sk.everythingseventual-第76节

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　　'You're　sitting　bolt…upright。　Got　a　cramp　in　your　back？'
　　'Just　a　slight　one。'　She　settled　back　by　degrees。　'I　had　that　feeling　again。　The　déjà　vu。'
　　'Is　it　gone？'
　　'Yes；'　she　said；　but　she　was　lying。　It　had　retreated　a　little；　but　that　was　all。　She'd　had　this　before；　but　never　so　continuously。　It　came　up　and　went　down；　but　it　didn't　go　away。　She'd　been　aware　of　it　ever　since　that　thing　about　Floyd　started　knocking　around　in　her　head…and　then　the　little　girl　in　the　red　pinafore。
　　But；　really；　hadn't　she　felt　something　before　either　of　those　things？　Hadn't　it　actually　started　when　they　came　down　the　steps　of　the　Lear　35　into　the　hammering　heat　of　the　Fort　Myers　sunshine？　Or　even　before？　En　route　from　Boston？
　　They　were　ing　to　an　intersection。　Overhead　was　a　flashing　yellow　light；　and　she　thought；　To　the　right　is　a　used…car　lot　and　a　sign　for　the　Sanibel　munity　Theater。
　　Then　she　thought；　No；　it'll　be　like　the　crosses　that　weren't　there。　It's　a　strong　feeling　but　a　false　feeling。
　　Here　was　the　intersection。　On　the　right　there　was　a　used…car　lot…Palmdale　Motors。　Carol　felt　a　real　jump　at　that；　a　stab　of　something　sharper　than　disquiet。　She　told　herself　to　quit　being　stupid。　There　had　to　be　car　lots　all　over　Florida　and　if　you　predicted　one　at　every　intersection　sooner　or　later　the　law　of　averages　made　you　a　prophet。　It　was　a　trick　mediums　had　been　using　for　hundreds　of　years。
　　Besides；　there's　no　theater　sign。
　　But　there　was　another　sign。　It　was　Mary　the　Mother　of　God；　the　ghost　of　all　her　childhood　days；　holding　out　her　hands　the　way　she　did　on　the　medallion　Carol's　grandmother　had　given　her　for　her　tenth　birthday。　Her　grandmother　had　pressed　it　into　her　hand　and　looped　the　chain　around　her　fingers；　saying；　'Wear　her　always　as　you　grow；　because　all　the　hard　days　are　ing。'　She　had　worn　it；　all　right。　At　Our　Lady　of　Angels　grammar　and　middle　school　she　had　worn　it；　then　at　St。　Vincent　de　Paul　high。　She　wore　the　medal　until　breasts　grew　around　it　like　ordinary　miracles；　and　then　someplace；　probably　on　the　class　trip　to　Hampton　Beach；　she　had　lost　it。　ing　home　on　the　bus　she　had　tongue…kissed　for　the　first　time。　Butch　Soucy　had　been　the　boy；　and　she　had　been　able　to　taste　the　cotton　candy　he'd　eaten。
　　Mary　on　that　long…gone　medallion　and　Mary　on　this　billboard　had　exactly　the　same　look；　the　one　that　made　you　feel　guilty　of　thinking　impure　thoughts　even　when　all　you　were　thinking　about　was　a　peanut…butter　sandwich。　Beneath　Mary；　the　sign　said　MOTHER　OF　MERCY　CHARITIES　HELP　THE　FLORIDA　HOMELESS…WON'T　YOU　HELP　US？
　　Hey　there；　Mary；　what's　the　story　…
　　More　than　one　voice　this　time；　many　voices；　girls'　voices；　chanting　ghost　voices。　These　were　ordinary　miracles；　there　were　also　ordinary　ghosts。　You　found　these　things　out　as　you　got　older。
　　'What's　wrong　with　you？'　She　knew　that　voice　as　well　as　she　did　the　eyebrow…and…dimple　look。　Bill's　I'm…only…pretending…to…be…pissed　tone　of　voice；　the　one　that　meant　he　really　was　pissed；　at　least　a　little。
　　'Nothing。'　She　gave　him　the　best　smile　she　could　manage。
　　'You　really　don't　seem　like　yourself。　Maybe　you　shouldn't　have　slept　on　the　plane。'
　　'You're　probably　right；'　she　said；　and　not　just　to　be　agreeable；　either。　After　all；　how　many　women　got　a　second　honeymoon　on　Captiva　Island　for　their　twenty…fifth　anniversary？　Round　trip　on　a　chartered　Learjet？　Ten　days　at　one　of　those　places　where　your　money　was　no　good　（at　least　until　MasterCard　coughed　up　the　bill　at　the　end　of　the　month）　and　if　you　wanted　a　massage　a　big　Swedish　babe　would　e　and　pummel　you　in　your　six…room　beach　house？
　　
　　Things　had　been　different　at　the　start。　Bill；　whom　she'd　first　met　at　a　crosstown　high…school　dance　and　then　met　again　at　college　three　years　later　（another　ordinary　miracle）；　had　begun　their　married　life　working　as　a　janitor；　because　there　were　no　openings　in　the　puter　industry。　It　was　1973；　and　puters　were　essentially　going　nowhere　and　they　were　living　in　a　grotty　place　in　Revere；　not　on　the　beach　but　close　to　it；　and　all　night　people　kept　going　up　the　stairs　to　buy　drugs　from　the　two　sallow　creatures　who　lived　in　the　apartment　above　them　and　listened　endlessly　to　dopey　records　from　the　sixties。　Carol　used　to　lie　awake　waiting　for　the　shouting　to　start；　thinking；　We　won't　ever　get　out　of　here；　we'll　grow　old　and　die　within　earshot　of　Cream　and　Blue　Cheer　and　the　Dodgem　cars　down　on　the　beach。
　　Bill；　exhausted　at　the　end　of　his　shift；　would　sleep　through　the　noise；　lying　on　his　side；　sometimes　with　one　hand　on　her　hip。　And　when　it　wasn't　there　she　often　put　it　there；　especially　if　the　creatures　upstairs　were　arguing　with　their　customers。　Bill　was　all　she　had。　Her　parents　had　practically　disowned　her　when　she　married　him。　He　was　a　Catholic；　but　the　wrong　sort　of　Catholic。　Gram　had　asked　why　she　wanted　to　go　with　that　boy　when　anyone　could　tell　he　was　shanty；　how　could　she　fall　for　all　his　foolish　talk；　why　did　she　want　to　break　her　father's　heart。　And　what　could　she　say？
　　It　was　a　long　distance　from　that　place　in　Revere　to　a　private　jet　soaring　at　forty…one　thousand　feet；　a　long　way　to　this　rental　car；　which　was　a　Crown　Victoria…what　the　goodfellas　in　the　gangster　movies　invariably　called　a　Crown　Vic…heading　for　ten　days　in　a　place　where　the　tab　would　probably　be　。　。　。　well；　she　didn't　even　want　to　think　about　it。
　　Floyd？　。　。　。　Oh　shit。
　　'Carol？　What　is　it　now？'
　　'Nothing；'　she　said。　Up　ahead　by　the　road　was　a　little　pink　bungalow；　the　porch　flanked　by　palms…seeing　those　trees　with　their　fringy　heads　lifted　against　the　blue　sky　made　her　think　of　Japanese　Zeros　ing　in　low；　their　underwing　machine　guns　firing；　such　an　association　clearly　the　result　of　a　youth　misspent　in　front　of　the　TV…and　as　they　passed　a　black　woman　would　e　out。　She　would　be　drying　her　hands　on　a　piece　of　pink　towelling　and　would　watch　them　expressionlessly　as　they　passed；　rich　folks　in　a　Crown　Vic　headed　for　Captiva；　and　she'd　have　no　idea　that　Carol　Shelton　once　lay　awake　in　a　ninety…dollar…a…month　apartment；　listening　to　the　records　and　the　drug　deals　upstairs；　feeling　something　alive　inside　her；　something　that　made　her　think　of　a　cigarette　that　had　fallen　down　behind　the　drapes　at　a　party；　small　and　unseen　but　smoldering　away　next　to　the　fabric。
　　'Hon？'
　　'Nothing；　I　said。'　They　passed　the　house。　There　was　no　woman。　An　old　man…white；　not　black…sat　in　a　rocking　chair；　watching　them　pass。　There　were　rimless　glasses　on　his　nose　and　a　piece　of　ragged　pink　towelling；　the　same　shade　as　the　house；　across　his　lap。　'I'm　fine　now。　Just　anxious　to　get　there　and　change　into　some　shorts。'
　　His　hand　touched　her　hip…where　he　had　so　often　touched　her　during　those　first　days…and　then　crept　a　little　farther　inland。　She　thought　about　stopping　him　（Roman　hands　and　Russian　fingers；　they　used　to　say）　and　didn't。　They　were；　after　all；　on　their　second　honeymoon。　Also；　it　would　make　that　expression　go　away。
　　'Maybe；'　he　said；　'we　could　take　a　pause。　You　know；　after　the　dress　es　off　and　before　the　shorts　go　on。'
　　'I　think　that's　a　lovely　idea；'　she　said；　and　put　her　hand　over　his；　pressed　both　more　tightly　against　her。　Ahead　was　a　sign　that　would　read　PALM　HOUSE　3　MI。　ON　LEFT　when　they　got　close　enough　to　see　it。
　　The　sign　actually　read　PALM　HOUSE　2　MI。　ON　LEFT。　Beyond　it　was　another　sign；　Mother　Mary　again；　with　her　hands　outstretched　and　that　little　electric　shimmy　that　wasn't　quite　a　halo　around　her　head。　This　version　read　MOTHER　OF　MERCY　CHARITIES　HELP　THE　FLORIDA　SICK…WON'T　YOU　HELP　US？
　　Bill　said；　'The　next　one　ought　to　say　'Burma　Shave。''
　　She　didn't　understand　what　he　meant；　but　it　was　clearly　a　joke　and　so　she　smiled。　The　next　one　would　say　'Mother　of　Mercy　Charities　Help　the　Florida　Hungry；'　but　she　couldn't　tell　him　that。　Dear　Bill。　Dear　in　spite　of　his　sometimes　stupid　expressions　and　his　sometimes　unclear　allusions。　He'll　most　likely　leave　you；　and　you　know　something？　If　you　go　through　with　it　that's　probably　the　best　luck　you　can　expect。　This　according　to　her　father。　Dear　Bill；　who　had　proved　that　just　once；　just　that　one　crucial　time；　her　judgement　had　been　far　better　than　her　father's。　She　was　still　married　to　the　man　her　Gram　had　called　'the　big　boaster。'　At　a　price；　true；　but　what　was　that　old　axiom？　God　says　take　what　you　want　。　。　。　and　pay　for　it。
　　Her　head　itched。　She　scratched　at　it　absently；　watching　for　the　next　Mother　of　Mercy　billboard。
　　Horrible　as　it　was　to　say；　things　had　started　turning　around　when　she　lost　the　baby。　That　was　just　before　Bill　got　a　job　with　Beach　puters；　out　on　Route　128；　that　was　when　the　first　winds　of　change　in　the　industry　began　to　blow。
　　Lost　the　baby；　had　a　miscarriage…they　all　believed　that　except　maybe　Bill。　Certainly　her　family　had　believed　it：　Dad；　Mom；　Gram。　'Miscarriage'　was　the　story　they　told；　miscarriage　was　a　Catholic's　story　if　ever　there　was　one。　Hey；　Mary；　what's　the　story；　they　had　sometimes　sung　when　they　skipped　rope；　feeling　daring；　feeling　sinful；　the　skirts　of　their　uniforms　flipping　up　and　down　over　their　scabby　knees。　That　was　at　Our　Lady　of　Angels；　where　Sister　Annunciata　would　spank　your　knuckles　with　her　ruler　if　she　caught　you　gazing　out　the　window　during　Sentence　Time