sk.everythingseventual-第69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！


d　and　she　was　worried。　That's　the　sort　of　argument　where　one　of　you　ends　up　spending　the　night　on　the　couch。　And　the　only　way　to　stop　an　argument　like　that　is　to　be　quiet。　In　a　marriage；　words　are　like　rain。　And　the　land　of　a　marriage　is　filled　with　dry　washes　and　arroyos　that　can　bee　raging　rivers　in　almost　the　wink　of　an　eye。　The　therapists　believe　in　talk；　but　most　of　them　are　either　divorced　or　queer。　It's　silence　that　is　a　marriage's　best　friend。
　　Silence。
　　After　a　while；　my　best　friend　rolled　over　on　her　side；　away　from　me　and　into　the　place　where　she　goes　when　she　finally　gives　up　the　day。　I　lay　awake　a　little　while　longer；　thinking　of　a　dusty　little　car；　perhaps　once　white；　parked　nose…down　in　the　ditch　beside　a　ranch　road　out　in　the　Nevada　desert　not　too　far　from　Caliente。　The　driver's　side　door　standing　open；　the　rearview　mirror　torn　off　its　post　and　lying　on　the　floor；　the　front　seat　sodden　with　blood　and　tracked　over　by　the　animals　that　had　e　in　to　investigate；　perhaps　to　sample。
　　There　was　a　man…they　assumed　he　was　a　man；　it　almost　always　is…who　had　butchered　five　women　out　in　that　part　of　the　world；　five　in　three　years；　mostly　during　the　time　L。T。　had　been　living　with　Lulubelle。　Four　of　the　women　were　transients。　He　would　get　them　to　stop　somehow；　then　pull　them　out　of　their　cars；　rape　them；　dismember　them　with　an　axe；　leave　them　a　rise　or　two　away　for　the　buzzards　and　crows　and　weasels。　The　fifth　one　was　an　elderly　rancher's　wife。　The　police　call　this　killer　the　Axe　Man。　As　I　write　this；　the　Axe　Man　has　not　been　captured。　Nor　has　he　killed　again；　if　Cynthia　Lulubelle　Simms　DeWitt　was　the　Axe　Man's　sixth　victim；　she　was　also　his　last；　at　least　so　far。　There　is　still　some　question；　however；　as　to　whether　or　not　she　was　his　sixth　victim。　If　not　in　most　minds'　that　question　exists　in　the　part　of　L。T。's　mind　which　is　still　allowed　to　hope。
　　The　blood　on　the　seat　wasn't　human　blood；　you　see；　it　didn't　take　the　Nevada　State　Forensics　Unit　five　hours　to　determine　that。　The　ranch　hand　who　found　Lulubelle's　Subaru　saw　a　cloud　of　circling　birds　half　a　mile　away；　and　when　he　reached　them；　he　found　not　a　dismembered　woman　but　a　dismembered　dog。　Little　was　left　but　bones　and　teeth；　the　predators　and　scavengers　had　had　their　day；　and　there's　not　much　meat　on　a　Jack　Russell　terrier　to　begin　with。　The　Axe　Man　most　definitely　got　Frank；　Lulubelle's　fate　is　probable；　but　far　from　certain。
　　Perhaps；　I　thought；　she　is　alive。　Singing　'Tie　a　Yellow　Ribbon'　at　The　Jailhouse　in　Ely　or　'Take　a　Message　to　Michael'　at　The　Rose　of　Santa　Fe　in　Hawthorne。　Backed　up　by　a　three…piece　bo。　Old　men　trying　to　look　young　in　red　vests　and　black　string　ties。　Or　maybe　she's　blowing　GM　cowboys　in　Austin　or　Wendover…bending　forward　until　her　breasts　press　flat　on　her　thighs　beneath　a　calendar　showing　tulips　in　Holland；　gripping　set　after　set　of　flabby　buttocks　in　her　hands　and　thinking　about　what　to　watch　on　TV　that　night；　when　her　shift　is　done。　Perhaps　she　just　pulled　over　to　the　side　of　the　road　and　walked　away。　People　do　that。　I　know　it；　and　probably　you　do；　too。　Sometimes　people　just　say　fuck　it　and　walk　away。　Maybe　she　left　Frank　behind；　thinking　someone　would　e　along　and　give　him　a　good　home；　only　it　was　the　Axe　Man　who　came　along；　and　。　。　。
　　But　no。　I　met　Lulubelle；　and　for　the　life　of　me　I　can't　see　her　leaving　a　dog　to　most　likely　roast　to　death　or　starve　to　death　in　the　barrens。　Especially　not　a　dog　she　loved　the　way　she　loved　Frank。　No；　L。T。　hadn't　been　exaggerating　about　that；　I　saw　them　together；　and　I　know。
　　She　could　still　be　alive　somewhere。　Technically　speaking；　at　least；　L。T。's　right　about　that。　Just　because　I　can't　think　of　a　scenario　that　would　lead　from　that　car　with　the　door　hanging　open　and　the　rearview　mirror　lying　on　the　floor　and　the　dog　lying　dead　and　crow…picked　two　rises　away；　just　because　I　can't　think　of　a　scenario　that　would　lead　from　that　place　near　Caliente　to　some　other　place　where　Lulubelle　Simms　sings　or　sews　or　blows　truckers；　safe　and　unknown；　well；　that　doesn't　mean　that　no　such　scenario　exists。　As　I　told　L。T。；　it　isn't　as　if　they　found　her　body；　they　just　found　her　car；　and　the　remains　of　the　dog　a　little　way　from　the　car。　Lulubelle　herself　could　be　anywhere。　You　can　see　that。
　　I　couldn't　sleep　and　I　felt　thirsty。　I　got　out　of　bed；　went　into　the　bathroom；　and　took　the　toothbrushes　out　of　the　glass　we　keep　by　the　sink。　I　filled　the　glass　with　water。　Then　I　sat　down　on　the　closed　lid　of　the　toilet　and　drank　the　water　and　thought　about　the　sound　that　Siamese　cats　make；　that　weird　crying；　how　it　must　sound　good　if　you　love　them；　how　it　must　sound　like　ing　home。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　THE　ROAD　VIRUS　HEADS　NORTH
　　
　　
　　I　actually　have　the　picture　described　in　this　story；　how　weird　is　that？　My　wife　saw　it　and　thought　I'd　like　it　（or　at　least　react　to　it）；　so　she　gave　it　to　me　as　a　。　。　。　birthday　present？　Christmas　present？　I　can't　remember。　What　I　can　remember　is　that　none　of　my　three　kids　liked　it。　I　hung　it　in　my　office；　and　they　claimed　the　driver's　eyes　followed　them　as　they　crossed　the　room　（as　a　very　small　boy；　my　son　Owen　was　similarly　freaked　by　a　picture　of　Jim　Morrison）。　I　like　stories　about　pictures　that　change；　and　finally　I　wrote　this　one　about　my　picture。　The　only　other　time　I　can　remember　being　inspired　to　write　a　story　based　on　an　actual　picture　was　'The　House　on　Maple　Street；'　based　on　a　black…and…white　drawing　by　Chris　Van　Allsburg。　That　story　is　in　Nightmares　and　Dreamscapes。　I　also　wrote　a　novel　about　a　picture　that　changes。　It's　called　Rose　Madder；　and　is　probably　the　best　read　of　my　novels　（no　movie；　either）。　In　that　story；　the　Road　Virus　is　named　Norman。
　　
　　
　　
　　Richard　Kinnell　wasn't　frightened　when　he　first　saw　the　picture　at　the　yard　sale　in　Rosewood。
　　He　was　fascinated　by　it；　and　he　felt　he'd　had　the　good　luck　to　find　something　which　might　be　very　special；　but　fright？　No。　It　didn't　occur　to　him　until　later　（'not　until　it　was　too　late；'　as　he　might　have　written　in　one　of　his　own　numbingly　successful　novels）　that　he　had　felt　much　the　same　way　about　certain　illegal　drugs　as　a　young　man。
　　He　had　gone　down　to　Boston　to　participate　in　a　PEN/New　En…gland　conference　titled　'The　Threat　of　Popularity。'　You　could　count　on　PEN　to　e　up　with　such　subjects；　Kinnell　had　found；　it　was　actually　sort　of　forting。　He　drove　the　two　hundred　and　sixty　miles　from　Derry　rather　than　flying　because　he'd　e　to　a　plot　impasse　on　his　latest　book　and　wanted　some　quiet　time　to　try　to　work　it　out。
　　At　the　conference；　he　sat　on　a　panel　where　people　who　should　have　known　better　asked　him　where　he　got　his　ideas　and　if　he　ever　scared　himself。　He　left　the　city　by　way　of　the　Tobin　Bridge；　then　got　on　Route　1。　He　never　took　the　turnpike　when　he　was　trying　to　work　out　problems；　the　turnpike　lulled　him　into　a　state　that　was　like　dreamless；　waking　sleep。　It　was　restful；　but　not　very　creative。　The　stop…and…go　traffic　on　the　coast　road；　however；　acted　like　grit　inside　an　oyster…it　created　a　fair　amount　of　mental　activity　。　。　。　and　sometimes　even　a　pearl。
　　Not；　he　supposed；　that　his　critics　would　use　that　word。　In　an　issue　of　Esquire　last　year；　Bradley　Simons　had　begun　his　review　of　Nightmare　City　this　way：　'Richard　Kinnell；　who　writes　like　Jeffrey　Dahmer　cooks；　has　suffered　a　fresh　bout　of　projectile　vomiting。　He　has　titled　this　most　recent　mass　of　ejecta　Nightmare　City。'
　　Route　1　took　him　through　Revere；　Malden；　Everett；　and　up　the　coast　to　Newburyport。　Beyond　Newburyport　and　just　south　of　the　Massachusetts…New　Hampshire　border　was　the　tidy　little　town　of　Rosewood。　A　mile　or　so　beyond　the　town　center；　he　saw　an　array　of　cheap…looking　goods　spread　out　on　the　lawn　of　a　two…story　Cape。　Propped　against　an　avocado…colored　electric　stove　was　a　sign　reading　YARD　SALE。　Cars　were　parked　on　both　sides　of　the　road；　creating　one　of　those　bottlenecks　which　travellers　unaffected　by　the　yard　sale　mystique　curse　their　way　through。　Kinnell　liked　yard　sales；　particularly　the　boxes　of　old　books　you　sometimes　found　at　them。　He　drove　through　the　bottleneck；　parked　his　Audi　at　the　head　of　the　line　of　cars　pointed　toward　Maine　and　New　Hampshire；　then　walked　back。
　　A　dozen　or　so　people　were　cir