sk.cujo-第32部分

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ith　no　ment。　And　Joe　had　discovered　it　was　impossible　to　stand　aloof　from　Cujo；　as　he　grew　（and　he　grew　damned　fast；　developing　into　exactly　the　sort　of　eating　machine　Joe　had　foreseen）；　he　simply　took　his　place　in　the　Camber　family。　He　was　one　of　your　bona　fide　good　dogs。
He　had　house…trained　quickly　and　pletely　。。。　and　now　this。　Joe　turned　around；　hands　stuffed　in　his　pockets；　frowning。　No　sign　of　Cuje　anywhere。
He　stepped　outside　and　whistled　again。　Damn　dog　was　maybe　down　in　the　creek；　cooling　off。　Joe　wouldn't　blame　him。　It　felt　like　eighty…five　in　the　shade　already。　But　the　dog　would　e　back　soon；　and　when　he　did；　Joe　would　rub　his　nose　in　that　mess。　He　would　be　sorry　to　do　it　if　Cujo　had　made　it　because　he　was　missing　his　people；　but　you　couldn't　let　a　dog　get　away　with　
A　new　thought　came。　Joe　slapped　the　flat　of　his　hand　against　his　forehead。　Who　was　going　to　feed　Cujo　while　he　and　Gary　were　gone？
He　supposed　he　could　fill　up　that　old　pig　trough　behind　the　barn　with　Gaines　Meal　…　they　had　just　about　a　long　ton　of　the　stuff　stored　downstairs　in　the　cellar　…　but　it　would　get　soggy　if　it　rained。　And　if　he　left　it　in　the　house　or　the　barn；　Cujo　might　just　decide　to　up　and　crap　on　the　floor　again。　Also；　when　it　came　to　food；　Cujo　was　a　big　cheerful　glutton。　He　would　cat　half　the　first　day；　half　the　second　day；　and　then　walk　around　hungry　until　Joe　came　back。
'Shit；'　he　muttered。
The　dog　wasn't　ing。　Knew　Joe　would　have　found　his　mess　and　ashamed　of　it；　probably。　Cujo　was　a　bright　dog；　as　dogs　went；　and　knowing　（or　guessing）　such　a　thing　was　by　no　means　out　of　his　mental　reach。
Joe　got　a　shovel　and　cleaned　up　the　mess。　He　spilled　a　capful　of　the　industrial　cleaner　he　kept　handy　on　the　spot；　mopped　it；　and　rinsed　it　off　with　a　bucket　of　water　from　the　faucet　at　the　back　of　the　garage。
That　done；　he　got　out　the　small　spiral　notebook　in　which　he　kept　his　work　schedule　and　looked　it　over。　Richie's　International　Harvester　was　taken　care　of　…　that　chainfall　surely　did　take　the　ouch　out　of　pulling　a　motor。　He　had　pushed　the　transmission　job　back　with　no　trouble；　the　teacher　had　been　every　bit　as　easygoing　as　Joe　had　expected。　He　had　another　half　a　dozen　jobs　lined　up；　all　of　them　minor。
He　went　into　the　house　（he　had　never　bothered　to　have　a　phone　installed　in　his　garage；　they　charged　you　dear　for　that　extra　line；　he　had　told　Charity）　and　began　to　call　people　and　tell　them　he　would　be　out　of　town　for　a　few　days　on　business。　He　would　get　to　most　of　them　before　they　got　around　to　taking　their　problems　somewhere　else。　And　if　one　or　two　couldn't　wait　to　get　their　new　fanbelt　or　radiator　hose；　piss　on　em。
The　calls　made；　he　went　back　out　to　the　barn。　The　last　item　before　he　was　free　was　an　oil　change　and　a　ring　job。　The　owner　had　promised　to　e　by　and　pick　up　his　car　by　noon。　Joe　got　to　work；　thinking　how　quiet　the　home　place　seemed　with　Charity　and　Brett　gone　。。。　and　with　Cujo　gone。　Usually　the　big　Saint　Bernard　would　lie　in　the　patch　of　shade　by　the　big　sliding　garage　door；　panting；　watching　Joe　as　he　worked。　Sometimes　Joe　would　talk　to　him；　and　Cujo　always　looked　as　if　he　was　listening　carefully。
Been　deserted；　he　thought　semi…resentfully。　Been　deserted　by　all　three。　He　glanced　at　the　spot　where　Cujo　had　messed　and　shook　his　head　again　in　a　puzzled　sort　of　disgust。　The　question　of　what　he　was　going　to　do　about　feeding　the　dog　recurred　to　him　and　he　came　up　empty　again。　Well；　later　on　he　would　give　the　old　Pervert　a　call。　Maybe　he　would　be　able　to　think　of　someone　…　some　kid　…　who　would　be　willing　to　e　up　and　give　Cujo　his　chow　for　a　couple…three　days。
He　nodded　his　head　and　turned　the　radio　on　to　WOXO　in　Norway；　turning　it　up　loud。　He　didn't　really　hear　it　unless　the　news　or　the　ball　scores　were　on；　but　it　was　pany。　Especially　with　everyone　gone。　He　got　to　work。　And　when　the　phone　in　the　house　rang　a　dozen　or　so　times；　he　never　heard　it。
Tad　Trenton　was　in　his　room　at　midmorning；　playing　with　his　trucks。　He　had　accumulated　better　than　thirty　of　them　in　his　four　years　on　the　earth；　an　extensive　collection　which　ranged　from　the　seventy…nine…cent　plastic　jobs　that　his　dad　sometimes　bought　him　at　the　Bridgton　Pharmacy　where　he　always　got　Time　magazine　on　Wednesday　evenings　（you　had　to　play　carefully　with　the　seventy…nine…cent　trucks　because　they　were　MADE　IN　TAIWAN　and　had　a　tendency　to　fall　apart）　to　the　flagship　of　his　line；　a　great　yellow　Tonka　bulldozer　that　came　up　to　his　knees　when　he　was　standing。
He　had　various　'men'　to　stick　into　the　cabs　of　his　trucks。　Some　of　them　were　round…headed　guys　scrounged　from　his　PlaySkool　toys。　Others　were　soldiers。　Not　a　few　were　what　he　called　'Star　Wars　Guys'。　These　included　Luke；　Han　Solo；　the　Imperial　Creep　（aka　Darth　Vader）；　a　Bespin　Warrior；　and　Tad's　absolute　favorite；　Greedo。　Greedo　always　got　to　drive　the　Tonka　dozer。
Sometimes　he　played　Dukes　of　Hazzard　with　his　trucks；　sometimes　B。　J。　and　the　Bear；　sometimes　Cops　and　Moonshiners　（his　dad　and　mom　had　taken　him　to　see　White　Lightning　and　White　Line　Fever　on　a　double　bill　at。　the　Norway　Drive…In　and　Tad　had　been　very　impressed）；　sometimes　a　game　he　had　made　up　himself。　That　one　was　called　Ten…Truck　Wipe…Out。
But　the　game　he　played　most　often　…　and　the　one　he　was　playing　now　…had　no　name。　It　consisted　of　digging　the　trucks　and　the　'men'　out　of　his　two　playchests　and　lining　the　trucks　up　one　by　one　in　diagonal　parallels；　the　men　inside；　as　if　they　were　all　slant…parked　on　a　street　that　only　Tad　could　see。　Then　he　would　run　them　to　the　other　side　of　the　room　one　by　one；　very　slowly；　and　line　them　up　on　that　side　bumper…to…bumper。　Sometimes　he　would　repeat　this　cycle　ten　or　fifteen　times；　for　an　hour　or　more；　without　tiring。
Both　Vic　and　Donna　had　been　struck　by　this　game。　It　was　a　little　disturbing　to　watch　Tad　set　up　this　constantly　repeating；　almost　ritualistic　pattern。　They　had　both　asked　him　on　occasion　what　the　attraction　was；　but　Tad　did　not　have　the　vocabulary　to　explain。　Dukes　of　Hazzard；　Cops　and　Moonshiners；　and　Ten…Truck　Wipe…Out　were　simple　crash…and…bash　games。　The　no…name　game　was　quiet；　peaceful；　tranquil；　ordered。　If　his　vocabulary　bad　been　big　enough；　he　might　have　told　his　parents　it　was　his　way　of　saying　Om　and　thereby　opening　the　doors　to　contemplation　and　reflection。
Now　as　he　played　it；　he　was　thinking　something　was　wrong。
His　eyes　went　automatically　…　unconsciously　…　to　the　door　of　his　closet；　but　the　problem　wasn't　there。　The　door　was　firmly　latched；　and　since　the　Monster　Words；　it　never　came　open。　No；　the　something　wrong　was　something　else。
He　didn't　know　exactly　what　it　was；　and　wasn't　sure　he　even　wanted　to　know。　But；　Iike　Brett　Camber；　he　was　already　adept　at　reading　the　currents　of　the　parental　river　upon　which　he　floated。　just　lately　he　had　gotten　the　feeling　that　there　were　black　eddies；　sandbars；　maybe　deadfalls　hidden　just　below　the　surface。　There　could　be　rapids。　A　waterfall。　Anything。
Things　weren't　right　between　his　mother　and　father。
It　was　in　the　way　they　looked　at　each　other。　The　way　they　talked　to　each　other。　It　was　on　their　faces　and　behind　their　faces。　In　their　thoughts。
He　finished　changing　a　slant…parked　row　of　trucks　on　one　side　of　the　room　to　bumper…to…bumper　traffic　on　the　other　side　and　got　up　and　went　to　the　window。　His　knees　hurt　a　little　because　he　had　been　playing　the　no…name　game　for　quite　a　while。　Down　below　in　the　back　yard　his　mother　was　hanging　out　clothes。　Half　an　hour　earlier　she　had　tried　to　call　the　man　who　could　fix　the　Pinto；　but　the　man　wasn't　home。　She　waited　a　long　time　for　someone　to　say　hello　and　then　slammed　the　phone　down；　mad。　And　his　mom　hardly　ever　got　mad　at　little　things　like　that。
As　he　watched；　she　finished　hanging　the　first　two　sheets。　
She　looked　at　them　。。。　and　her　shoulders　kind　of　sagged。　She　went　to　stand　by　the　apple　tree　beyond　the　double　clothesline；　and　Tad　knew　from　her　posture…her　legs　spread；　her　head　down；　her　shoulders　in　slight　motion　…　that　she　was　crying。　He　watched　her　for　a　little　while　and　then　crept　back　to　his　trucks。　There　was　a　hollow　place　in　the　pit　of　his　stomach。　He　missed　his　father　already；　missed　him　badly；　but　this　was　worse。
He　ran　the　trucks　slowly　back　across　the　room；　one　by　one；　returning　them　to　their　slant…parked