sk.everythingseventual-第67节

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ening　to　him；　that's　what　the　note　said；　and　when　you　get　to　that　point　in　the　festivities；　you　don't　pause　to　see　if　you　want　to　except　one　special　piece　of　work　from　the　bonfire。　It's　just　that　you　got　something　special　into　The　Road　Virus　Heads　North；　didn't　you；　Bobby？　And　probably　pletely　by　accident。　You　were　talented；　I　could　see　that　right　away；　but　talent　has　nothing　to　do　with　what's　going　on　in　that　picture。
　　'Some　things　are　just　good　at　survival；'　Judy　Diment　said　on　the　TV。　'They　keep　ing　back　no　matter　how　hard　you　try　to　get　rid　of　them。　They　keep　ing　back　like　viruses。'
　　Kinnell　reached　out　and　changed　the　channel；　but　apparently　there　was　nothing　on　all　the　way　around　the　dial　except　for　The　Judy　Diment　Show。
　　'You　might　say　he　opened　a　hole　into　the　basement　of　the　universe；'　she　was　saying　now。　'Bobby　Hastings；　I　mean。　And　this　is　what　drove　out。　Nice；　isn't　it？'
　　Kinnell's　feet　slid　then；　not　enough　to　go　out　from　under　him　pletely；　but　enough　to　snap　him　to。
　　He　opened　his　eyes；　winced　at　the　immediate　sting　of　the　soap　（Prell　had　run　down　his　face　in　thick　white　rivulets　while　he　had　been　dozing）；　and　cupped　his　hands　under　the　shower…spray　to　splash　it　away。　He　did　this　once　and　was　reaching　out　to　do　it　again　when　he　heard　something。　A　ragged　rumbling　sound。
　　Don't　be　stupid；　he　told　himself。　All　you　hear　is　the　shower。　The　rest　is　only　imagination。　Your　stupid；　overtrained　imagination。
　　Except　it　wasn't。
　　Kinnell　reached　out　and　turned　off　the　water。
　　The　rumbling　sound　continued。　Low　and　powerful。　ing　from　outside。
　　He　got　out　of　the　shower　and　walked；　dripping；　across　his　bedroom　on　the　second　floor。　There　was　still　enough　shampoo　in　his　hair　to　make　him　look　as　if　it　had　turned　white　while　he　was　dozing…as　if　his　dream　of　Judy　Diment　had　turned　it　white。
　　Why　did　I　ever　stop　at　that　yard　sale？　he　asked　himself；　but　for　this　he　had　no　answer。　He　supposed　no　one　ever　did。
　　The　rumbling　sound　grew　louder　as　he　approached　the　window　overlooking　the　driveway…the　driveway　that　glimmered　in　the　summer　moonlight　like　something　out　of　an　Alfred　Noyes　poem。
　　As　he　brushed　aside　the　curtain　and　looked　out；　he　found　himself　thinking　of　his　ex…wife；　Sally；　whom　he　had　met　at　the　World　Fantasy　Convention　in　1978。　Sally；　who　now　published　two　newsletters　out　of　her　trailer　home；　one　called　Survivors；　one　called　Visitors。　Looking　down　at　the　driveway；　these　two　titles　came　together　in　Kinnell's　mind　like　a　double　image　in　a　stereopticon。
　　He　had　a　visitor　who　was　definitely　a　survivor。
　　The　Grand　Am　idled　in　front　of　the　house；　the　white　haze　from　its　twin　chromed　tailpipes　rising　in　the　still　night　air。　The　Old　English　letters　on　the　back　deck　were　perfectly　readable。　The　driver's…side　door　stood　open；　and　that　wasn't　all；　the　light　spilling　down　the　porch　steps　suggested　that　Kinnell's　front　door　was　also　open。
　　Forgot　to　lock　it；　Kinnell　thought；　wiping　soap　off　his　forehead　with　a　hand　he　could　no　longer　feel。　Forgot　to　reset　the　burglar　alarm；　too　。　。　。　not　that　it　would　have　made　much　difference　to　this　guy。
　　Well；　he　might　have　caused　it　to　detour　around　Aunt　Trudy；　and　that　was　something；　but　just　now　the　thought　brought　him　no　fort。
　　Survivors。
　　The　soft　rumble　of　the　big　engine；　probably　at　least　a　442　with　a　four…barrel　carb；　reground　valves；　fuel　injection。
　　He　turned　slowly　on　legs　that　had　lost　all　feeling；　a　naked　man　with　a　headful　of　soap；　and　saw　the　picture　over　his　bed；　just　as　he'd　known　he　would。　In　it；　the　Grand　Am　stood　in　his　driveway　with　the　driver's　door　open　and　two　plumes　of　exhaust　rising　from　the　chromed　tailpipes。　From　this　angle　he　could　also　see　his　own　front　door；　standing　open；　and　a　long　man…shaped　shadow　stretching　down　the　hall。
　　Survivors。
　　Survivors　and　visitors。
　　Now　he　could　hear　feet　ascending　the　stairs。　It　was　a　heavy　tread；　and　he　knew　without　having　to　see　that　the　blond　kid　was　wearing　motorcycle　boots。　People　with　DEATH　BEFORE　DISHONOR　tattooed　on　their　arms　always　wore　motorcycle　boots；　just　as　they　always　smoked　unfiltered　Camels。　These　things　were　like　a　national　law。
　　And　the　knife。　He　would　be　carrying　a　long；　sharp　knife…more　of　a　machete；　actually；　the　sort　of　knife　that　could　strike　off　a　person's　head　in　a　single　stroke。
　　And　he　would　be　grinning；　showing　those　filed　cannibal　teeth。
　　Kinnell　knew　these　things。　He　was　an　imaginative　guy；　after　all。
　　He　didn't　need　anyone　to　draw　him　a　picture。
　　'No；'　he　whispered；　suddenly　conscious　of　his　global　nakedness；　suddenly　freezing　all　the　way　around　his　skin。　'No；　please；　go　away。'　But　the　footfalls　kept　ing；　of　course　they　did。　You　couldn't　tell　a　guy　like　this　to　go　away。　It　didn't　work；　it　wasn't　the　way　the　story　was　supposed　to　end。
　　Kinnell　could　hear　him　nearing　the　top　of　the　stairs。　Outside；　the　Grand　Am　went　on　rumbling　in　the　moonlight。
　　The　feet　ing　down　the　hall　now；　worn　bootheels　rapping　on　polished　hardwood。
　　A　terrible　paralysis　had　gripped　Kinnell。　He　threw　it　off　with　an　effort　and　bolted　toward　the　bedroom　door；　wanting　to　lock　it　before　the　thing　could　get　in　here；　but　he　slipped　in　a　puddle　of　soapy　water　and　this　time　he　did　go　down；　flat　on　his　back　on　the　oak　planks；　and　what　he　saw　as　the　door　clicked　open　and　the　motorcycle　boots　crossed　the　room　toward　where　he　lay；　naked　and　with　his　hair　full　of　Prell；　was　the　picture　hanging　on　the　wall　over　his　bed；　the　picture　of　the　Road　Virus　idling　in　front　of　his　house　with　the　driver's…side　door　open。
　　The　driver's…side　bucket　seat；　he　saw；　was　full　of　blood。　I'm　going　outside；　I　think；　Kinnell　thought；　and　closed　his　eyes。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　LUNCH　AT　THE　GOTHAM　CAFé
　　
　　
　　One　day　when　I　was　in　New　York；　I　walked　past　a　very　nice…looking　restaurant。　Inside；　the　ma？tre　d'　was　showing　a　couple　to　their　table。　The　couple　was　arguing。　The　ma？tre　d'　caught　my　eye　and　tipped　me　what　may　have　been　the　most　cynical　wink　in　the　universe。　I　went　back　to　my　hotel　and　wrote　this　story。　For　the　three　days　it　was　in　work；　I　was　totally　possessed　by　it。　For　me　what　makes　it　go　isn't　the　crazy　ma？tre　d'　but　the　spooky　relationship　between　the　divorcing　couple。　In　their　own　way；　they're　crazier　than　he　is。　By　far。
　　
　　
　　One　day　I　came　home　from　the　brokerage　house　where　I　worked　and　found　a　letter…more　of　a　note；　actually…from　my　wife　on　the　dining　room　table。　It　said　she　was　leaving　me；　that　she　was　pursuing　a　divorce；　that　I　would　hear　from　her　lawyer。　I　sat　on　the　chair　at　the　kitchen　end　of　the　table；　reading　this　munication　over　and　over　again；　not　able　to　believe　it。　After　awhile　I　got　up；　went　into　the　bedroom；　and　looked　in　the　closet。　All　her　clothes　were　gone　except　for　one　pair　of　sweatpants　and　a　joke　sweatshirt　someone　had　given　her；　with　the　words　RICH　BLONDE　printed　on　the　front　in　spangly　stuff。
　　I　went　back　to　the　dining　room　table　（which　was　actually　at　one　end　of　the　living　room；　it　was　only　a　four…room　apartment）　and　read　the　six　sentences　over　again。　It　was　the　same；　but　looking　into　the　half…empty　bedroom　closet　had　started　me　on　the　way　to　believing　what　it　said。　It　was　a　chilly　piece　of　work；　that　note。　There　was　no　'Love'　or　'Good　luck'　or　even　'Best'　at　the　bottom　of　it。　'Take　care　of　yourself　'　was　as　warm　as　it　got。　Just　below　that　she　had　scratched　her　name；　Diane。
　　I　walked　into　the　kitchen；　poured　myself　a　glass　of　orange　juice；　then　knocked　it　onto　the　floor　when　I　tried　to　pick　it　up。　The　juice　sprayed　onto　the　lower　cabinets　and　the　glass　broke。　I　knew　I　would　cut　myself　if　I　tried　to　pick　up　the　glass…my　hands　were　shaking…but　I　picked　it　up　anyway；　and　I　cut　myself。　Two　places；　neither　deep。　I　kept　thinking　that　it　was　a　joke；　then　realizing　it　wasn't。　Diane　wasn't　much　of　a　joker。　But　the　thing　was；　I　didn't　see　it　ing。　I　didn't　have　a　clue。　I　didn't　know　if　that　made　me　stupid　or　insensitive。　As　the　days　passed　and　I　thought　about　the　last　six　or　eight　months　of　our　two…year　marriage；　I　realized　I　had　been　both。
　　That　night　I　called　her　folks　in　Pound　Ridge　and　asked　if　Diane　was　there。　'She　is；　and　she　doesn't　want　to　talk　to　you；'　her　mother　said。　'Don't　call　back。'　The　phone　went　dead　in　my　ear。
　　
　　Two　days　later　I　got　a　call　at　work　from　Diane's　lawyer；　who　introduced　himself　as　William　Humboldt；　and；　after　ascertaining　that　he　was　indeed　speaking　to　Steven　Davis；　began　calling　me　Steve。　I　suppose　that's　a　little　hard　to　believe；　but　it's　what　happened。　Lawyers　are　so　bizarre。
　　Humboldt　told　me　I　would　be　receiving　'preliminary　paperwork'　early　the　following　week；　and　suggested　I　prepare　'an　account　overview　prefatory　to　dissolving　your　domestic　corporation。'　He　also　advised　me　not　to　make　any　'sudden　fiduciary　movements'　and　suggested　that　I　keep　all　receipts　for　items　purchased；　even　the　smallest；　during　this　'financially　difficult　passage。'　Last　of　all；　he　suggested　that　I　find　myself　a　lawyer。
　　'Listen　a　minute；　would　you？'　I　asked。　I　was　sitting　at　my　desk　with　my　head　down　and　my　left　hand　curled　around　my　forehead。　My　eyes　were　shut　so　I　wouldn't　have　to　look　into　the　bright　gray　socket　of　my　puter　screen。　I'd　been　crying　a　lot；　and　my　eyes　felt