sk.cujo-第3部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


alking　to　him　held　all　the　intellectual　challenge　of　talking　to　an　empty　catfood　can；　had　doddered　off　the　back　patio　of　the　Castle　Acres　Nursing　Home　and　broken　his　neck　exactly　twenty…five　minutes　after　whizzing　in　his　pants　for　the　last　time。
Aunt　Evvie　was　nowhere　near　as　senile　as　Arnie　Heebert　had　been；　and　nowhere　near　as　old；　but　at　ninety…three　she　was　old　enough；　and；　as　she　was　fond　of　bawling　at　a　resigned　（and　often　hung…over）　George　Meara　when　he　delivered　the　mail；　she　hadn't　been　stupid　enough　to　lose　her　home　the　way　Heebert　had　done。
But　she　was　good　at　the　weather。　The　town　consensus　among　the　older　people；　who　cared　about　such　things　…　was　that　Aunt　Evvie　was　never　wrong　about　three　things：　the　week　when　the　'first　hay…cutting　would　happen　in　the　summertime；　how　good　（or　how　bad）　the　blueberries　would　be；　and　what　the　weather　would　be　like。
One　day　early　that　June　she　shuffled　out　to　the　mailbox　at　the　end　of　the　driveway；　leaning　heavily　on　her　Boston　Post　cane　（which　would　go　to　Vin　Marchant　when　the　loudmouthed　old　bitch　popped　off；　George　Meara　thought；　and　good　riddance　to　you；　Evvie）　and　smoking　a　Herbert　Tareyton。　She　bellowed　a　greeting　at　Meara　…　her　deafness　had　apparently　convinced　her　that　everyone　else　in　the　world　had　gone　deaf　in　sympathy　…　and　then　shouted　that　they　were　going　to　have　the　hottest　summer　in　thirty　years。　Hot　early　and　hot　late；　Evvie　bellowed　leather…lunged　into　the　drowsy　eleven…o'clock　quiet；　and　hot　in　the　middle。
'That　so？'　George　asked。
'What？'
'I　said；　〃Is　that　so？〃'　That　was　the　other　thing　about　Aunt　Evvie；　she　got　you　shouting　right　along　with　her。　A　man　could　pop　a　blood　vessel。
'I　should　hope　to　smile　and　kiss　a　pig　if　it　ain't！'　Aunt　Evvie　screamed。　The　ash　of　her　cigarette　fell　on　the　shoulder　of　George　Meara's　uniform　blouse；　freshly　dry…cleaned　and　just　put　on　clean　this　morning；　he　brushed　it　off　resignedly。　Aunt　Evvie　leaned　in　the　window　of　his　car；　all　the　better　to　bellow　in　his　ear。　Her　breath　smelled　like　sour　cucumbers。
'Fieldmice　has　all　gone　outta　the　root　cellars！　Tommy　Neadeau　seen　deer　out　by　Moosuntic　Pond　rubbin　velvet　off'n　their　antlers　ere　the　first　robin　showed　up！　Grass　under　the　snow　when　she　melted！　Green　grass；　Meara！'
'That　so；　Evvie？'　George　replied；　since　some　reply　seemed　necessary。　He　was　getting　a　headache。
'What？'
'THAT　SO；　AUNT　EVVIE？'　George　Mear　screamed。　Saliva　flew　from　his　lips。
'Oh；　ayuh！'　Aunt　Evvie　howled　back　contentedly。　'And　I　seen　beat　lightnin　last　night　late！　Bad　sign；　Meara！　Early　beat's　a　bad　sign！　Be　people。　die　of　the　heat　this　summer！　It's　gonna　be　a　bad　un！'
'I　got　to　go；　Aunt　Evvie！'　George　yelled。　'Got　a　Special　Delivery　for　Stringer　Beaulieu！'
Aunt　Evvie　Chalmers　threw　her　head　back　and　cackled　at　the　spring　sky。　She　cackled　until　she　was　fit　to　choke　and　more　cigarette　ashes　rolled　down　the　front　of　her　housedress。　She　spat　the　last　quarter　inch　of　cigarette　out　of　her　mouth；　and　it　lay　smoldering　in　the　driveway　by　one　of　her　old…lady　shoes　…　a　shoe　as　black　as　a　stove　and　as　tight　as　a　corset；　a　shoe　for　the　ages。
'You　got　a　Special　Delivery　for　Frenchy　Beaulieu？　Why；　he　couldn't　read　the　name　on　his　own　tombstone！'
'I　got　to　go；　Aunt　Evvie！'　George　said　hastily；　and　threw　his　car　in　gear。
'Frenchy　Beaulieu　is　a　stark　natural…born　fool　if　God　ever　made　one！'　Aunt　Evvie　hollered；　but　by　then　she　was　hollering　into　George　Meara's　dust；　he　had　made　good　his　escape。
She　stood　there　by　her　mailbox　for　a　minute；　watching　him　go。　There　was　no　personal　mad　for　her；　these　days　there　rarely　was。　Most　of　the　people　she　knew　who　had　been　able　to　write　were　now　dead。　She　would　follow　soon　enough；　she　suspected。　The　oning　summer　gave　her　a　bad　feeling；　a　scary　feeling。　She　could　speak　of　the　mice　leaving　the　root　cellars　early；　or　of　heat　lightning　in　a　spring　sky；　but　she　could　not　speak　of　the　heat　she　sensed　somewhere　just　over　the　horizon；　crouched　like　a　scrawny　yet　powerful　beast　with　mangy　fur　and　red；　smoldering　eyes；　she　could　not　speak　of　her　dreams；　which　were　hot　and　shadowless　and　thirsty；　she　could　not　speak　of　the　morning　when　tears　had　e　for　no　reason；　tears　that　did　not　relieve　but　stung　the　eyes　like　August…mad　sweat　instead。　She　smelled　lunacy　in　a　wind　that　had　not　arrived。
'George　Meara；　you're　an　old　fart；'　Aunt　Evvie　said；　giving　the　word　a　juicy　Maine　resonance　which　built　it　into　something　that　was　both　cataclysmic　and　ludicrous：　faaaaaat
She　began　working　her　way　back　to　the　house；　leaning　on　her　Boston　Post　cane；　which　had　been　given　her　at　a　Town　Hall　ceremony　for　no　more　than　the　stupid　acplishment　of　growing　old　successfully。　No　wonder；　she　thought；　the　goddamned　paper　had　gone　broke。
She　paused　on　her　stoop；　looking　at　a　sky　which　was　still　spring…pure　and　pastel　soft。　Oh；　but　she　sensed　it　ing。　something　hot。　Something　foul。
A　year　before　that　summer；　when　Vic　Trenton's　old　jaguar　developed　a　distressing　clunking　sound　somewhere　inside　the　rear　left　wheel；　it　had　been　George　Meara　who　remended　that　he　take　it　up　to　Joe　Camber's　Garage　on　the　outskirts　of　Castle　Rock。　'He's　got　a　funny　way　of　doing　things　for　around　here；'　George　told　Vic　that　day　as　Vic　stood　by　his　mailbox。　'Tells　you　what　the　job's　gonna　cost；　then　he　does　the　job；　and　then　he　charges　you　what　he　said　it　was　gonna　cost。　Funny　way　to　do　business；　huh？'　And　he　drove　away；　leaving　Vic　to　wonder　if　the　mailman　had　been　serious　or　if　he　（Vic）　had　just　been　on　the　receiving　end　of　some　obscure　Yankee　joke。
But　he　had　called　Camber；　and　one　day　in　July　（a　much　cooler　July　than　the　one　which　would　follow　a　year　later）；　he　and　Donna　and　Tad　had　driven　out　to　Camber's　place　together。　It　really　was　far　out；　twice　Vic　had　to　stop　and　ask　directions；　and　it　was　then　that　he　began　to　call　those　farthest　reaches　of　the　township　East　Galoshes　Corners。
He　pulled　into　the　Camber　dooryard；　the　back　wheel　clunking　louder　than　ever。　Tad；　then　three；　was　sitting　on　Donna　Trenton's　lap；　laughing　up　at　her；　a　ride　in　Daddy's　'no…top'　always　put　him　in　a　fine　mood；　and　Donna　was　feeling　pretty　fine　herself。
A　boy　of　eight　or　nine　was　standing　in　the　yard；　hitting　an　old　baseball　with　an　even　older　baseball　bat。　The　ball　would　travel　through　the　air；　strike　the　side　of　the　barn；　which　VIC　assumed　was　also　Mr。　Camber's　garage；　and　then　roll　most　of　the　way　back。
'Hi；'　the　boy　said。　'Are　you　Mr。　Trenton？'
'That's　right；'　Vic　said。
'I'll　get　my　dad；'　the　boy　said；　and　went　into　the　barn。
The　three　Trentons　got　out；　and　Vic　walked　around　to　the　back　of　his　jag　and　squatted　by　the　bad　wheel；　not　feeling　very　confident。　Perhaps　he　should　have　tried　to　nurse　the　car　into　Portland　after　all。　The　situation　out　here　didn't　look　very　promising；　Camber　didn't　even　have　a　sign　hung　out。
His　meditations　were　broken　by　Donna；　calling　his　name　nervously。　And　then：　'Oh　my　God；　Vic　…'
He　got　up　quickly　and　saw　a　huge　dog　emerging　from　the　barn。　For　one　absurd　moment　he　wondered　if　it　really　was　a　dog；　or　maybe　some　strange　and　ugly　species　of　pony。　Then；　as　the　dog　padded　out　of　the　shadows　of　the　barn's　mouth；　he　saw　its　sad　eyes　and　realized　it　was　a　Saint　Bernard。
Donna　had　impulsively　snatched　up　Tad　and　retreated　toward　the　hood　of　the　jag；　but　Tad　was　struggling　impatiently　in　her　arms；　trying　to　get　down。
'Want　to　see　the　doggy；　Mom　。。。　want　to　see　the　doggy！'
Donna　cast　a　nervous　glance　at　Vic；　who　shrugged；　also　uneasy。　Then　the　boy　came　back　and　ruffled　the　dog's　head　as　he　approached　Vic。　The　dog　wagged　a　tail　that　was　absolutely　huge；　and　Tad　redoubled　his　struggles。
'You　can　let　him　down；　ma'am；'　the　boy　said　politely。　'Cujo　likes　kids。　He　won't　hurt　him。'　And　then；　to　Vic：　'My　dad's　ing　right　out。　He's　washing　his　hands。'
'All　right；'　Vic　said。　'That's　one　hell　of　a　big　dog；　son。　Are　you　sure　he's　safe？'
'He's　safe；'　the　boy　agreed；　but　Vic　found　himself　moving　up　beside　his　wife　as　his　son；　incredibly　small；　toddled　toward　the　dog。　Cujo　stood　with　his　head　cocked；　that　great　brush　of　a　tail　waving　slowly　back　and　forth。
'Vic　…'　Donna　began。
'It's　all　right；'　Vic　said；　thinking；　I　hope。　The　dog　looked　big　enough　to　swallow　the　Tadder　in　a　single　bite。
Tad　stopped　for　a　moment；　apparently　doubtful。　He　and　the　dog　look