sk.everythingseventual-第91节

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　　Yes；　okay；　good；　a　voice　whispered　in　my　head。　And　if　you　just　walk　out　of　here　now；　you　can　go　on　believing　that。　You　can　go　on　believing　it　for　the　rest　of　your　life。
　　'Fuck　that；'　I　said；　and　got　up。　The　seat　of　my　jeans　was　wet；　and　I　plucked　it　away　from　my　skin。　It　wasn't　exactly　easy　to　reapproach　the　stone　marking　George　Staub's　final　resting…place；　but　it　wasn't　as　hard　as　I'd　expected；　either。　The　wind　sighed　through　the　trees；　still　rising；　signalling　a　change　in　the　weather。　Shadows　danced　unsteadily　around　me。　Branches　rubbed　together；　a　creaky　sound　off　in　the　woods。　I　bent　over　the　tombstone　and　read：
　　
　　GEORGE　STAUB
　　JANUARY　19；　1977…OCTOBER　12；　1998
　　Well　Begun；　Too　Soon　Done
　　
　　I　stood　there；　leaning　down　with　my　hands　planted　just　above　my　knees；　not　aware　of　how　fast　my　heart　had　been　beating　until　it　started　to　slow　down。　A　nasty　little　coincidence；　that　was　all；　and　was　it　any　wonder　that　I'd　misread　what　was　beneath　the　name　and　dates？　Even　without　being　tired　and　under　stress；　I　might　have　read　it　wrong…moonlight　was　a　notorious　misleader。　Case　closed。
　　Except　I　knew　what　I'd　read：　Fun　Is　Fun　and　Done　Is　Done。
　　My　Ma　was　dead。
　　'Fuck　that；'　I　repeated；　and　turned　away。　As　I　did；　I　realized　the　mist　curling　through　the　grass　and　around　my　ankles　had　begun　to　brighten。　I　could　hear　the　mutter　of　an　approaching　motor。　A　car　was　ing。
　　I　hurried　back　through　the　opening　in　the　rock　wall；　snagging　my　pack　on　the　way　by。　The　lights　of　the　approaching　car　were　halfway　up　the　hill。　I　stuck　out　my　thumb　just　as　they　struck　me；　momentarily　blinding　me。　I　knew　the　guy　was　going　to　stop　even　before　he　started　slowing　down。　It's　funny　how　you　can　just　know　sometimes；　but　anyone　who's　spent　a　lot　of　time　hitchhiking　will　tell　you　that　it　happens。
　　The　car　passed　me；　brakelights　flaring；　and　swerved　onto　the　soft　shoulder　near　the　end　of　the　rock　wall　dividing　the　graveyard　from　Ridge　Road。　I　ran　to　it　with　my　backpack　banging　against　the　side　of　my　knee。　The　car　was　a　Mustang；　one　of　the　cool　ones　from　the　late　sixties　or　early　seventies。　The　motor　rumbled　loudly；　the　fat　sound　of　it　ing　through　a　muffler　that　maybe　wouldn't　pass　inspection　the　next　time　the　sticker　came　due　。　。　。　but　that　wasn't　my　problem。
　　I　swung　the　door　open　and　slid　inside。　As　I　put　my　backpack　between　my　feet　an　odor　struck　me；　something　almost　familiar　and　a　trifle　unpleasant。　'Thank　you；'　I　said。　'Thanks　a　lot。'
　　The　guy　behind　the　wheel　was　wearing　faded　jeans　and　a　black　tee…shirt　with　the　arms　cut　off。　His　skin　was　tanned；　the　muscles　heavy；　and　his　right　bicep　was　ringed　with　a　blue　barbwire　tattoo。　He　was　wearing　a　green　John　Deere　cap　turned　around　backward。　There　was　a　button　pinned　near　the　round　collar　of　his　tee…shirt；　but　I　couldn't　read　it　from　my　angle。　'Not　a　problem；'　he　said。　'You　headed　up　the　city？'
　　'Yes；'　I　said。　In　this　part　of　the　world　'up　the　city'　meant　Lewis…ton；　the　only　city　of　any　size　north　of　Portland。　As　I　closed　the　door；　I　saw　one　of　those　pine…tree　air　fresheners　hanging　from　the　rearview　mirror。　That　was　what　I'd　smelled。　It　sure　wasn't　my　night　as　far　as　odors　went；　first　pee　and　now　artificial　pine。　Still；　it　was　a　ride。　I　should　have　been　relieved。　And　as　the　guy　accelerated　back　onto　Ridge　Road；　the　big　engine　of　his　vintage　Mustang　growling；　I　tried　to　tell　myself　I　was　relieved。
　　'What's　going　on　for　you　in　the　city？'　the　driver　asked。　I　put　him　at　about　my　age；　some　townie　who　maybe　went　to　vocational…technical　school　in　Auburn　or　maybe　worked　in　one　of　the　few　remaining　textile　mills　in　the　area。　He'd　probably　fixed　up　this　Mustang　in　his　spare　time；　because　that　was　what　townie　kids　did：　drank　beer；　smoked　a　little　rope；　fixed　up　their　cars。　Or　their　motorcycles。
　　'My　brother's　getting　married。　I'm　going　to　be　his　best　man。'　I　told　this　lie　with　absolutely　no　premeditation。　I　didn't　want　him　to　know　about　my　mother；　although　I　didn't　know　why。　Something　was　wrong　here。　I　didn't　know　what　it　was　or　why　I　should　think　such　a　thing　in　the　first　place；　but　I　knew。　I　was　positive。　'The　rehearsal's　tomorrow。　Plus　a　stag　party　tomorrow　night。'
　　'Yeah？　That　right？'　He　turned　to　look　at　me；　wide…set　eyes　and　handsome　face；　full　lips　smiling　slightly；　the　eyes　unbelieving。
　　'Yeah；'　I　said。
　　I　was　afraid。　Just　like　that　I　was　afraid　again。　Something　was　wrong；　had　maybe　started　being　wrong　when　the　old　geezer　in　the　Dodge　had　invited　me　to　wish　on　the　infected　moon　instead　of　on　a　star。　Or　maybe　from　the　moment　I'd　picked　up　the　telephone　and　listened　to　Mrs。　McCurdy　saying　she　had　some　bad　news　for　me；　but　'twasn't　s'bad　as　it　could've　been。
　　'Well　that's　good；'　said　the　young　man　in　the　turned…around　cap。　'A　brother　getting　married；　man；　that's　good。　What's　your　name？'
　　I　wasn't　just　afraid；　I　was　terrified。　Everything　was　wrong；　everything；　and　I　didn't　know　why　or　how　it　could　possibly　have　happened　so　fast。　I　did　know　one　thing；　however：　I　wanted　the　driver　of　the　Mustang　to　know　my　name　no　more　than　I　wanted　him　to　know　my　business　in　Lewiston。　Not　that　I'd　be　getting　to　Lewiston。　I　was　suddenly　sure　that　I　would　never　see　Lewiston　again。　It　was　like　knowing　the　car　was　going　to　stop。　And　there　was　the　smell；　I　knew　something　about　that；　as　well。　It　wasn't　the　air　freshener；　it　was　something　beneath　the　air　freshener。
　　'Hector；'　I　said；　giving　him　my　roommate's　name。　'Hector　Pass…more；　that's　me。'　It　came　out　of　my　dry　mouth　smooth　and　calm；　and　that　was　good。　Something　inside　me　insisted　that　I　must　not　let　the　driver　of　the　Mustang　know　that　I　sensed　something　wrong。　It　was　my　only　chance。
　　He　turned　toward　me　a　little；　and　I　could　read　his　button：　I　RODE　THE　BULLET　AT　THRILL　VILLAGE；　LACONIA。　I　knew　the　place；　had　been　there；　although　not　for　a　long　time。
　　I　could　also　see　a　heavy　black　line　which　circled　his　throat　just　as　the　barbwire　tattoo　circled　his　upper　arm；　only　the　line　around　the　driver's　throat　wasn't　a　tattoo。　Dozens　of　black　marks　crossed　it　vertically。　They　were　the　stitches　put　in　by　whoever　had　put　his　head　back　on　his　body。
　　'Nice　to　meet　you；　Hector；'　he　said。　'I'm　George　Staub。'
　　My　hand　seemed　to　float　out　like　a　hand　in　a　dream。　I　wish　that　it　had　been　a　dream；　but　it　wasn't；　it　had　all　the　sharp　edges　of　reality。　The　smell　on　top　was　pine。　The　smell　underneath　was　some　chemical；　probably　formaldehyde。　I　was　riding　with　a　dead　man。
　　
　　The　Mustang　rushed　along　Ridge　Road　at　sixty　miles　an　hour；　chasing　its　high　beams　under　the　light　of　a　polished　button　moon。　To　either　side　the　trees　crowding　the　road　danced　and　writhed　in　the　wind。　George　Staub　smiled　at　me　with　his　empty　eyes；　then　let　go　of　my　hand　and　returned　his　attention　to　the　road。　In　high　school　I'd　read　Dracula；　and　now　a　line　from　it　recurred；　clanging　in　my　head　like　a　cracked　bell：　The　dead　drive　fast。
　　Can't　let　him　know　I　know。　This　also　clanged　in　my　head。　It　wasn't　much；　but　it　was　all　I　had。　Can't　let　him　know；　can't　let　him；　can't。　I　wondered　where　the　old　man　was　now。　Safe　at　his　brother's？　Or　had　the　old　man　been　in　on　it　all　along？　Was　he　maybe　right　behind　us；　driving　along　in　his　old　Dodge；　hunched　over　the　wheel　and　snapping　at　his　truss？　Was　he　dead；　too？　Probably　not。　The　dead　drive　fast；　according　to　Bram　Stoker；　and　the　old　man　had　never　gone　a　tick　over　forty…five。　I　felt　demented　laughter　bubbling　in　the　back　of　my　throat　and　held　it　down。　If　I　laughed　he'd　know。　And　he　mustn't　know；　because　that　was　my　only　hope。
　　'There's　nothing　like　a　wedding；'　he　said。
　　'Yeah；'　I　said；　'everyone　should　do　it　at　least　twice。'
　　My　hands　had　settled　on　each　other　and　were　squeezing。　I　could　feel　the　nails　digging　into　the　backs　of　them　just　above　the　knuckles；　but　the　sensation　was　distant。　I　couldn't　let　him　know；　that　was　the　thing。　The　woods　were　all　around　us；　the　only　light　was　the　heartless　bone…glow　of　the　moon；　and　I　couldn't　let　him　know　that　I　knew　he　was　dead。　Because　he　wasn't　a　ghost；　nothing　so　harmless。　You　might　see　a　ghost；　but　what　sort　of　thing　stopped　to　give　you　a　ride？　What　kind　of　creature　was　that？　Zombie？　Ghoul？　Vampire？　None　of　the　above？
　　George　Staub　laughed。　'Do　it　twice！　Yeah；　man；　that's　my　whole　family！'
　　'Mine；　too；'　I　said。　My　voice　sounded　calm；　just　the　voice　of　a　hitchhiker　passing　the　time　of　day…night；　in　this　case…making　agreeable　conversation　as　some　small　payment　for　his　ride。　'There's　really　nothing　like　a　funeral。'
　　'Wedding；'　he　said　mildly。　In　the　light　from　the　dashboard　his　face　was　waxy；　the　face　of　a　corpse　before　the　makeup　went　on。　That　turned…around　cap　was　particularly　horrible。　It　made　you　wonder　how　much　was　left　beneath　it。　I　had　read　somewhere　that　morticians　sawed　off　the　top　of　the　skull　and　took　out　the　brains　and　put　in　some　sort　of　chemically　treated　cotton。　To　keep　the　face　from　falling　in；　maybe。
　　'Wedding；'　I　said　through　numb　lips；　and　even　laughed　a　little…a　light　little　chuckle。　'Wedding's　what　I　meant　to　say。'
　　'We　always　say　what　we　mean　to　say；　that's　what　I　think；'　the　driver　said。　He　was　still　smiling。
　　Yes；　Freud　had　believed　that；　too；　I'd　read　it　in　Psych　101。　I　doubted　if　this　fellow　knew　m