sk.everythingseventual-第9节

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d　it　was　something　else；　had　to　have　been；　that　no　one　ever　died　of　being　stung　by　a　bee。　When　Mama　Sweet；　the　oldest　lady　in　the　Methodist　Ladies'　Aid；　tried　to　tell　her…at　the　church　supper　the　previous　winter；　this　was…that　the　same　thing　had　happened　to　her　favorite　uncle　back　in　'73；　my　mother　clapped　her　hands　over　her　ears；　got　up；　and　walked　out　of　the　church　basement。　She'd　never　been　back　since；　either；　and　nothing　my　father　could　say　to　her　would　change　her　mind。　She　claimed　she　was　done　with　church；　and　that　if　she　ever　had　to　see　Helen　Robichaud　again　（that　was　Mama　Sweet's　real　name）；　she　would　slap　her　eyes　out。　She　wouldn't　be　able　to　help　herself；　she　said。
　　That　day；　Dad　wanted　me　to　lug　wood　for　the　cookstove；　weed　the　beans　and　the　cukes；　pitch　hay　out　of　the　loft；　get　two　jugs　of　water　to　put　in　the　cold　pantry；　and　scrape　as　much　old　paint　off　the　cellar　bulkhead　as　I　could。　Then；　he　said；　I　could　go　fishing；　if　I　didn't　mind　going　by　myself…he　had　to　go　over　and　see　Bill　Eversham　about　some　cows。　I　said　I　sure　didn't　mind　going　by　myself；　and　my　Dad　smiled　like　that　didn't　surprise　him　so　very　much。　He'd　given　me　a　bamboo　pole　the　week　before…not　because　it　was　my　birthday　or　anything；　but　just　because　he　liked　to　give　me　things；　sometimes…and　I　was　wild　to　try　it　in　Castle　Stream；　which　was　by　far　the　troutiest　brook　I'd　ever　fished。
　　'But　don't　you　go　too　far　in　the　woods；'　he　told　me。　'Not　beyond　where　it　splits。'
　　'No；　sir。'
　　'Promise　me。'
　　'Yessir；　I　promise。'
　　'Now　promise　your　mother。'
　　We　were　standing　on　the　back　stoop；　I　had　been　bound　for　the　springhouse　with　the　waterjugs　when　my　Dad　stopped　me。　Now　he　turned　me　around　to　face　my　mother；　who　was　standing　at　the　marble　counter　in　a　flood　of　strong　morning　sunshine　falling　through　the　double　windows　over　the　sink。　There　was　a　curl　of　hair　lying　across　the　side　of　her　forehead　and　touching　her　eyebrow…you　see　how　well　I　remember　it　all？　The　bright　light　turned　that　little　curl　to　filaments　of　gold　and　made　me　want　to　run　to　her　and　put　my　arms　around　her。　In　that　instant　I　saw　her　as　a　woman；　saw　her　as　my　father　must　have　seen　her。　She　was　wearing　a　housedress　with　little　red　roses　all　over　it；　I　remember；　and　she　was　kneading　bread。　Candy　Bill；　our　little　black　Scottie　dog；　was　standing　alertly　beside　her　feet；　looking　up；　waiting　for　anything　that　might　drop。　My　mother　was　looking　at　me。
　　'I　promise；'　I　said。
　　She　smiled；　but　it　was　the　worried　kind　of　smile　she　always　seemed　to　make　since　my　father　brought　Dan　back　from　the　west　field　in　his　arms。　My　father　had　e　sobbing　and　bare…chested。　He　had　taken　off　his　shirt　and　draped　it　over　Dan's　face；　which　had　swelled　and　turned　color。　My　boy！　he　had　been　crying。　Oh；　look　at　my　boy！　Jesus；　look　at　my　boy！　I　remember　that　as　if　it　had　been　yesterday。　It　was　the　only　time　I　ever　heard　my　Dad　take　the　Savior's　name　in　vain。
　　'What　do　you　promise；　Gary？'　she　asked。
　　'Promise　not　to　go　no　further　than　where　it　forks；　ma'am。'
　　'Any　further。'
　　'Any。'
　　She　gave　me　a　patient　look；　saying　nothing　as　her　hands　went　on　working　in　the　dough；　which　now　had　a　smooth；　silky　look。
　　'I　promise　not　to　go　any　further　than　where　it　forks；　ma'am。'
　　'Thank　you；　Gary；'　she　said。　'And　try　to　remember　that　grammar　is　for　the　world　as　well　as　for　school。'
　　'Yes；　ma'am。'
　　
　　Candy　Bill　followed　me　as　I　did　my　chores；　and　sat　between　my　feet　as　I　bolted　my　lunch；　looking　up　at　me　with　the　same　attentiveness　he　had　shown　my　mother　while　she　was　kneading　her　bread；　but　when　I　got　my　new　bamboo　pole　and　my　old；　splintery　creel　and　started　out　of　the　dooryard；　he　stopped　and　only　stood　in　the　dust　by　an　old　roll　of　snowfence；　watching。　I　called　him　but　he　wouldn't　e。　He　yapped　a　time　or　two；　as　if　telling　me　to　e　back；　but　that　was　all。
　　'Stay；　then；'　I　said；　trying　to　sound　as　if　I　didn't　care。　I　did；　though；　at　least　a　little。　Candy　Bill　always　went　fishing　with　me。
　　My　mother　came　to　the　door　and　looked　out　at　me　with　her　left　hand　held　up　to　shade　her　eyes。　I　can　see　her　that　way　still；　and　it's　like　looking　at　a　photograph　of　someone　who　later　became　unhappy；　or　died　suddenly。　'You　mind　your　Dad　now；　Gary！'
　　'Yes；　ma'am；　I　will。'
　　She　waved。　I　waved；　too。　Then　I　turned　my　back　on　her　and　walked　away。
　　
　　The　sun　beat　down　on　my　neck；　hard　and　hot；　for　the　first　quarter…mile　or　so；　but　then　I　entered　the　woods；　where　double　shadow　fell　over　the　road　and　it　was　cool　and　fir…smelling　and　you　could　hear　the　wind　hissing　through　the　deep　needled　groves。　I　walked　with　my　pole　on　my　shoulder　like　boys　did　back　then；　holding　my　creel　in　my　other　hand　like　a　valise　or　a　salesman's　sample…case。　About　two　miles　into　the　woods　along　a　road　which　was　really　nothing　but　a　double　rut　with　a　grassy　strip　growing　up　the　center　hump；　I　began　to　hear　the　hurried；　eager　gossip　of　Castle　Stream。　I　thought　of　trout　with　bright　speckled　backs　and　pure　white　bellies；　and　my　heart　went　up　in　my　chest。
　　The　stream　flowed　under　a　little　wooden　bridge；　and　the　banks　leading　down　to　the　water　were　steep　and　brushy。　I　worked　my　way　down　carefully；　holding　on　where　I　could　and　digging　my　heels　in。　I　went　down　out　of　summer　and　back　into　midspring；　or　so　it　felt。　The　cool　rose　gently　off　the　water；　and　a　green　smell　like　moss。　When　I　got　to　the　edge　of　the　water　I　only　stood　there　for　a　little　while；　breathing　deep　of　that　mossy　smell　and　watching　the　dragonflies　circle　and　the　skitterbugs　skate。　Then；　farther　down；　I　saw　a　trout　leap　at　a　butterfly…a　good　big　brookie；　maybe　fourteen　inches　long…and　remembered　I　hadn't　e　here　just　to　sightsee。
　　I　walked　along　the　bank；　following　the　current；　and　wet　my　line　for　the　first　time　with　the　bridge　still　in　sight　upstream。　Something　jerked　the　tip　of　my　pole　down　a　time　or　two　and　ate　half　my　worm；　but　he　was　too　sly　for　my　nine…year…old　hands…or　maybe　just　not　hungry　enough　to　be　careless…so　I　went　on。
　　I　stopped　at　two　or　three　other　places　before　I　got　to　the　place　where　Castle　Stream　forks；　going　southwest　into　Castle　Rock　and　southeast　into　Kashwakamak　Township；　and　at　one　of　them　I　caught　the　biggest　trout　I　have　ever　caught　in　my　life；　a　beauty　that　measured　nineteen　inches　from　tip　to　tail　on　the　little　ruler　I　kept　in　my　creel。　That　was　a　monster　of　a　brook　trout；　even　for　those　days。
　　If　I　had　accepted　this　as　gift　enough　for　one　day　and　gone　back；　I　would　not　be　writing　now　（and　this　is　going　to　turn　out　longer　than　I　thought　it　would；　I　see　that　already）；　but　I　didn't。　Instead　I　saw　to　my　catch　right　then　and　there　as　my　father　had　shown　me…cleaning　it；　placing　it　on　dry　grass　at　the　bottom　of　the　creel；　then　laying　damp　grass　on　top　of　it…and　went　on。　I　did　not；　at　age　nine；　think　that　catching　a　nineteen…inch　brook　trout　was　particularly　remarkable；　although　I　do　remember　being　amazed　that　my　line　had　not　broken　when　I；　netless　as　well　as　artless；　had　hauled　it　out　and　swung　it　toward　me　in　a　clumsy　tail…flapping　arc。
　　Ten　minutes　later；　I　came　to　the　place　where　the　stream　split　in　those　days　（it　is　long　gone　now；　there　is　a　settlement　of　duplex　homes　where　Castle　Stream　once　went　its　course；　and　a　district　grammar　school　as　well；　and　if　there　is　a　stream　it　goes　in　darkness）；　dividing　around　a　huge　gray　rock　nearly　the　size　of　our　outhouse。　There　was　a　pleasant　flat　space　here；　grassy　and　soft；　overlooking　what　my　Dad　and　I　called　South　Branch。　I　squatted　on　my　heels；　dropped　my　line　into　the　water；　and　almost　immediately　snagged　a　fine　rainbow　trout。　He　wasn't　the　size　of　my　brookie…only　a　foot　or　so…but　a　good　fish；　just　the　same。　I　had　it　cleaned　out　before　the　gills　had　stopped　flexing；　stored　it　in　my　creel；　and　dropped　my　line　back　into　the　water。
　　This　time　there　was　no　immediate　bite　so　I　leaned　back；　looking　up　at　the　blue　stripe　of　sky　I　could　see　along　the　stream's　course。　Clouds　floated　by；　west　to　east；　and　I　tried　to　think　what　they　looked　like。　I　saw　a　unicorn；　then　a　rooster；　then　a　dog　that　looked　a　little　like　Candy　Bill。　I　was　looking　for　the　next　one　when　I　drowsed　off。
　　
　　Or　maybe　slept。　I　don't　know　for　sure。　All　I　know　is　that　a　tug　on　my　line　so　strong　it　almost　pulled　the　bamboo　pole　out　of　my　hand　was　what　brought　me　back　into　the　afternoon。　I　sat　up；　clutched　the　pole；　and　suddenly　became　aware　that　something　was　sitting　on　the　tip　of　my　nose。　I　crossed　my　eyes　and　saw　a　bee。　My　heart　seemed　to　fall　dead　in　my　chest；　and　for　a　horrible　second　I　was　sure　I　was　going　to　wet　my　pants。
　　The　tug　on　my　line　came　again；　stronger　this　time；　but　although　I　maintained　my　grip　on　the　end　of　the　pole　so　it　wouldn't　be　pulled　into　the　stream　and　perhaps　carried　away　（I　think　I　even　had　the　presence　of　mind　to　snub　the　line　with　my　forefinger）；　I　made　no　effort　to　pull　in　my　catch。　All　of　my　horrified　attention　was　fixed　on　the　fat　black…and…yellow　thing　that　was　using　my　nose　as　a　rest…stop。
　　I　slowly　poked　out　my　lower　lip　and　blew　upward。　The　bee　ruffled　a　little　but　kept　its　place。　I　blew　again　and　it　ruffled　again　。　。　。　but　this　time　it　also　seemed　to　shift　impatiently；　and　I　didn't　dare　blow　anymore；　for　fear　it　would　lose　its　temper　pletely　and　give　me