js&cs.thebridge-第16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！


　　〃Already　did；〃　Jenkel　said。　〃Now　it's　back　up　again。〃
　　Henkel　considered　the　problem；　as　well　as　the　older　man's　tone　of　voice；　which　was　more　curious　than　concerned。　He　knew　as　well　as　Jenkel　that　they　were　constantly　making　up　and　letting　down　water　for　the　core　vessel；　filtering　out　particulates　or　ions　and　then　restoring　it　to　the　loop。　Henkel　wondered　offhand　if　this　was　some　kind　of　test；　an　impromptu　spot…quiz　by　ol'　Dead　Fred　to　goose　an　otherwise　slow　shift。
　　〃Uhmm；〃　he　pondered；　〃add　NutraSweet？〃
　　Jenkel　looked　at　him；　he　was　not　smiling。　Maybe　this　was　serious；　after　all。　〃Go　get　Sykes；〃　Jenkel　said。　〃Tell　him　we　might　have　a　problem。〃
　　His　eyes　leveled　with　Henkel's　and　the　younger　man's　smile　evaporated。　Bob　turned　and　quick…walked　over　to　the　open　door　of　the　super's　office。　〃Uh；　Mr。　Sykes　。。。　〃　he　began。
　　But　Fred　Jenkel　was　no　longer　listening。　His　ears　were　tuned　to　another　sound；　a　subsonic　drone　that　he　felt　more　than　heard；　coining　from　a　humming　structure　less　than　a　hundred　yards　away。　From　his　radiation…shielded；　hermetically　sealed　vantage　point；　it　might　as　well　have　been　on　the　moon。
　　He　watched　the　meter's　needle　rise　up　and　level　off；　only　to　scoot　up　a　moment　later。　Rise　。。。　flutter。　Rise　。。。　flutter。
　　〃It's　nothing；〃　he　told　himself；　denying　memory　and　intuition　and　experience。　〃Nothing　at　all。〃
　　Jenkel　watched。　All　the　while　thinking；　The　reactor　could　practically　run　itself。
　　Rise　。。。
　　Unless　something　went　wrong　。。。
　　
　　
　　　Eleven
　　　
　　More　than　anything；　Gwen　Taylor　loved　the　act　of　creation。
　　She　stood　before　her　almost　pleted　work…in…progress；　dressed　in　sweats　and　a　paint…spattered　shirt　stolen　from　Gary。　Blue　and　yellow　mixed　with　a　bit　of　white　on　the　sheet　of　heavy　glass　that　served　as　her　palette。　The　colors　swirled　together；　three　melding　to　one；　making　teal。
　　She　wet　her　brush；　scooped　up　some　of　the　paint；　and　held　it　aloft。　〃Okay；　your　Highness；〃　she　said；　scrutinizing　her　target。　〃Here　es　greatness。〃
　　Gwen　took　aim　and　let　fly。
　　On　the　nursery　wall；　the　Faery　Queen's　left　cheek　came　to　vibrant　life。　A　twin　slash　quickly　adorned　the　right。　Gwen　worked　fast　and　loose；　showing　amazing　skill　and　alacrity　in　the　most　random　of　motions。　She　dabbed　here；　stroked　there；　a　layer　of　cool　green　sprouted　across　the　breadth　of　the　mural　in　no　time。
　　〃Yes　。。。　yes；　yes　。。。　〃　Gwen　said。　David　Byrne's　〃Rei　Momo〃　jangled　from　the　speakers　of　her　spattered　studio　boom　box。　Gwen　grabbed　up　a　brushful　of　magenta　and　peppered　the　shadows　around　the　figure　with　hot　color。　〃This　is　a　good　look　for　you；〃　she　winked。
　　The　nursery　was　spectacular；　a　magical　blend　of　innocence　and　mystery。　Stuffed　animals　hung　from　a　hammock　in　the　corner；　shower　booty　awaiting　tiny　hands　to　bring　them　to　life；　an　antique　oak　crib　lovingly　refinished　by　Gary　consumed　one　whole　er　of　the　room；　tempo　rarity　hiding　under　a　protective　drop　cloth。　A　mobile　floated　lazily　above　it；　bobbing　on　an　almost　imperceptible　breeze。　It　was　a　room　full　of　dreams；　waiting　to　e　true。
　　Gwen　could　hardly　wait　for　Spike　to　see　it。
　　She　dropped　the　brush；　picked　up　a　finer　one　to　lay　in　some　highlights　of　yellow。　Then　she　scooped　up　a　raggedy　bit　of　sponge　that　she'd　custom…plucked　for　maximum　texture　and　began　patting　the　surface　of　the　fresh　paint；　adding　a　stippled　coral　effect。
　　It　was　a　technique　that　would　have　appalled　her　art　school　painting　instructors；　but　fuck　'em。　Gwen　was　a　firm　believer　in　the　right　misuse　of　technology。
　　After　all；　she　reasoned；　necessity　isn't　the　true　mother　of　invention。
　　Weirdness　is。
　　Gwen　was　nothing　if　not　original。　Her　instructors　had　hated　her　style；　which　was　quirky　and　unschooled　but　bristling　with　energy；　charming　in　its　imagination　and　sheer　enthusiasm。　They　told　young　Gwen　Kessler　that　as　an　artist　she'd　make　a　great　hairdresser。　One　told　her　he　now　understood　why　previous　generations　preferred　their　women　barefoot；　pregnant；　and　in　the　kitchen；　another　even　suggested　in　front　of　the　entire　class　that　she'd　be　better　off　enrolling　in　the　art　school　that　advertised　on　matchbooks。　Draw　Binky；　Make　Big　。
　　So　when　she　finally　got　fed　up　with　getting　shat　upon　by　the　hierarchical　cliques　of　snotty　conceptual　types　at　the　Atlanta　College　of　Modern　Art；　she　fought　back　by　declaring　herself　a　postmodern　neoprimitive　guerrilla　cartoonist　and　staging　her　own　one…woman　protest　show　outside　the　main　entrance　of　the　school；　which　was　also　the　Peachtree　Road　entrance　for　the　prestigious　and　oh…so…stuffy　Atlanta　Museum　of　Modem　Art。　She　spray…painted　the　title　of　her　point　across。　It　was　smarmy　and　titillating　and　played　wholly　for　yocks；　and　it　utterly　missed　the　point。
　　The　cameraman　got　her　contact　info　from　the　rap　sheet；　stewed　over　her　for　a　day；　and　finally　called　her　up。　He　apologized。　She　did　not　accept。　He　asked　her　out。
　　She　told　him；　very　sweetly；　to　go　fuck　himself。
　　He　proceeded　to　find　out　the　date　of　her　arraignment。　When　she　showed　up；　he　was　there。　She　had　bee　a　minor　celebrity　by　that　point；　albeit　an　embarrassed　one：　Channel　Two　followed　up　on　her　case　periodically；　invariably　running　the　same　smarmy　clip　of　her　thrashing；　bare…butted　arrest。
　　He　asked　her　out　again。　She　recognized　him　from　the　news　crew　and　told　him　to　please　leave　her　alone。
　　He　was　back　again　at　her　court　date。　She　got　six　months'　probation。　He　handed　her　a　rose　and　a　present　wrapped　in　a　brown　paper　bag。　She　opened　it　up　in　the　cab　on　the　way　home。
　　Inside　the　envelope　was　a　note　with　his　phone　number。　The　note　read：
　　Everybody　deserves　a　second　chance。
　　She　unwrapped　the　package。　Inside　were　a　couple　of　three…quarter…inch　videotapes。　The　masters　and　the　dubs。　All　of　it。
　　Channel　Two　didn't　run　any　coverage　that　night；　or　ever　again。
　　The　next　day　Gwen　called　the　cameraman　and　thanked　him。　He　said　it　was　his　pleasure　and　apologized　yet　again；　and　didn't　even　ask　her　out。
　　Three　days　later；　she　called　him　again。　This　time　she　invited　him　to　lunch；　her　treat。　He　said　yes。　Everybody　deserves　a　second　chance。
　　The　cameraman's　name　was　Gary　Taylor。
　　And　the　rest；　as　they　say；　was　history　。。。
　　Gwen　blushed　with　the　memory。　It　was　a　long　way　from　Atlanta　to　here；　sometimes　she　could　scarcely　believe　that　she　was　the　same　person　at　all。　She　and　Gary　had　bopped　around　a　lot；　going　from　Atlanta　to　Chicago　to　the　Big　Apple；　always　following　Gary's　gigs。　Some　places　she　liked　better　than　others；　all　of　them　were　ripe　for　learning　and　growing。
　　But　none　of　them　felt　like　home。
　　It　was　a　simple　need；　if　an　all…consuming　one。　Home　began　to　call　to　them　from　the　pages　of　magazines；　from　the　gushings　of　friends　who　lived　upstate；　riding　a　clear　whiff　of　breeze　in　the　stale　summer　air　of　their　too…small　Chelsea　apartment。
　　That　one　simple　need　had　gotten　to　them　both；　after　a　while：　New　York　was　too　expensive；　too　dirty；　and　too　crowded　to　grow　old　or　raise　kids　in。　Gary　had　no　real　hometown　to　speak　of；　that　pretty　much　narrowed　it　down。
　　Exodus。
　　She'd　been　happier；　in　all：　a　lot　less　angry；　a　lot　less　stressed。　The　house　was　wonderful；　and　she　loved　fixing　it　up。　She　hiked　and　went　to　the　farmer's　market；　and　lived　an　altogether　kinder　and　gentler　existence。　With　the　ing　of　the　Spikester；　her　world　seemed　to　be　nearing　pletion。　What　more　could　anyone　truly　want？
　　But　still；　sometimes　it　chafed。　She　felt　so　。。。　so　normal　here。　She　didn't　trust　it。　It　was　clean　here；　yes；　with　an　immeasurably　lower　crime　rate　and　a　cost　of　living　cheaper　by　half　。。。　what　LifeStyle　magazine　called　a　real　〃quality　of　life〃　area。　But　there　was　no　art　scene　to　speak　of；　a　lame　nightlife；　a　meager　handful　of　restaurants　worth　eating　in。　She　felt　torn　between　the　two　Gwens　inside　her：　the　wildass　and　the　earth　mother；　the　hellion　and　the　homebody。
　　And　now　a　third；　on　top　of　it。　The　Gwen/not　Gwen　nesting　in　her　belly。　The　one　that　was　so　much　a　part　of　her　and　Gary；　yet　so　ultimately　other。　The　one　that　was　so　much　more　than　the　sum　of　its　parts。
　　The　one　that　would　call　her　mommy。
　　She　worried　if　that　were　such　a　good　thing；　like　she　worried　about　routine　and　responsibili