sk.cujo-第31部分

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'What's　with　you？'　Roger　asked。
'What　do　you　mean；　what's　with　me？'
'You　know　what　I　mean。　I　never　even　saw　you　drink　a　beer　before　noon　before。　Usually　not　before　five。'
'I'm　launching　the　boat；'　Vic　said。
'What　boat？'
'The　R。M。S。　Titanic；'　Vic　said。
Roger　frowned。　'That's　sort　of　poor　taste；　don't　you　think？'
He　did；　as　a　matter　of　fact。　Roger　deserved　something　better；　but　this　morning；　with　the　depression　still　on　him　like　a　foul…smelling　blanket；　he　just　couldn't　think　of　anything　better。　He　managed　a　rather　bleak　smile　instead。　But　Roger　went　on　frowning　at　him。
'Look；'　Vic　said；　'I've　got　an　idea　on　this　Zingers　thing。　It's　going　to　he　a　bitch　convincing　old　man　Sharp　and　the　kid；　but　it　might　work。'
Roger　looked　relieved。　It　was　the　way　it　had　always　worked　with　them；　Vic　was　the　raw　idea　man；　Roger　the　shaper　and　implementer。　They　had　always　worked　as　a　team　when　it　came　to　translating　the　ideas　into　media；　and　in　the　matter　of　presentation。
'What　is　it？'
'Give　me　a　little　while；'　Vic　said。　'Until　tonight；　maybe。　Then　we'll　run　it　up　the　flagpole　…'
'…and　see　who　drops　their　pants；'　Roger　finished　with　a　grin。　He　shook　his　paper　open　to　the　financial　page　again。　'Okay。　As　long　as　I　get　it　by　tonight。　Sharp　stock　went　up　another　eighth　last　week。　Were　you　aware　of　that？'
'Dandy；'　Vic　murmured；　and　looked　out　the　window　again。　No　fog　now；　the　day　was　as　clear　as　a　bell。　The　beaches　at　Kennebunk　and　Ogunquit　and　York　formed　a　panoramic　picture　postcard　…　cobalt　blue　sea；　khaki　sand；　and　then　the　Maine　landscape　of　low　hills；　open　fields；　and　thick　bands　of　fir　stretching　west　and　out　of　sight。　Beautiful。　And　it　made　his　depression　even　worse。
If　I　have　to　cry；　I'm　damn　well　going　into　the　crapper　to　do　it；　he　thought　grimly。　Six　sentences　on　a　sheet　of　cheap　paper　had　done　this　to　him。　It　was　a　goddam　fragile　world；　as　fragile　as　one　of　those　Easter　eggs　that　were　all　pretty　colors　on　the　outside　but　hollow　on　the　inside。　Only　last　week　he　had　been　thinking　of　just　taking　Tad　and　moving　out。　Now　he　wondered　if　Tad　and　Donna　would　still　be　there　when　he　and　Roger　got　back。　Was　it　possible　that　Donna　might　just　take　the　kid　and　decamp；　maybe　to　her　mother's　place　in　the　Poconos？
Sure　it　was　possible。　She　might　decide　that　ten　days　apart　wasn't　enough；　not　for　him；　not　for　her。　Maybe　a　six　months'　separation　would　be　better。　And　she　had　Tad　now。　Possession　was　nine　points　of　the　law；　wasn't　it？
And　maybe；　a　crawling；　insinuating　voice　inside　spoke　up；　maybe　she　knows　where　Kemp　is。　Maybe　she'll　decide　to　go　to　him。　Try　it　with　him　for　a　while。　They　can　search　for　their　happy　pasts　together　Now　there's　a　nice　crazy　Monday　morning　thought；　he　told　himself　uneasily。
But　the　thought　wouldn't　go　away。　Almost；　but　not　quite。
He　managed　to　finish　every　drop　of　his　screwdriver　before　the　plane　touched　down　at　Logan。　It　gave　him　acid　indigestion　that　he　knew　would　last　all　morning　long　…　like　the　thought　of　Donna　and　Steve　Kemp　together；　it　would　e　creeping　back　even　if　he　gobbled　a　whole　roll　of　Turns　…　but　the　depression　lifted　a　little　and　so　maybe　it　was　worth　it。
Maybe。
Joe　Camber　looked　at　the　patch　of　garage　floor　below　his　big　vise　damp　with　something　like　wonder。　He　pushed　his　green　felt　hat　back　on　his　forehead；　stared　at　what　was　there　awhile　longer；　then　put　his　fingers　between　his　teeth　and　whistled　piercingly。
'Cujo！　Hey；　boy！　e；　Cujo！'
He　whistled　again　and　then　leaned　over；　hands　on　his　knees。　The　dog　would　e；　he　had　no　doubt　of　that。　Cujo　never　went　far。　But　how　was　he　going　to　handle　this？
The　dog　had　shat　on　the　garage　floor。　He　had　never　known　Cujo　to　do　such　a　thing；　not　even　as　a　pup。　He　had　piddled　around　a　few　times；　as　puppies　will；　and　he　had　tom　the　bejesus　out　of　a　chair　cushion　or　two；　but　there　had　never　been　anything　like　this。　He　wondered　briefly　if　maybe　some　other　dog　had　done　it；　and　then　dismissed　the　thought。　Cujo　was　the　biggest　dog　in　Castle　Rock；　so　far　as　he　knew。　Big　dogs　ate　big；　and　big　dogs　crapped　big。　No　poodle　or　beagle　or　Heinz　Fifty…seven　Varieties　had　done　this　mess。　Joe　wondered　if　the　dog　could　have　sensed　that　Charity　and　Brett　were　going　away　for　a　sped。　If　so；　maybe　this　was　his　way　of　showing　just　how　that　idea　set　with　him。　Joe　had　heard　of　such　things。
He　had　taken　the　dog　in　payment　for　a　job　he　had　done　in　1975。　The　customer　had　been　a　one…eyed　fellow　named　Ray　Crowell　from　up　Fryeburg　way。　This　Crowell　spent　most　of　his　time　working　in　the　woods；　although　it　was　acknowledged　that　he　had　a　fine　touch　with　dogs　…　he　was　good　at　breeding　them　and　good　at　training　them。　He　could　have　made　a　decent　living　doing　what　New　England　country　people　sometimes　called　'dog　farming'；　but　his　temper　was　not　good；　and　he　drove　many　customers　away　with　his　sullenness。
'I　need　a　new　engine　in　my　truck；'　Crowell　had　told　Joe　that　spring。
'Ayuh；'　Joe　had　said。
'I　got　the　motor；　but　I　can't　pay　you　nothing。　I'm　tapped　out。'
They　had　been　standing　just　inside　Joe's　garage；　chewing　on　stems　of　grass。　Brett；　then　five；　had　been　goofing　around　the　dooryard　while　Charity　hung　out　clothes。
'Well；　that's　too　bad；　Ray；'　Joe　said；　'but　I　don't　work　for　free。　This　ain't　no　charitable　organization。'
'Mrs。　Beasley　just　had　herself　a　litter；'　Ray　said。　Mrs。　Beasley　was　a　prime　bitch　Saint　Bernard。　'Purebreds。　You　do　the　work　and　I'll　give　you　the　pick　of　the　litter。　What　do　you　say？　You'd　be　ing　out　ahead；　but　I　can't　cut　no　pulp　if　I　don't　have　a　truck　to　haul　it　in。'
'Don't　need　a　dog；'　joe　said。　'Especially　a　big　one　like　that。　Goddam　Saint　Bernards　ain't　nothing　but　eatin　machines。'
'You　don't　need　a　dog；'　Ray　said；　casting　an　eye　out　at　Brett；　who　was　now　just　sitting　on　the　grass　and　watching　his　mother；　'but　your　boy　might　appreciate　one。'
Joe　opened　his　mouth　and　then　closed　it　again。　He　and　Charity　didn't　use　any　protection　but　there　had　been　no　more　kids　since　Brett；　and　Brett　himself　had　been　a　long　while　ing。　Sometimes；　looking　at　him；　a　vague　question　would　form　itself　in　Joe's　head：　Was　the　boy　lonely？　Perhaps　he　was。　And　perhaps　Ray　Crowell　was　right。　Brett's　birthday　was　ing　up。　He　could　give　him　the　pup　then。
'I'll　think　about　it；'　he　said。
'Well；　don't　think　too　long；'　Ray　said；　bridling。　'I　can　go　see　Vin　Callahan　over　in　North　Conway。　He's　just　as　handy　as　you　are；　Camber。　Handier；　maybe。'
'Maybe；'　Joe　said；　unperturbed。　Ray　Crowell's　temper　did　not　scare　him　in　the　least。
Later　that　week；　the　manager　of　the　Shop'n　Save　drove　his　Thunderbird　up　to　Joe's　to　get　the　transmission　looked　at。　It　was　a　minor　problem；　but　the　manager；　whose　name　was　Donovan；　fussed　around　the　car　like　a　worried　mother　while　Joe　drained　the　transmission　fluid　well；　refilled　it；　and　tightened　the　bands。　The　car　was　a　piece　of　work；　all　right；　a　1960　T…Bird　in　cherry　condition。　And　as　he　finished　the　job；　listening　to　Donovan　talk　about　how　his　wife　wanted　him　to　sell　the　car；　Joe　had；　had　an　idea。
'I'm　thinking　about　getting　my　boy　a　dog；'　he　told　this　Donovan　as　he　let　the　T…Bird　down　off　the　jacks。
Oh；　yes？'　Donovan　asked　politely。
Ayuh。　Saint　Bernard。　It's　just　a　pup　now；　but　it's　gonna　eat　big　when　it　grows。　Now　I　was　just　thinking　that　we　might　make　a　little　deal；　you　and　me。　If　you　was　to　guarantee　me　a　discount　on　that　dry　dog　food；　Gaines　Meal；　Ralston…Purina；　whatever　you　sell；　I'd　guarantee　you　to　work　on　your　Bird　here　every　once　in　a　while。　No　labor　charges。'
Donovan　had　been　delighted　and　the　two　of　them　had　shaken　on　it。　Joe　had　called　Ray　Crowell　and　said　he'd　decided　to　take　the　pup　if　Crowell　was　still　agreeable。　Crowell　was；　and　when　his　son's　birthday　rolled　around　that　year；　Joe　had　astounded　both　Brett　and　Charity　by　putting　the　squirming；　wriggling　puppy　into　the　boy's　arms。
'Thank　you；　Daddy；　thank　you；　thank　you！'　Brett　had　cried；　hugging　his　father　and　covering　his　cheeks　with　kisses。
'Sure；'　joe　said。　'But　you　take　care　of　him；　Brett。　He's　your　dog；　not　mine。　I　guess　if　he　does　any　piddling　or　cropping　around；　IT　take　him　out　in　back　of　the　barn　and　shoot　him　for　a　stranger。'
'I　will；　Daddy　。。。　I　promise！'
He　had　kept　his　promise；　pretty　much；　and　on　the　few　occasions　he　forgot；　either　Charity　or　Joe　himself　had　cleaned　up　after　the　dog　with　no　ment。