sk.everythingseventual-第106部分

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　　I　pushed　up　on　my　elbows　and　opened　my　eyes　again；　more　cautiously　this　time。　I　think　I　already　knew　where　I　was；　and　one　look　around　was　enough　to　confirm　it：　lying　on　my　back　in　the　little　graveyard　at　the　top　of　the　hill　on　Ridge　Road。　The　moon　was　almost　directly　overhead　now；　fiercely　bright　but　much　smaller　than　it　had　been　only　a　few　moments　before。　The　mist　was　deeper　as　well；　lying　over　the　cemetery　like　a　blanket。　A　few　markers　poked　up　through　it　like　stone　islands。　I　tried　getting　to　my　feet　and　another　bolt　of　pain　went　through　the　back　of　my　head。　I　put　my　hand　there　and　felt　a　lump。　There　was　sticky　wetness；　as　well。　I　looked　at　my　hand。　In　the　moonlight；　the　blood　streaked　across　my　palm　looked　black。
　　On　my　second　try　I　succeeded　in　getting　up；　and　stood　there　swaying　among　the　tombstones；　knee…deep　in　mist。　I　turned　around；　saw　the　break　in　the　rock　wall　and　Ridge　Road　beyond　it。　I　couldn't　see　my　pack　because　the　mist　had　overlaid　it；　but　I　knew　it　was　there。　If　I　walked　out　to　the　road　in　the　lefthand　wheelrut　of　the　lane；　I'd　find　it。　Hell；　would　likely　stumble　over　it。
　　So　here　was　my　story；　all　neatly　packaged　and　tied　up　with　a　bow：　I　had　stopped　for　a　rest　at　the　top　of　this　hill；　had　gone　inside　the　cemetery　to　have　a　little　look　around；　and　while　backing　away　from　the　grave　of　one　George　Staub　had　tripped　over　my　own　large　and　stupid　feet。　Fell　down；　banged　my　head　on　a　marker。　How　long　had　I　been　unconscious？　I　wasn't　savvy　enough　to　tell　time　by　the　changing　position　of　the　moon　with　to…the…minute　accuracy；　but　it　had　to　be　at　least　an　hour。　Long　enough　to　have　a　dream　that　I'd　gotten　a　ride　with　a　dead　man。　What　dead　man？　George　Staub；　of　course；　the　name　I'd　read　on　a　grave…marker　just　before　the　lights　went　out。　It　was　the　classic　ending；　wasn't　it？　Gosh…What…An…Awful…Dream…I…Had。　And　when　I　got　to　Lewiston　and　found　my　mother　had　died？　Just　a　little　touch　of　precognition　in　the　night；　put　it　down　to　that。　It　was　the　sort　of　story　you　might　tell　years　later；　near　the　end　of　a　party；　and　people　would　nod　their　heads　thoughtfully　and　look　solemn　and　some　dinkleberry　with　leather　patches　on　the　elbows　of　his　tweed　jacket　would　say　there　were　more　things　in　Heaven　and　earth　than　were　dreamed　of　in　our　philosophy　and　then　…
　　'Then　shit；'　I　croaked。　The　top　of　the　mist　was　moving　slowly；　like　mist　on　a　clouded　mirror。　'I'm　never　talking　about　this。　Never；　not　in　my　whole　life；　not　even　on　my　deathbed。'
　　But　it　had　all　happened　just　the　way　I　remembered　it；　of　that　I　was　sure。　George　Staub　had　e　along　and　picked　me　up　in　his　Mustang；　Ichabod　Crane's　old　pal　with　his　head　stitched　on　instead　of　under　his　arm；　demanding　that　I　choose。　And　I　had　chosen…faced　with　the　oning　lights　of　the　first　house；　I　had　bartered　away　my　mother's　life　with　hardly　a　pause。　It　might　be　understandable；　but　that　didn't　make　the　guilt　of　it　any　less。　No　one　had　to　know；　however；　that　was　the　good　part。　Her　death　would　look　natural…hell；　would　be　natural…and　that's　the　way　I　intended　to　leave　it。
　　I　walked　out　of　the　graveyard　in　the　lefthand　rut；　and　when　my　foot　struck　my　pack；　I　picked　it　up　and　slung　it　back　over　my　shoulders。　Lights　appeared　at　the　bottom　of　the　hill　as　if　someone　had　given　them　the　cue。　I　stuck　out　my　thumb；　oddly　sure　it　was　the　old　man　in　the　Dodge…he'd　e　back　this　way　looking　for　me；　of　course　he　had；　it　gave　the　story　that　final　finishing　roundness。
　　Only　it　wasn't　the　old　guy。　It　was　a　tobacco…chewing　farmer　in　a　Ford　pickup　truck　filled　with　apple…baskets；　a　perfectly　ordinary　fellow：　not　old　and　not　dead。
　　'Where　you　goin；　son？'　he　asked；　and　when　I　told　him　he　said；　'That　works　for　both　of　us。'　Less　than　forty　minutes　later；　at　twenty　minutes　after　nine；　he　pulled　up　in　front　of　the　Central　Maine　Medical　Center。　'Good　luck。　Hope　your　Ma's　on　the　mend。'
　　'Thank　you；'　I　said；　and　opened　the　door。
　　'I　see　you　been　pretty　nervous　about　it；　but　she'll　most　likely　be　fine。　Ought　to　get　some　disinfectant　on　those；　though。'　He　pointed　at　my　hands。
　　I　looked　down　at　them　and　saw　the　deep；　purpling　crescents　on　the　backs。　I　remembered　clutching　them　together；　digging　in　with　my　nails；　feeling　it　but　unable　to　stop。　And　I　remembered　Staub's　eyes；　filled　up　with　moonlight　like　radiant　water。　Did　you　ride　the　Bullet？　he'd　asked　me。　I　rode　that　fucker　four　times。
　　'Son？'　the　man　driving　the　pickup　asked。　'You　all　right？'
　　'Huh？'
　　'You　e　over　all　shivery。'
　　'I'm　okay；'　I　said。　'Thanks　again。'　I　slammed　the　door　of　the　pickup　and　went　up　the　wide　walk　past　the　line　of　parked　wheelchairs　gleaming　in　the　moonlight。
　　I　walked　to　the　information　desk；　reminding　myself　that　I　had　to　look　surprised　when　they　told　me　she　was　dead；　had　to　look　surprised；　they'd　think　it　was　funny　if　I　didn't　。　。　。　or　maybe　they'd　just　think　I　was　in　shock　。　。　。　or　that　we　didn't　get　along　。　。　。　or　。　。　。
　　I　was　so　deep　in　these　thoughts　that　I　didn't　at　first　grasp　what　the　woman　behind　the　desk　had　told　me。　I　had　to　ask　her　to　repeat　it。
　　'I　said　that　she's　in　room　487；　but　you　can't　go　up　just　now。　Visiting　hours　end　at　nine。'
　　'But　。　。　。'　I　felt　suddenly　woozy。　I　gripped　the　edge　of　the　desk。　The　lobby　was　lit　by　fluorescents；　and　in　that　bright　even　glare　the　cuts　on　the　backs　of　my　hands　stood　out　boldly…eight　small　purple　crescents　like　grins；　just　above　the　knuckles。　The　man　in　the　pickup　was　right。　I　ought　to　get　some　disinfectant　on　those。
　　The　woman　behind　the　desk　was　looking　at　me　patiently。　The　plaque　in　front　of　her　said　she　was　YVONNE　EDERLE。
　　'But　is　she　all　right？'
　　She　looked　at　her　puter。　'What　I　have　here　is　S。　Stands　for　satisfactory。　And　four　is　a　general…population　floor。　If　your　mother　had　taken　a　turn　for　the　worse；　she'd　be　in　ICU。　That's　on　three。　I'm　sure　if　you　e　back　tomorrow；　you'll　find　her　just　fine。　Visiting　hours　begin　at…'
　　'She's　my　Ma；'　I　said。　'I　hitchhiked　all　the　way　down　from　the　University　of　Maine　to　see　her。　Don't　you　think　I　could　go　up；　just　for　a　few　minutes？'
　　'Exceptions　are　sometimes　made　for　immediate　family；'　she　said；　and　gave　me　a　smile。　'You　just　hang　on　a　second。　Let　me　see　what　I　can　do。'　She　picked　up　the　phone　and　punched　a　couple　of　buttons；　no　doubt　calling　the　nurses'　station　on　the　fourth　floor；　and　I　could　see　the　course　of　the　next　two　minutes　as　if　I　really　did　have　second　sight。　Yvonne　the　Information　Lady　would　ask　if　the　son　of　Jean　Parker　in　487　could　e　up　for　a　minute　or　two…just　long　enough　to　give　his　mother　a　kiss　and　an　encouraging　word…and　the　nurse　would　say　oh　God；　Mrs。　Parker　died　not　fifteen　minutes　ago；　we　just　sent　her　down　to　the　morgue；　we　haven't　had　a　chance　to　update　the　puter；　this　is　so　terrible。
　　The　woman　at　the　desk　said；　'Muriel？　It's　Yvonne。　I　have　a　young　man　down　here　at　the　desk；　his　name　is'…she　looked　at　me；　eyebrows　raised；　and　I　gave　her　my　name…'Alan　Parker。　His　mother　is　Jean　Parker；　in　487？　He　wonders　if　he　could　just　。　。　。'
　　She　stopped。　Listened。　On　the　other　end　the　nurse　on　the　fourth　floor　was　no　doubt　telling　her　that　Jean　Parker　was　dead。
　　'All　right；'　Yvonne　said。　'Yes；　I　understand。'　She　sat　quietly　for　a　moment；　looking　off　into　space；　then　put　the　mouthpiece　of　the　telephone　against　her　shoulder　and　said；　'She's　sending　Anne　Corrigan　down　to　peek　in　on　her。　It　will　only　be　a　second。'
　　'It　never　ends；'　I　said。
　　Yvonne　frowned。　'I　beg　pardon？'
　　'Nothing；'　I　said。　'It's　been　a　long　night　and…'
　　'…and　you're　worried　about　your　mom。　Of　course。　I　think　you're　a　very　good　son　to　drop　everything　the　way　you　did　and　e　on　the　run。'
　　I　suspected　Yvonne　Ederle's　opinion　of　me　would　have　taken　a　drastic　drop　if　she'd　heard　my　conversation　with　the　young　man　behind　the　wheel　of　the　Mustang；　but　of　course　she　hadn't。　That　was　a　little　secret；　just　between　George　and　me。
　　It　seemed　that　hours　passed　as　I　stood　there　under　the　bright　fluorescents；　waiting　for　the　nurse　on　the　fourth　floor　to　e　back　on　the　line。　Yvonne　had　some　papers　in　front　of　her。　She　trailed　her　pen　down　one　of　them；　putting　neat　little　checkmarks　beside　some　of　the　names；　and　it　occurred　to　me　that　if　there　really　was　an　Angel　of　Death；　he　or　she