sk.dreamcatcher-第58部分

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　his　gun。
　　　　Henry　got　shakily　to　his　feet。　His　legs　were　trembling　and　the　ankle　he'd　bent　was　outraged；　but　everything　was　holding　together；　at　least　for　the　time　being。　Thus　ends　the　eggman's　journey；　he　thought；　and　began　to　laugh。　The　men　in　front　of　him　looked　at　each　other　uneasily；　and　although　they　pointed　their　rifles　at　him　again；　he　was　forted　to　see　even　that　small　demonstration　of　human　emotion。
　　　　In　the　brilliant　glow　of　the　lights　mounted　on　the　pulper's　flatbed；　Henry　saw　something　lying　in　the　snow　…　it　had　fallen　from　his　pocket　when　he　wiped　out。　Slowly；　knowing　they　might　shoot　him　anyway；　he　bent　down。
　　　　'DON'T　TOUCH　THAT！'　God　cried　from　His　loudspeaker　atop　the　cab　of　the　pulp…truck；　and　now　the　men　down　there　also　raised　their　weapons；　a　little　hello　darkness　my　old　friend　peeping　from　the　muzzle　of　each。
　　　　'Bite　shit　and　die；'　Henry　said　…　one　of　the　Beav's　better　efforts　…　and　picked　up　the　package。　He　held　it　out　to　the　armed　and　masked　men　in　front　of　him；　smiling。　'I　e　in　peace　for　all　mankind；'　he　said。　'Who　wants　a　hot　dog？'

CHAPTER　TWELVE

JONESY　IN　THE　HOSPITAL


1

This　was　a　dream。
　　　　It　didn't　feel　like　one；　but　it　had　to　be。　For　one　thing；　he'd　already　been　through　March　fifteenth　once；　and　it　seemed　monstrously　unfair　to　have　to　go　through　it　again。　For　another；　he　could　remember　all　sorts　of　things　from　the　eight　months　between　mid…March　and　mid…November　…　helping　the　kids　with　their　homework；　Carla　on　the　phone　with　her　friends　（many　from　the　Narcotics　Anonymous　program）；　giving　a　lecture　at　Harvard　。　。　。　and　the　months　of　physical　rehab；　of　course。　All　the　endless　bends；　all　the　tiresome　screaming　as　his　joints　stretched　themselves　out　again；　oh　so　reluctantly。　He　telling　Jeannie　Morin；　his　therapist；　that　he　couldn't。　She　telling　him　that　he　could。　Tears　on　his　face；　big　smile　on　hers　（that　hateful　undeniable　junior…miss…smile）；　and　in　the　end　she　had　turned　out　to　be　right。　He　could；　he　was　the　little　engine　that　could；　but　what　a　price　the　little　engine　had　paid。
　　　　He　could　remember　all　those　things　and　more：　getting　out　of　bed　for　the　first　time；　wiping　his　ass　for　the　first　time；　the　night　in　early　May　when　he'd　gone　to　bed　thinking　I'm　going　to　get　through　this　for　the　first　time；　the　night　in　late　May　when　he　and　Carla　had　made　love　for　the　first　time　since　the　accident；　and　afterward　he'd　told　her　an　old　joke：　How　do　porcupines　fuck？　Very　carefully。　He　could　remember　watching　fireworks　on　Memorial　Day；　his　hip　and　upper　thigh　aching　like　a　bastard；　he　could　remember　eating　watermelon　on　the　Fourth　of　July；　spitting　seeds　into　the　grass　and　watching　Carla　and　her　sisters　play　badminton；　his　hip　and　upper　leg　still　aching　but　not　so　fiercely；　he　could　remember　Henry　calling　in　September　…　'Just　to　check　in；'　he'd　said　…　and　talking　about　all　sorts　of　things；　including　the　annual　hunting　trip　to　Hole　in　the　Wall　e　November。　'Sure　I'm　ing；'　Jonesy　had　said；　not　knowing　then　how　little　he　would　like　the　feel　of　the　Garand　in　his　hands。　They　had　talked　about　their　work　（Jonesy　had　taught　the　final　three　weeks　of　summer　session；　hopping　around　pretty　spryly　on　one　crutch　by　then）；　about　their　families；　about　the　books　they　had　read　and　the　movies　they　had　seen；　Henry　had　mentioned　again；　as　he　had　in　January；　that　Pete　was　drinking　too　much。　Jonesy；　having　already　been　through　one　substance…abuse　war　with　his　wife；　hadn't　wanted　to　talk　about　that；　but　when　Henry　passed　along　Beaver's　suggestion　that　they　stop　in　Derry　and　see　Duddits　Cavell　when　their　week　of　hunting　was　over；　Jonesy　had　agreed　enthusiastically。　It　had　been　too　long；　and　there　was　nothing　like　a　shot　of　Duddits　to　cheer　a　person　up。　Also　。　。　。
　　　　'Henry？'　he　had　asked。　'We　made　plans　to　go　see　Duddits；　didn't　we？　We　were　going　on　St　Patrick's　Day。　I　don't　remember　it；　but　it's　written　on　my　office　calendar。'
　　　　'Yeah；'　Henry　had　replied。　'As　a　matter　of　fact；　we　did。'
　　　　'So　much　for　the　luck　of　the　Irish；　huh？'
　　　　As　a　result　of　such　memories；　Jonesy　was　positive　March　fifteenth　had　already　happened。　There　were　all　sorts　of　evidence　supporting　the　thesis；　his　office　calendar　being　Exhibit　A。　Yet　here　they　were　again；　those　troublesome　Ides　。　。　。　and　now；　oh　goddam；　how　was　this　for　unfair；　now　there　seemed　to　be　more　of　the　fifteenth　than　ever。
　　　　Previously；　his　memory　of　that　day　faded　out　at　around　ten　A。M。　He'd　been　in　his　office；　drinking　coffee　and　making　a　stack　of　books　to　take　down　to　the　History　Department　office；　where　there　was　a　FREE　WITH　STUDENT　ID　table。　He　hadn't　been　happy；　but　he　couldn't　for　the　life　of　him　remember　why。　According　to　the　same　office　calendar　on　which　he　had　spied　the　unkept　March　seventeenth　appointment　to　go　see　Duddits；　he'd　had　a　March　fifteenth　appointment　with　a　student　named　David　Defuniak。　Jonesy　couldn't　remember　what　it　had　been　about；　but　he　later　found　a　notation　from　one　of　his　grad　assistants　about　a　make…up　essay　from　Defuniak　…　short…term　results　of　the　Norman　Conquest　…　so　he　supposed　it　had　been　that。　Still；　what　was　there　in　a　make…up　assignment　that　could　possibly　have　made　Associate　Professor　Gary　Jones　feel　unhappy？
　　　　Unhappy　or　not；　he　had　been　humming　something；　humming　and　then　scatting　the　words；　which　were　close　to　nonsense：　Yes　we　can；　yes　we　can…can；　great　gosh　a'mighty　yes　we　can…can。　There　were　a　few　little　shreds　after　that　…　wishing　Colleen；　the　Department　secretary；　a　nice　St　Paddy's　Day；　grabbing　a　Boston　Phoenix　from　the　newspaper　box　outside　the　building；　dropping　a　quarter　into　the　saxophone　case　of　a　skinhead　just　over　the　bridge　on　the　Cambridge　side；　feeling　sorry　for　the　guy　because　he　was　wearing　a　light　sweater　and　the　wind　ing　off　the　Charles　was　sharp　…　but　mostly　what　he　remembered　after　making　that　stack　of　giveaway　books　was　darkness。　Consciousness　had　returned　in　the　hospital；　with　that　droning　voice　from　a　nearby　room：　Please　stop；　I　can't　stand　it；　give　me　a　shot；　where's　Marcy；　I　want　Marcy。　Or　maybe　it　had　been　where's　Jonesy；　I　want　Jonesy。　Old　creeping　death。　Death　pretending　to　be　a　patient。　Death　had　lost　track　of　him　…　sure；　it　was　possible；　it　was　a　big　hospital　stuffed　full　of　pain；　sweating　agony　out　its　very　seams　…　and　now　old　creeping　death　was　trying　to　find　him　again。　Trying　to　trick　him。　Trying　to　make　him　give　himself　away。
　　　　This　time　around；　though；　all　that　merciful　darkness　in　the　middle　is　gone。　This　time　around　he　not　only　wishes　Colleen　a　happy　St。　Paddy's　Day；　he　tells　her　a　joke：　What　do　you　call　a　Jamaican　proctologist？　A　Pokémon。　He　goes　out；　his　future　self　…　his　November　self　…　riding　in　his　March　head　like　a　stowaway。　His　future　self　hears　his　March　self　think　foat　a　beautiful　day　it　turned　out　to　be　as　he　starts　walking　towards　his　appointment　with　destiny　in　Cambridge。　He　tries　to　tell　his　March　self　that　this　is　a　bad　idea；　a　grotesquely　bad　idea；　that　he　can　save　himself　months　of　agony　just　by　hailing　a　Red　Top　or　taking　the　T；　but　he　can't　get　through。　Perhaps　all　the　science…fiction　stories　he　read　about　time　when　he　was　a　teenager　had　it　right：　you　can't　change　the　past；　no　matter　how　you　try。
　　　　He　walks　across　the　bridge；　and　although　the　wind　is　a　little　cold；　he　still　enjoys　the　sun　on　his　face　and　the　way　it　breaks　into　a　million　bright　splinters　on　the　Charles。　He　sings　a　snatch　of　'Here　es　the　Sun；'　then　reverts　to　the　Pointer　Sisters：　Yes　we　cancan；　great　gosh　a'mighty。　Swinging　his　briefcase　in　rhythm。　His　sandwich　is　inside。　Egg　salad。　Mmm…mmmm；　Henry　said。　SSDD；　Henry　said。
　　　　Here　is　the　saxophonist；　and　surprise：　he's　not　on　the　end　of　the　Mass　Ave　Bridge　but　farther　up；　by　the　MIT　campus；　outside　one　of　those　funky　little　Indian　restaurants。　He's　shivering　in　the　cold；　bald；　with　nicks　on　his　scalp　suggesting　he　wasn't　cut　out　to　be　a　barber。　The　way　he's　playing　'These　Foolish　Things'　suggests　he　wasn't　cut　out　to　be　a　horn…player；　either；　and　Jonesy　wants　to　tell　him　to　be　a　carpenter；　an　actor；　a　terrorist；　anything　but　a　musician。　Instead；　Jonesy　actually　encourages　him；　not　dropping　the　quarter　he　previously　remembered　into　the　guy's　case　（it's　lined　with　scuffed　purple　velvet）；　but　a　whole　fistful　of　change　…　these　foolish　things；　indeed。　He　blames　it　on　the　first　warm　sun　after　a　long　cold　winter；　he　blames　it　on　how　well　things　turned　out　with　Defuniak。
　　　　The　sax…man　rolls　his　eyes　to　Jonesy；　thanking　him　but　still　blowing；　Jonesy　thinks　of　another　joke：　What　do　you　call　a　sax…player　with　a　credit　card？　An　optimist。
　　　　He　walks　on；　swinging　his　case；　not　listening　to　the　Jonesy　inside；　the　one　who　has　swum　upstream　from　November　like　some　time…travelling　salmon。　'Hey　Jonesy；　stop。　Just　a　few　seconds　should　be　enough。　Tie　your　shoe　or　something。　（No　good；　he's　wearing　loafers。　Soon　he　will　be　wearing　a　cast；　as　well。）　That　intersection　up　there　is　where　it　happens；　the　one　where　the　Red　Line　stops；　Mass　Ave　and　Prospect。　There's　an　old　guy　ing；　a　wonked…out　history　professor　in　a　dark　blue　Lincoln　Town　Car　and　he's　going　to　clean　you　like　a　house。'
　　　　But　it's　no　good。　No　matter　how　hard　he　yells；　it's　no　good。　The　phone　lines　are　down。　You　can't　go　back；　can't　kill　your　own　grandfather；　can't　shoot　Lee　Harvey　Oswald　as　he　kneels