sk.cujo-第9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！


；　his　bottom　resting　against　the　frayed　straps　of　a　Sears；　Roebuck　mail…order　lawn　chair　that　was　in　the　last　stages　of　useful　service。　He　was　drinking　Popov　because　Popov　was　cheap。　Gary　had　purchased　a　large　supply　of　it　in　New　Hampshire；　where　booze　was　cheaper；　on　his　last　liquor　run。　Popov　was　cheap　in　Maine；　but　it　was　dirt　cheap　in　New　Hampshire；　a　state　which　took　its　stand　for　the　finer　things　in　life　…　a　fat　state　lottery；　cheap　booze；　cheap　cigarettes；　and　tourist　attractions　like　Santa's　Village　and　Six…Gun　City。　New　Hampshire　was　a　great　'Old　place。　The　lawn　chair　had　slowly　settled　into　his　run…to…riot　lawn；　digging　deep　divots。　The　house　behind　the　lawn　had　also　run　to　riot；　it　was　a　gray；　paint…peeling；　roof…sagging　shambles。　Shutters　hung。　The　chimney　hooked　at　the　sky　like　a　drunk　trying　to　get　up　from　a　tumble。　Singles　blown　off　in　the　previous　winter's　last　big　storm　still　hung　limply　from　some　of　the　branches　of　the　dying　elm。　It　ain't　the　Taj　Mahal；　Gary　sometimes　said；　but　who　gives　a　shit？
Gary　was；　on　this　swelteringly　hot　late…June　day；　as　drunk　as　a　coot。　This　was　not　an　unmon　state　of　affairs　with　him。　He　did　not　know　Roger　Breakstone　from　shit。　He　did　not　know　Vic　Trenton　from　shit。　He　didn't　know　Donna　Trenton　from　shit；　and　if　he　had　known　her；　he　wouldn't　have　given　a　shit　if　the　visiting　team　was　throwing　line　drives　into　her　catcher's　mitt。　He　did　know　the　Cambers　and　their　dog　Cujo；　the　family　lived　up　the　hill；　at　the　end　of　Town　Road　No。　3。　He　and　Joe　Camber　did　a　good　deal　of　drinking　together；　and　in　a　rather　foggy　fashion　Gary　realized　that　Joe　Camber　was　already　a　goodly　way　down　the　road　to　alcoholism。　It　was　a　road　Gary　himself　had　toured　extensively。
'Just　a　good…for…nothing　drunk　and　I　don't　give　a　shit！'　Gary　told　the　birds　and　the　singles　in　the　diseased　elm。　He　tipped　his　glass。　He　fatted。　He　swatted　a　bug。　Sunlight　and　shadow　dappled　his　face。　Behind　the　house；　a　number　of　disemboweled　cars　had　almost　disappeared　in　the　tall　weeds。　The　ivy　which　grew　on　the　west　side　of　his　house　had　gone　absolutely　apeshit；　almost　covering　it。　One　window　peeked　out　…　barely　…　and　on　sunny　days　it　glittered　like　a　dirty　diamond。　Two　years　ago；　in　a　drunken　frenzy；　Gary　had　uprooted　a　bureau　from　one　of　the　upstairs　rooms　and　had　thrown　it　out　a　window　…　he　could　not　remember　why　now。　He　had　reglazed　the　window　himself　because　it　had　let　in　one　crotch　of　a　draft　e　winter；　but　the　bureau　rested　；exactly　where　it　had　fallen。　One　drawer　was　popped　out　like　a　tongue。
In　1944；　when　Gary　Pervier　had　been　twenty；　he　had　single…handedly　taken　a　German　pillbox　in　France　and；　following　that　exploit；　had　led　the　remains　of　his　squad　ten　miles　farther　before　collapsing　with　the　six　bullet　wounds　he　had　suffered　in　his　charge　of　the　machine…gun　emplacement。　For　this　he　had　been　awarded　one　of　his　grateful　country's　highest　honors；　the　Distinguished　Service　Cross。　In　1968　he　had　gotten　Buddy　Torgeson　down　in　Castle　Falls　to　rum　the　medal　into　an　ashtray。　Buddy　had　been　shocked。　Gary　told　Buddy　he　would　have　gotten　him　to　make　it　into　a　toilet　bowl　so　he　could　shit　in　it；　but　it　wasn't　big　enough。　Buddy　spread　the　story；　and　maybe　that　had　been　Gary's　intention；　or　maybe　it　hadn't。
Either　way；　it　had　driven　the　local　hippies　crazy　with　admiration。　In　the　summer　of　'68　most　of　these　hippies　were　on　vacation　in　the　Lakes　Region　with　their　wealthy　parents　before　returning　to　their　colleges　in　September；　where　they　were　apparently　studying　up　on　Protest；　Pot；　and　Pussy。
After　Gary　had　his　DSC　turned　into　an　ashtray　by　Buddy　Torgeson；　who　did　custom　welding　in　his　spare　time　and　who　worked　days　down　to　the　Castle　Falls　Esso　（they　were　all　Exxon　stations　now；　and　Gary　Pervier　didn't　give　a　shit）；　a　version　of　the　story　found　its　way　into　the　Castle　Rock　Call。　The　story　was　written　by　a　local…yokel　reporter　who　construed　the　act　as　an　antiwar　gesture。　That　was　when　the　hippies　started　to　show　up　at　Gary's　place　on　Town　Road　No。　3。　Most　of　them　wanted　to　tell　Gary　he　was　'far　out'。　Some　of　them　wanted　to　tell　him　he　was　'some　kind　of　heavy'。　A　few　wanted　to　tell　him　that　he　was　'too　fucking　much'。
Gary　showed　them　all　the　same　thing；　which　was　his　Winchester　。30…。06。　He　told　them　to　get　off　his　property。　As　far　as　he　was　concerned　they　were　all　a　bunch　of　long…haired　muff…diving　crab…crawling　asshole　pinko　fucksticks。　He　told　them　he　didn't　give　a　shit　if　he　blew　their　guts　from　Castle　Rock　to　Fryeburg。　After　a　while　they　stopped　ing；　and　that　was　the　end　of　the　DSC　affair。
One　of　those　German　bullets　had　taken　Gary　Pervier's　right　testicle　off；　a　medic　had　found　most　of　it　splattered　across　the　seat　of　his　GI…issue　underwear。　Most　of　the　other　one　survived；　and　sometimes　he　could　still　get　a　pretty　respectable　bone…on。　Not；　he　had　frequently　told　Joe　Camber；　that　he　gave　much　of　a　shit　one　way　or　the　other。　His　grateful　country　had　given　him　the　Distinguished　Service　Cross。　A　grateful　hospital　staff　in　Paris　had　discharged　him　in　February　1945　with　an　80…percent　disability　pension　and　a　gold…plated　monkey　on　his　back。　A　grateful　hometown　gave　him　a　parade　on　the　Fourth　of　July　1945　（by　then　he　was　twenty…one　instead　of　twenty；　able　to　vote；　his　hair　graying　around　the　temples；　and　he　felt　all　of　seven　hundred；　thank　you　very　much）。　The　grateful　town　selectmen　had　remanded　the　property　taxes　on　the　Pervier　place　in　perpetuity。　That　was　good；　because　he　would　have　lost　it　twenty　years　ago　otherwise。　He　had　replaced　the　morphine　he　could　no　longer　obtain　with　high…tension　booze　and　had　then　proceeded　to　get　about　his　life's　work；　which　was　killing　himself　as　slowly　and　as　pleasantly　as　he　could。
Now；　in　1980；　he　was　fifty…six　years　old；　totally　gray；　and　meaner　than　a　bull　with　a　jackhandle　up　its　ass。　About　the　only　three　living　creatures　he　could　stand　were　Joe　Camber；　his　boy　Brett；　and　Brett's　big　Saint　Bernard；　Cujo。
He　tilted　back　in　the　decaying　lawn　chair；　almost　went　over　on　his　back；　and　used　up　some　more　of　his　screwdriver。　The　screwdriver　was　in　a　glass　he　had　gotten　free　from　a　McDonald's　restaurant。　There　was　some　sort　of　purple　animal　on　the　glass。　Something　called　a　Grimace。　Gary　ate　a　lot　of　his　meals　at　the　Castle　Rock　McDonald's；　where　you　could　still　get　a　cheap　hamburger。　Hamburgers　were　good。　But　as　for　the　Grimace　。。。　and　Mayor　McCheese　。。。　and　Monsieur　Ronald　Fucking　McDonald　。。。　Gary　Pervier　didn't　give　a　shit　for　any　of　them。
A　broad；　tawny　shape　was　moving　through　the　high　grass　to　his　left；　and　a　moment　later　Cujo；　on　one　of　his　rambles；　emerged　into　Gary's　tattered　front　yard。　He　saw　Gary　and　barked　once；　politely。　Then　he　came　over；　wagging　his　tail。
'Cuje；　you　old　sonofawhore；'　Gary　said。　He　put　his　screwdriver　down　and　began　digging　methodically　through　his　pockets　for　dog　biscuits。　He　always　kept　a　few　on　hand　for　Cujo；　who　was　one　of　your　old…fashioned；　dyed…in…the…wool　good　dogs。
He　found　a　couple　in　his　shirt　pocket　and　held　them　up。
'Sit　boy。　Sit　up。'
No　matter　how　low　or　how　mean　he　was　feeling；　the　sight　of　that　two…hundred…pound　dog　sitting　up　like　a　rabbit　never　failed　to　tickle　him。
Cujo　sat　up；　and　Gary　saw　a　short　but　ugly…looking　scratch　healing　on　the　dog's　muzzle。　Gary　tossed　him　the　biscuits；　which　were　shaped　like　bones；　and　Cujo　snapped　them　effortlessly　out　of　the　air。　He　dropped　one　between　his　forepaws　and　began　to　gnaw　the　other　one。
'Good　dog；'　Gary　said；　reaching　out　to　pat　Cujo's　head。　'Good　…'
Cujo　began　to　growl。　Deep　in　his　throat。　It　was　a　rumbling；　almost　reflective　sound。　He　looked　up　at　Gary；　and　there　was　something　cold　and　speculative　in　the　dog's　eyes　that　gave　Gary　a　chill。　He　took　his　hand　back　to　himself　quickly。　A　dog　as　big　as　Cujo　was　nothing　to　get　screwing　around　with。　Not　unless　you　wanted　to　spend　the　rest　of　your　life　wiping　your　ass　with　a　hook。
'What's　got　into　you；　boy？'　Gary　asked。　He　had　never　heard　Cujo　growl；　not　in　all　the　years　the　Cambers　had　had　him。　To　tell　the　truth；　he　wouldn't　have　believed　ole　Cuje　had　a　growl　in　him。
Cujo　wagged　his　tail　a　little　bit　and　came　over　to　Gary　to　be　patted；　as　if　ashamed　of　his　momentary　lapse。
'Hey；　that's　more　like　it；'　Gary　said；　ruffling　the　big　dog's　fur。　It　had　been　one　scorcher　of