sk.cujo-第21部分

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rds　had　been；　but　he　couldn't　ditch　it。　He　saw　them　screwing　in　his　and　Donna's　bedroom。　Screwing　in　their　bed。　What　he　saw　in　this　mind…movie　was　every　bit　as　explicit　as　one　of　those　grainy　X…rated　pictures　you　see　at　the　State　Theater　on　Congress　Street。　She　was　groaning；　sheened　lightly　with　perspiration；　beautiful。　Every　muscle　pulled　taut。　Her　eyes　had　that　hungry　look　they　got　when　the　sex　was　good；　their　color　darker。　He　knew　the　expression；　he　knew　the　posture；　he　knew　the　sounds。　He　had　thought　…　thought　…　he　was　the　only　one　who　did。　Not　even　her　mother　and　father　would　know　about　that。
Then　he　would　think　of　the　man's　penis　…　his　cock　…　going　up　inside　her。　In　the　saddle；　that　phrase　came　and　clanged　in　his　mind　idiotically；　refusing　to　die　away。　He　saw　them　screwing　to　a　Gene　Autry　soundtrack：　I'm　back　in　the　saddle　again；　out　where　a　friend　is　a　friend。。。。
It　made　him　feel　creepy。　It　made　him　feel　outraged。　It　made　him　feel　infuriated。
The　Frisbee　soared　and　came　down。　Vic　followed　its　course。
He　had　suspected　something；　yes。　But　suspecting　was　not　like　knowing；　he　knew　that　now；　if　nothing　else。　He　could　write　an　essay　on　the　difference　between　suspecting　and　knowing。　What　made　it　doubly　cruel　was　the　fact　that　he　had　really　begun　to　believe　that　the　suspicions　were　groundless。　And　even　if　they　weren't；　what　you　didn't　know　couldn't　hurt　you。　Wasn't　that　right？　If　a　man　is　crossing　a　darkened　room　with　a　deep；　open　hole　in　the　middle　of　it；　and　if　he　passes　within　inches　of　it；　he　doesn't　need　to　know　he　almost　fell　in。　There　is　no　need　for　fear。　Not　if　the　lights　are　off。
Well；　he　hadn't　fallen　in。　He　had　been　pushed。　The　question　was；　What　was　he　going　to　do　about　it？　The　angry　part　of　him；　hurt；　bruised；　and　bellowing；　was　not　in　the　slightest　inclined　to　be　'adult'；　to　acknowledge　that　there　were　slips　on　one　or　both　sides　in　a　great　many　marriages。　Fuck　the　Penthouse　Forum；　or　Variations；　or　whatever　they're　calling　it　these　days；　that's　my　wife　we're　talking　about；　she　was　screwing　someone
（out　where　a　friend　is　a　friend）
when　my　back　was　turned；　when　Tad　was　out　of　the　house　The　images　began　to　unreel　again；　crumpled　sheets；　straining　bodies；　soft　sounds。　Ugly　phrases；　terrible　terms　kept　crowding　up　like　a　bunch　of　freaks　looking　at　an　accident：　nooky；　hair　pie；　put　the　boots　to　her；　shot　my　load；　I…don't…fuck…for…fortune…and…I…don't…fuck…for…fame…but…the…way…l…fuck…ya…mamma…is…a…goddam…shame；　my　turtle　in　your　mud；　bank　for　the　gang；　stoop　for　the　troops　Inside　my　wife！　he　thought；　agonized；　hands　clenching。　Inside　my　wife！
But　the　angry；　hurt　part　acknowledged　…　grudgingly　that　he　couldn't　go　home　and　beat　the　hell　out　of　Donna。　He　could；　however；　take　Tad　and　go。　Never　mind　the　explanations。　Let　her　try　and　stop　him；　if　she　had　cheek　enough　to　do　it。　He　didn't　think　she　would。　Take　Tad；　go　to　a　motel；　get　a　lawyer。　Cut　the　cord　cleanly；　and　don't　look　back。
But　if　he　just　grabbed　Tad　and　took　him　to　a　motel；　wouldn't　the　boy　be　frightened？　Wouldn't　he　want　an　explanation？　He　was　only　four；　but　that　was　old　enough　to　know　when　something　was　badly；　frighteningly　wrong。　Then　there　was　the　matter　of　the　trip　…　Boston；　New　York；　Cleveland。　Vic　didn't　give　a　goddam　about　the　trip；　not　now；　old　man　Sharp　and　his　kid　could　take　a　flying　jump　at　the　moon　for　all　he　cared。　But　he　wasn't　in　it　alone。　He　had　a　partner。　The　partner　had　a　wife　and　two　kids。　Even　now；　hurting　as　badly　as　he　was；　Vic　recognized　his　responsibility　to　at　least　go　through　the　motions　of　trying　to　save　the　account　…　which　was　tantamount　to　trying　to　save　Ad　Worx　itself。
And　although　he　didn't　want　to　ask　it；　there　was　another　question：　Exactly　why　did　he　want　to　take　Tad　and　go；　without　even　hearing　her　side　of　the　story？　Because　her　sleeping　around　was　wrecking　Tad's　morals？　He　didn't　think　so。　It　was　because　his　mind　had　immediately　seized　upon　the　fact　that　the　way　to　hurt　her　most　surely　and　most　deeply　（as　deeply　as　he　hurt　right　now）　was　through　Tad。　But　did　he　want　to　turn　his　son　into　the　emotional　equivalent　of　a　crowbar；　or　a　sledgehammer？　He　thought　not。
Other　questions。
The　note。　Think　about　the　note　for　a　minute。　Not　Just　what　it　said；　not　just　those　six　lines　of　battery…acid　filth；　think　about　the　fact　of　the　note。　Someone　had　just　killed　the　goose　that　had　been　…　pardon　the　pun　…　laying　the　golden　eggs。　Why　had　Donna's　lover　sent　that　note？
Because　the　goose　was　no　longer　laying；　of　course。　And　the　shadow　man　who　had　sent　the　note　was　mad　as　hell。
Had　Donna　dumped　the　guy？
He　tried　to　see　it　any　other　way　and　couldn't。　Stripped　of　its　sudden；　shocking　force；　wasn't　I　ENJOYED　FUCKING　THE　SHIT　OUT　OF　HER　the　classic　dog…in…the…manger　ploy？　If　you　can't　have　it　any　more；　piss　on　it　so　no　one　else　will　want　it　either。　Illogical；　but　ah　so　satisfying。　The　new；　easier　atmosphere　at　home　fit　into　that　reading；　as　well。　The　almost　palpable　sense　of　relief　Donna　radiated。　She　had　turned　the　shadow　man　out；　and　the　shadow　man　had　hit　back　at　her　husband　with　the　anonymous　note。
Last　question：　Did　it　make　any　difference？
He　took　the　note　out　of　his　jacket　pocket　again　and　turned　it　over　and　over　in　his　hands；　not　unfolding　it。　He　watched　the　red　Frisbee　float　across　the　sky　and　wondered　what　the　hell　he　was　going　to　do。
'What　the　Christ　is　that？'　Joe　Camber　asked。
Each　word　came　out　spaced；　almost　inflectionless。　He　stood　in　the　doorway；　looking　at　his　wife。　Charity　was　setting　his　place。　She　and　Brett　had　already　eaten。　Joe　had　e　in　with　a　truckful　of　odds　and　ends；　had　begun　to　drive　into　the　garage；　and　had　seen　what　was　waiting　for　him。
'It's　a　chainfall；'　she　said。　She　had　sent　Brett　over　to　play　with　his　buddy　Dave　Bergeron　for　the　evening。　She　didn't　want　him　around　if　this　went　badly。　'Brett　said　you　wanted　one。　A　Jorgen　chainfall；　he　said。'
Joe　crossed　the　room。　He　was　a　thin　man　with　a　scrawny…strong　physique；　a　big　blade　nose；　and　a　quiet；　agile　way　of　walking。　Now　his　green　felt　hat　was　tipped　back　on　his　head　to　show　his　receding　hairline。　There　was　a　smudge　of　grease　on　his　forehead。　There　was　beer　on　his　breath。　His　blue　eyes　were　small　and　hard。　He　was　a　man　who　didn't　like　surprises。
'You　talk　to　me；　Charity；'　he　said。
'Sit　down。　Your　supper　will　get　cold。'
His　arm　shot　out　like　a　piston。　Hard　fingers　bit　into　her　arm。　'What　the　fuck　are　you　up　to？　Talk　to　me；　I　said。'
'Don't　curse　at　me；　Joe　Camber。'　He　was　hurting　her　badly；　but　she　wouldn't　give　him　the　satisfaction　of　seeing　it　in　her　face　or　in　her　eyes。　He　was　like　a　beast　in　many　ways；　and　although　this　had　excited　her　when　she　was　young；　it　excited　her　no　longer。　She　had　recognized　over　the　course　of　their　years　together　that　she　could　sometimes　gain　the　upper　hand　just　by　seeming　brave。　Not　always；　but　sometimes。
'You　tell　me　what　the　fuck　you　been　up　to；　Charity！'
'Sit　down　and　eat；'　she　said　quietly；　'and　I　will。'
He　sat　down　and　she　brought　his　plate。　There　was　a　sirloin　steak　on　it。
'Since　when　can　we　afford　to　eat　like　the　Rockefellers？'　he　asked。　'You　got　some　pretty　tall　explaining　to　do；　I'd　say。'
She　brought　his　coffee　and　a　split　baked　potato。　'Can't　you　use　the　chainfall？'
'Never　said　I　couldn't　use　it。　But　I　damn　well　can't　afford　it。'　He　began　to　eat；　his　eyes　never　leaving　her。　He　wouldn't　hit　her　now；　she　knew。　This　was　her　chance；　while　he　was　still　relatively　sober。　If　he　was　going　to　hit　her；　it　would　be　after　he　came　back　from　Gary　Pervier's；　sloshing　with　vodka　and　filled　with　wounded　male　pride。
Charity　sat　down　across　from　him　and　said；　'I　won　the　lottery。'
His　jaws　halted　and　then　began　moving　again。　He　forked　steak　into　his　mouth。　'Sure；'　he　said。　'And　tomorrow　ole　Cujo　out　there's　gonna　shit　a　mess　of　gold　buttons。'　He　pointed　his　fork　at　the　dog；　who　was　pacing　restlessly　up　and　down　the　porch。　Brett　didn't　like　to　take　him　over　to　the　Bergerons'　because　they　had　rabbits　in　a　hutch　and　they　drove　Cujo　wild。
Charity　reached　into　her　apron　pocket；　took　out　her　copy　of　the　prize　claim　form　that　the　agent　had　filled　out；　and　handed　it　across　the　table　to　Joe。
Camber　flattened　the　paper　out　with　one　blunt…fingered　hand　and　stared　it　up　and　down。　His　eyes　centred　on　the　figure。　'Five　…'　He　began；　and　then　shut　h