sk.thetalisman-第33节

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　　Situated　in　a　long　depression　in　the　land；　Oatley　spread　itself　out　meagerly　from　two　principal　streets。　One；　the　continuation　of　Mill　Road；　dipped　past　an　immense　and　shabby　building　set　in　the　midst　of　a　vast　parking　lot…a　factory；　Jack　thought…to　bee　a　strip　of　used…car　lots　（sagging　pennants）；　fast…food　franchises　（The　Great　Tits　of　America）；　a　bowling　alley　with　a　huge　neon　sign　（BOWL…A…RAMA！）；　grocery　stores；　gas　stations。　Past　all　this；　Mill　Road　became　Oatley's　five　or　six　blocks　of　downtown；　a　strip　of　old　two…story　buildings　before　which　cars　were　parked　nose…in。　The　other　street　was　obviously　the　location　of　Oatley's　most　important　houses…large　frame　buildings　with　porches　and　long　slanting　lawns。　Where　these　streets　intersected　stood　a　traffic　light　winking　its　red　eye　in　the　late　afternoon。　Another　light　perhaps　eight　blocks　down　changed　to　green　before　a　high　dingy　many…windowed　building　that　looked　like　a　mental　hospital；　and　so　was　probably　the　high　school。　Fanning　out　from　the　two　streets　was　a　jumble　of　little　houses　interspersed　with　anonymous　buildings　fenced　in　behind　tall　wire　mesh。
　　Many　of　the　windows　in　the　factory　were　broken；　and　some　of　the　windows　in　the　strip　of　downtown　had　been　boarded　over。　Heaps　of　garbage　and　fluttering　papers　littered　the　fenced…in　concrete　yards。　Even　the　important　houses　seemed　neglected；　with　their　sagging　porches　and　bleached…out　paint　jobs。　These　people　would　own　the　used…car　lots　filled　with　unsaleable　automobiles。
　　For　a　moment　Jack　considered　turning　his　back　on　Oatley　and　making　the　hike　to　Dogtown；　wherever　that　was。　But　that　would　mean　walking　through　the　Mill　Road　tunnel　again。　From　down　in　the　middle　of　the　shopping　district　a　car　horn　blatted；　and　the　sound　unfurled　toward　Jack　full　of　an　inexpressible　loneliness　and　nostalgia。
　　He　could　not　relax　until　he　was　all　the　way　to　the　gates　of　the　factory；　the　Mill　Road　tunnel　far　up　behind　him。　Nearly　a　third　of　the　windows　along　the　dirty…brick　facade　had　been　broken　in；　and　many　of　the　others　showed　blank　brown　squares　of　cardboard。　Even　out　on　the　road；　Jack　could　smell　machine　oil；　grease；　smouldering　fanbelts；　and　clashing　gears。　He　put　his　hands　in　his　pockets　and　walked　downhill　as　quickly　as　he　could。
　　　
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　　Seen　close　up；　the　town　was　even　more　depressed　than　it　had　looked　from　the　hill。　The　salesmen　at　the　car　lots　leaned　against　the　windows　in　their　offices；　too　bored　to　e　outside。　Their　pennants　hung　tattered　and　joyless；　the　once…optimistic　signs　propped　along　the　cracked　sidewalk　fronting　the　rows　of　cars…ONE　OWNER！　FANTASTIC　BUY！　CAR　OF　THE　WEEK！…had　yellowed。　The　ink　had　feathered　and　run　on　some　of　the　signs；　as　if　they　had　been　left　out　in　the　rain。　Very　few　people　moved　along　the　streets。　As　Jack　went　toward　the　center　of　town；　he　saw　an　old　man　with　sunken　cheeks　and　gray　skin　trying　to　wrestle　an　empty　shopping　cart　up　onto　a　curb。　When　he　approached；　the　old　man　screeched　something　hostile　and　frightened　and　bared　gums　as　black　as　a　badger's。　He　thought　Jack　was　going　to　steal　his　cart！　'Sorry；'　Jack　said；　his　heart　pounding　again。　The　old　man　was　trying　to　hug　the　whole　cumbersome　body　of　the　cart；　protecting　it；　all　the　while　showing　those　blackened　gums　to　his　enemy。　'Sorry；'　Jack　repeated。　'I　was　just　going　to　。　。　。　'
　　'Fusshhingfeef！　FusshhingFEEEFF！'　the　old　man　screeched；　and　tears　crawled　into　the　wrinkles　on　his　cheeks。
　　Jack　hurried　off。
　　
　　Twenty　years　before；　during　the　sixties；　Oatley　must　have　prospered。　The　relative　brightness　of　the　strip　of　Mill　Road　leading　out　of　town　was　the　product　of　that　era　when　stocks　went　go…go　and　gas　was　still　cheap　and　nobody　had　heard　the　term　'discretionary　ine'　because　they　had　plenty　of　it。　People　had　sunk　their　money　into　franchise　operations　and　little　shops　and　for　a　time　had；　if　not　actually　flourished；　held　their　heads　above　the　waves。　This　short　series　of　blocks　still　had　that　superficial　hopefulness…but　only　a　few　bored　teenagers　sat　in　the　franchise　restaurants；　nursing　medium　Cokes；　and　in　the　plate…glass　windows　of　too　many　of　the　little　shops　placards　as　faded　as　those　in　the　used…car　lots　announced　EVERYTHING　MUST　GO！　CLOSING　SALE。　Jack　saw　no　signs　advertising　for　help；　and　kept　on　walking。
　　Downtown　Oatley　showed　the　reality　beneath　the　happy　clown's　colors　left　behind　by　the　sixties。　As　Jack　trudged　along　these　blocks　of　baked…looking　brick　buildings；　his　pack　grew　heavier；　his　feet　more　tender。　He　would　have　walked　to　Dogtown　after　all；　if　it　were　not　for　his　feet　and　the　necessity　of　going　through　the　Mill　Road　tunnel　again。　Of　course　there　was　no　snarling　man…wolf　lurking　in　the　dark　there…he'd　worked　that　out　by　now。　No　one　could　have　spoken　to　him　in　the　tunnel。　The　Territories　had　shaken　him。　First　the　sight　of　the　Queen；　then　that　dead　boy　beneath　the　cart　with　half　his　face　gone。　Then　Morgan；　the　trees。　But　that　was　there；　where　such　things　could　be…were；　perhaps；　even　normal。　Here；　normality　did　not　admit　such　gaudiness。
　　He　was　before　a　long；　dirty　window　above　which　the　flaking　slogan　FURNITURE　DEPOSITORY　was　barely　legible　on　the　brickwork。　He　put　his　hands　to　his　eyes　and　stared　in。　A　couch　and　a　chair；　each　covered　by　a　white　sheet；　sat　fifteen　feet　apart　on　a　wide　wooden　floor。　Jack　moved　farther　down　the　block；　wondering　if　he　was　going　to　have　to　beg　for　food。
　　Four　men　sat　in　a　car　before　a　boarded…up　shop　a　little　way　down　the　block。　It　took　Jack　a　moment　to　see　that　the　car；　an　ancient　black　DeSoto　that　looked　as　though　Broderick　Craw…ford　should　e　bustling　out　of　it；　had　no　tires。　Taped　to　the　windshield　was　a　yellow　five…by…eight　card　which　read　FAIR　WEATHER　CLUB。　The　men　inside；　two　in　front　and　two　in　back；　were　playing　cards。　Jack　stepped　up　to　the　front　passenger　window。
　　'Excuse　me；'　he　said；　and　the　cardplayer　closest　to　him　rolled　a　fishy　gray　eye　toward　him。　'Do　you　know　where…'
　　'Get　lost；'　the　man　said。　His　voice　sounded　squashed　and　phlegmy；　unfamiliar　with　speech。　The　face　half…turned　to　Jack　was　deeply　pitted　with　acne　scars　and　oddly　flattened　out；　as　if　someone　had　stepped　on　it　when　the　man　was　an　infant。
　　'I　just　wondered　if　you　knew　somewhere　I　could　get　a　couple　days'　work。'
　　'Try　Texas；'　said　the　man　in　the　driver's　seat；　and　the　pair　in　the　back　seat　cracked　up；　spitting　beer　out　over　their　hands　of　cards。
　　'I　told　you；　kid；　get　lost；'　said　the　flat…faced　gray…eyed　man　closest　to　Jack。　'Or　I'll　personally　pound　the　shit　out　of　you。'　
　　It　was　just　the　truth；　Jack　understood…if　he　stayed　there　a　moment　longer；　this　man's　rage　would　boil　over　and　he　would　get　out　of　the　car　and　beat　him　senseless。　Then　the　man　would　get　back　in　the　car　and　open　another　beer。　Cans　of　Rolling　Rock　covered　the　floor；　the　opened　ones　tipped　every　which　way；　the　fresh　ones　linked　by　white　plastic　nooses。　Jack　stepped　backward；　and　the　fish…eye　rolled　away　from　him。　'Guess　I'll　try　Texas　after　all；'　he　said。　He　listened　for　the　sound　of　the　DeSoto's　door　creaking　open　as　he　walked　away；　but　all　he　heard　being　opened　was　another　Rolling　Rock。
　　Crack！　Hiss！
　　He　kept　moving。
　　He　got　to　the　end　of　the　block　and　found　himself　looking　across　the　town's　other　main　street　at　a　dying　lawn　filled　with　yellow　weeds　from　which　peeked　fiberglass　statues　of　Disney…like　fawns。　A　shapeless　old　woman　gripping　a　fly…swatter　stared　at　him　from　a　porch　swing。
　　Jack　turned　away　from　her　suspicious　gaze　and　saw　before　him　the　last　of　the　lifeless　brick　buildings　on　Mill　Road。　Three　concrete　steps　led　up　to　a　propped…open　screen　door。　A　long；　dark　window　contained　a　glowing　BUDWEISER　sign　and；　a　foot　to　the　right　of　that；　the　painted　legend　UPDIKE'S　OATLEY　TAP。　And　several　inches　beneath　that；　handwritten　on　a　yellow　five…by…eight　card　like　the　one　on　the　DeSoto；　were　the　miraculous　words　HELP　WANTED。　Jack　pulled　the　knapsack　off　his　back；　bunched　it　under　one　arm；　and　went　up　the　steps。　For　no　more　than　an　instant；　moving　from　the　tired　sunlight　into　the　darkness　of　the　bar；　he　was　reminded　of　stepping　past　the　thick　fringe　of　ivy　into　the　Mill　Road　tunnel。
　　
　　　CHAPTER　9
　　　Jack　in　the　Pitcher　Plant
　　　
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　　Not　quite　sixty　hours　later　a　Jack　Sawyer　who　was　in　a　very　different　frame　of　mind　from　that　of　the　Jack　Sawyer　who　had　ventured　into　the　Oatley　tunnel　on　Wednesday　was　in　the　chilly　storeroom　of　the　Oatley　Tap；　hiding　his　pack　behind　the　kegs　of　Busch　which　sat　in　the　room's　far　corner　like　aluminum　bowling　pins　in　a　giant's　alley。　In　less　than　two　hours；　when　the　Tap　finally　shut　down　for　the　night；　Jack　meant　to　run　away。　That　he　should　even　think　of　it　in　such　a　fashion…not　leaving；　not　moving　on；　but　running　away…showed　how　desperate　he　now　believed　his　situation　to　be。
　　I　was　six；　six；　John　B。　Sawyer　was　six；　Jacky　was　six。　Six。
　　This　thought；　apparently　nonsensical；　had　fallen　into　his　mind　this　evening　and　had　begun　to　repeat　there。　He　supposed　it　went　a　long　way　toward　showing　just　how　scared　he　was　now；　how　certain　he　was　that　things　were　beginning　to　close　in　on　him。　He　had　no　idea　what　the　thought　meant；　it　just　circled　and　circled；　like　a　wooden　horse　bolted　to　a　carousel。
　　Six。　I　was