sk.thetalisman-第4部分
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Got to get control of yourself。 If Sergeant Fury goes Section Eight; who's gonna lead the Howling mandos?
He smiled and actually did feel a little better。 From up here; fifty feet from the water; things looked a little better。 Maybe it was the change in barometric pressure; or something。 What had happened to Uncle Tommy was horrible; but he supposed he would get over it; learn to accept。 That was what his mother said; anyway。 Uncle Morgan had been unusually pesty just lately; but then; Uncle Morgan had always been sort of a pest。
As for his mother 。 。 。 well; that was the big one; wasn't it?
Actually; he thought; sitting on the bench and digging at the verge of the sand beyond the boardwalk with one toe; actually his mother might still be all right。 She could be all right; it was certainly possible。 After all; no one had e right out and said it was the big C; had they? No。 If she had cancer; she wouldn't have brought him here; would she? More likely they'd be in Switzerland; with his mother taking cold mineral baths and scoffing goat…glands; or something。 And she would do it; too。
So maybe…
A low; dry whispering sound intruded on his consciousness。 He looked down and his eyes widened。 The sand had begun to move by the instep of his left sneaker。 The fine white grains were sliding around in a small circle perhaps a finger's length in diameter。 The sand in the middle of this circle suddenly collapsed; so that now there was a dimple in the sand。 It was maybe two inches deep。 The sides of this dimple were also in motion: around and around; moving in rapid counterclockwise circuits。
Not real; he told himself immediately; but his heart began to speed up again。 His breathing also began to e faster。 Not real; it's one of the Daydreams; that's all; or maybe it's a crab or something 。 。 。
But it wasn't a crab and it wasn't one of the Daydreams…this was not the other place; the one he dreamed about when things were boring or maybe a little scary; and it sure as hell wasn't any crab。
The sand spun faster; the sound arid and dry; making him think of static electricity; of an experiment they had done in science last year with a Leyden jar。 But more than either of these; the minute sound was like a long lunatic gasp; the final breath of a dying man。
More sand collapsed inward and began to spin。 Now it was not a dimple; it was a funnel in the sand; a kind of reverse dust…devil。 The bright yellow of a gum wrapper was revealed; covered; revealed; covered; revealed again…each time it showed up again。 Jack could read more of it as the funnel grew: JU; then JUI; then JUICY F。 The funnel grew and the sand was jerked away from the gum wrapper again。 It was as quick and rude as an unfriendly hand jerking down the covers on a made bed。 JUICY FRUIT; he read; and then the wrapper flapped upward。
The sand turned faster and faster; in a hissing fury。 Hhhhh…haaaaahhhhhhhh was the sound the sand made。 Jack stared at it; fascinated at first; and then horrified。 The sand was opening like a large dark eye: it was the eye of the gull that had dropped the clam on the rock and then pulled the living meat out of it like a rubber band。
Hhhhhhaaaahhhhh; the sand…spout mocked in its dead; dry voice。 That was not a mind…voice。 No matter how much Jack wished it were only in his head; that voice was real。 His false teeth flew; Jack; when the old WILD CHILD hit him; out they went; rattledy…bang! Yale or no Yale; when the old WILD CHILD van es and knocks your false teeth out; Jacky; you got to go。 And your mother…
Then he was running again; blindly; not looking back; his hair blown off his forehead; his eyes wide and terrified。
4
Jack walked as quickly as he could through the dim lobby of the hotel。 All the atmosphere of the place forbade running: it was as quiet as a library; and the gray light which fell through the tall mullioned windows softened and blurred the already faded carpets。 Jack broke into a trot as he passed the desk; and the stooped ashen…skinned day…clerk chose that second to emerge through an arched wooden passage。 The clerk said nothing; but his permanent scowl dragged the corners of his mouth another centimeter downward。 It was like being caught running in church。 Jack wiped his sleeve across his forehead; made himself walk the rest of the way to the elevators。 He punched the button; feeling the desk clerk's frown burning between his shoulder blades。 The only time this week that Jack had seen the desk clerk smile had been when the man had recognized his mother。 The smile had met only the minimum standards for graciousness。
'I suppose that's how old you have to be to remember Lily Cavanaugh;' she had said to Jack as soon as they were alone in their rooms。 There had been a time; and not so long ago; when being identified; recognized from any one of the fifty movies she had made during the fifties and sixties ('Queen of the Bs;' they called her; her own ment: 'Darling of the Drive…ins')…whether by a cabdriver; waiter; or the lady selling blouses at the Wilshire Boulevard Saks…perked her mood for hours。 Now even that simple pleasure had gone dry for her。
Jack jigged before the unmoving elevator doors; hearing an impossible and familiar voice lifting to him from a whirling funnel of sand。 For a second he saw Thomas Woodbine; solid fortable Uncle Tommy Woodbine; who was supposed to have been one of his guardians…a strong wall against trouble and confusion…crumpled and dead on La Cienega Boulevard; his teeth like popcorn twenty feet away in the gutter。 He stabbed the button again。
Hurry up!
Then he saw something worse…his mother hauled into a waiting car by two impassive men。 Suddenly Jack had to urinate。 He flattened his palm against the button; and the bent gray man behind the desk uttered a phlegmy sound of disapproval。 Jack pressed the edge of his other hand into that magic place just beneath his stomach which lessened the pressure on his bladder。 Now he could hear the slow whir of the descending elevator。 He closed his eyes; squeezed his legs together。 His mother looked uncertain; lost and confused; and the men forced her into the car as easily as they would a weary collie dog。 But that was not really happening; he knew; it was a memory…part of it must have been one of the Daydreams…and it had happened not to his mother but to him。
As the mahogany doors of the elevator slid away to reveal a shadowy interior from which his own face met him in a foxed and peeling mirror; that scene from his seventh year wrapped around him once again; and he saw one man's eyes turn to yellow; felt the other's hand alter into something claw…like; hard and inhuman 。 。 。 he jumped into the elevator as if he had been jabbed with a fork。
Not possible: the Daydreams were not possible; he had not seen a man's eyes turning from blue to yellow; and his mother was fine and dandy; there was nothing to be scared of; nobody was dying; and danger was what a seagull meant to a clam。 He closed his eyes and the elevator toiled upward。
That thing in the sand had laughed at him。
Jack squeezed through the opening as soon as the doors began to part。 He trotted past the closed mouths of the other elevators; turned right into the panelled corridor and ran past the sconces and paintings toward their rooms。 Here running seemed less a sacrilege。 They had 407 and 408; consisting of two bedrooms; a small kitchen; and a living room with a view of the long smooth beach and the vastness of the ocean。 His mother had appropriated flowers from somewhere; arranged them in vases; and set her little array of framed photographs beside them。 Jack at five; Jack at eleven; Jack as an infant in the arms of his father。 His father; Philip Sawyer; at the wheel of the old DeSoto he and Morgan Sloat had driven to California in the unimaginable days when they had been so poor they had often slept in the car。
When Jack threw open 408; the door to the living room; he called out; 'Mom? Mom?'
The flowers met him; the photographs smiled; there was no answer。 'Mom!' The door swung shut behind him。 Jack felt his stomach go cold。 He rushed through the living room to the large bedroom on the right。 'Mom!