixteen　years　of　creative　writing　had　turned　him　into　an　excellent　typist；　if　nothing　else。　He　pulled　over　to　the　same　box　from　which　he　had　posted　the　anonymous　note　to　Vic　Trenton　the　night　before　and　dropped　the　letters　in。　It　would　not　have　bothered　him　in　the　least　to　run　out　owing　rent　on　the　shop　and　the　house　if　he　had　intended　to　leave　the　state；　but　since　he　was　only　going　as　far　as　Portland；　it　seemed　prudent　to　do　everything　legally。　This　time　he　could　afford　not　to　cut　corners；　there　was　better　than　six　hundred　dollars　in　cash　tucked　into　the　small　bolthole　behind　the　van's　glove　partment。
In　addition　to　a　check　covering　the　rent　he　owed；　he　was　returning　deposits　to　several　people　who　had　made　them　on　bigger　jobs。　Acpanying　each　check　was　a　polite　note　saying　he　was　very　sorry　to　have　caused　any　inconvenience　but　his　mother　had　been　taken　suddenly　and　seriously　ill　（every　red…blooded　American　was　a　sucker　for　a　mornstory）。　Those　for　whom　he　had　contracted　to　do　work　could　pick　up　their　furniture　at　the　shop　…　the　key　was　on　the　ledge　above　the　door；　just　to　the　right；　and　would　they　kindly　return　the　key　to　the　same　place　after　they　had　made　their　pickup。　Thank　you；　thank　you；　blahdeblah；　bullshitbullshit。　There　would　be　some　inconvenience；　but　no　real　hassle。
Steve　dropped　the　letters　into　the　mailbox。　There　was　that　satisfied　feeling　of　having　his　ass　well　covered。　He　drove　away　toward　Portland；　singing　along　with　the　Grateful　Dead；　who　were　delivering　'Sugaree。'　He　pushed　the　van　up　to　fifty…five；　hoping　traffic　would　stay　light　so　he　could　get　to　Portland　early　enough　to　grab　a　court　at　Tennis　of　Maine。　All　in　all；　it　looked　like　a　good　day。　If　Mr。　Businessman　hadn't　received　his　little　letter　bomb　yet；　he　surely　would　today。　Nifty；　Steve　thought；　and　burst　out　laughing。
At　half　past　seven；　as　Steve　Kemp　was　thinking　Tennis　and　Vic　Trenton　was　reminding　himself　to　call　Joe　Camber　about　his　wife's　balky　Pinto；　Charity　Camber　was　fixing　her　son's　breakfast。　Joe　had　left　for　Lewiston　half　an　hour　ago；　hoping　to　find　a　'72　Camaro　windshield　at　one　of　the　city's　automobile　junkyards　or　used…parts　outfits。　This　jibed　well　with　Charity's　plans；　which　she　had　made　slowly　and　carefully。
She　put　Brett's　plate　of　scrambled　eggs　and　bacon　in　front　of　him　and　then　sat　down　next　to　the　boy。　Brett　glanced　up　from　the　book　he　was　reading　in　mild　surprise。　After　fixing　his　breakfast；　his　mother　usually　started　on　her　round　of　morning　chores。　If　you　spoke　to　her　too　much　before　she　got　herself　around　a　second　cup　of　coffee；　she　was　apt　to　show　you　the　rough　side　of　her　tongue。
'Can　I　talk　to　you　a　minute；　Brett？'
Mild　surprise　turned　to　something。　like　amazement。　Looking　at　her；　he　saw　something　utterly　foreign　to　his　mother's　taciturn　nature。　She　was　nervous。　He　closed　his　book　and　said；　'Sure；　Mom。'
'Would　you　like…'　She　cleared　her　throat　and　began　again。　'How　would　you　like　to　go　down　to　Stratford；　Connecticut；　and　see　your　Aunt　Holly　and　your　Uncle　Jim？　And　your　cousins？'
Brett　grinned。　He　had　only　been　out　of　Maine　twice　in　his　life；　most　recently　with　his　father　on　a　trip　to　Portsmouth；　New　Hampshire。　They　had　gone　to　a　used…car　auction　where　Joe　had　picked　up　a　'58　Ford　with　a　hemi　engine。　'Sure！'　he　said。　'W