sk.carrie-第8节

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　help　at　two　in　the　morning；　of　fighting　with　desperate　decorum　to　keep　the　niggers　out　of　Kleen　Korners；　standing　shoulder　to　shoulder　with　Terri　Smith　（Miss　Potato　Blossom　of　1975）　and　Vicki　Jones　（Vice　President　of　The　Women's　League）；　armed　with　signs　and　petitions　and　sweet；　slightly　desperate　smiles。
Carrie；　it　was　the　goddamned　Carrie；　this　was　her　fault。　Perhaps　before　today　she　had　heard　distant；　circling　footfalls　around　their　lighted　place；　but　tonight；　hearing　her　own　sordid；　crummy　story；　she　saw　the　actual　silhouettes　of　all　these　things；　and　yellow　eyes　that　glowed　like　flashlights　in　the　dark。
She　had　already　bought　her　prom　gown。　It　was　blue。　It　was　beautiful。
'You're　right；'　he　said　when　she　was　done。　'Bad　news。　Doesn't　sound　a　bit　like　you。'　His　face　was　grave　and　she　felt　a　cool　slice　of　terror。　Then　he　smiled…he　had　a　very　jolly　smile…and　the　darknesss　retreated　a　bit。　
'I　kicked　a　kid　in　the　slats　once　when　he　was　knocked　out。　Did　I　ever　tell　you　about　that？'
She　shook　her　head。
'Yeah。'　He　rubbed　his　nose　reminiscently　and　his　cheek　gave　a　small　tic；　the　way　it　had　when　he　made　his　confession　about　getting　the　rubber　wrong　the　first　time。　'The　kid's　name　was　Danny　Patrick。　He　beat　the　living　shit　out　of　me　once　when　we　were　in　the　sixth　grade。　I　hated　him；　but　I　was　scared；　too。　I　was　laying　for　him。　You　know　how　that　is？'
She　didn't；　but　nodded　anyway。
'Anyway；　he　finally　picked　on　the　wrong　kid　a　year　or　so　later。　Pete　Taber。　He　was　just　a　little　guy；　but　he　had　lots　of　muscles。　Danny　got　on　him　about　something。　I　don't　know；　marbles　or　something；　and　finally　Peter　just　rose　up　righteous　and　beat　the　shit　out　of　him。　That　was　on　the　playground　of　the　old　Kennedy　Junior　High。　Danny　fell　down　and　hit　his　head　and　went　out　cold。　Everybody　ran。　We　thought　he　might　be　dead。　I　ran　away　too；　but　first　I　gave　him　a　good　kick　in　the　ribs。　Felt　really　bad　about　it　afterwards。　You　going　to　apologize　to　her？'
It　caught　Sue　flat…footed　and　all　she　could　was　clinch　weakly：　'Did　you？'
'Huh？　Hell　no！　I　had　better　things　to　do　than　spend　my　time　in　traction。　But　there's　a　big　difference；　Susie。'
'There　is？'
'It's　not　seventh　grade　any　more。　And　I　had　some　kind　of　reason；　even　if　it　was　a　piss…poor　reason。　What　did　that　sad；　silly　bitch　ever　do　to　you？'
She　didn't　answer　because　she　couldn't。　She　had　never　passed　more　than　a　hundred　words　with　Carrie　in　her　whole　life；　and　three　dozen　or　so　had　e　today。　Phys。　Ed。　was　the　only　class　they'd　had　in　mon　since　they　had　graduated　from　Chamberlain　Junior　High。　Carrie　was　taking　the　mercial/business　course。　Sue；　of　course；　was　in　the　college　division。
She　thought　herself　suddenly　loathsome。
She　found　she　could　not　bear　that　and　so　she　twisted　it　at　him。　'When　did　you　start　making　all　these　big　moral　decisions？　After　you　started　fucking　me？'
She　saw　the　good　humour　fade　from　his　face　and　was　sorry。
'Guess　I　should　have　kept　quiet；'　he　said；　and　pulled　up　his　pants。
'It's　not　you；　it's　me。'　She　put　a　hand　on　his　arm。　'I'm　ashamed；　see？'
'I　know；'　he　said。　'But　I　shouldn't　be　giving　advice。　I'm　not　very　good　at　it。'
'Tommy；　do　you　ever　hate　being　so　。。。　well；　popular？'
'Me？'　The　question　wrote　surprise　on　his　face。　'Do　you　mean　like　football　and　class　president　and　that　stuff？'
'Yes。'
'No。　Ifs　not　very　important。　High　school　isn't　a　very　important　place。　When　you're　going　you　think　it's　a　big　deal；　but　when　it's　over　nobody　really　think。　it　was　great　unless　they're　beered　up。　That's　how　my　brother　and　his　buddies　are；　anyway。'
It　did　not　soothe　her；　it　made　her　fears　worse。　Little　Susie　mix　'n　match　from　Ewen　High　School；　Head　Cupcake　of　the　entire　Cupcake　Brigade。　Prom　gown　kept　forever　in　the　closet；　wrapped　in　protective　plastic。
The　night　pressed　dark　against　the　slightly　steamed　car　windows。
'I'll　probably　end　up　working　at　my　dad's　car　lot；'　he　said。　'I'll　spend　my　Friday　and　Saturday　nights　down　at　Uncle　Billy's　or　out　at　The　Cavalier　drinking　beer　and　talking　about　the　Saturday　afternoon　I　got　that　fat　pitch　from　Saunders　and　we　upset　Dorchester。　Get　married　to　some　nagging　broad　and　always　own　last　years　model；　vote　Democrat…'
'Don't；'　she　said；　her　mouth　suddenly　full　of　a　dark；　sweet　horror。　She　pulled　him　to　her。　'Love　me。　My　head　is　so　bad　tonight。　Love　me。　Love　me。'
So　he　loved　her　and　this　time　it　was　different；　this　time　there　finally　seemed　to　be　room　and　there　was　no　rubbing　but　a　delicious　friction　that　went　up　and　up：　Twice　he　had　to　stop；　panting；　and　held　himself　back；　and　then　he　went
（he　was　a　virgin　before　me　and　admitted　it　I　would　have　believed　a　lie）
and　went　hard　and　her　breath　came　in　short；　digging　gasps　and　then　she　began　to　yell　and　hold　at　his　back；　helpless　to　stop；　sweating；　the　bad　taste　washed　away；　every　cell　seeming　to　have　its　own　climax；　body　filled　with　sunlight；　musical　notes　in　her　mind；　butterflies　behind　her　skull　in　the　cage　of　her　mind。
Later；　on　the　way　home；　he　asked　her　formally　if　she　would　go　to　the　Spring　Ball　with　him。　She　said　she　would。　He　asked　her　if　she　had　decided　what　to　do　about　Carrie。
She　said　she　hadn't。　He　said　that　it　made　no　difference。　but　she　thought　that　it　did。　It　had　begun　to　seem　that　it　meant　all　the　difference。
From　Telekinesis：　Analysis　and　Aftermath　（Science　Yearbook　1982）；　by　Dean　K。　L。　McGuffin：
There　are；　of　course；　still　these　scientists　today　…　regretfully；　the　Duke　University　people　are　in　their　forefront　…　who　reject　the　terrific　underlying　implications　of　the　Carrie　White　affair。　Like　the　Flatlands　Society；　the　Rosicrucians；　or　the　Corlies　of　Arizona；　who　are　positive　that　the　atomic　bomb　does　not　work；　these　unfortunates　are　flying　in　the　face　of　logic　with　their　heads　in　the　sand；　and　beg　your　pardon　for　the　mixed　metaphor。
Of　course　one　is　able　to　understand　the　consternation；　the　raised　voices；　the　angry　letters　and　arguments　at　scientific　convocations。　The　idea　of　telekinesis　itself　has　been　a　bitter　pill　for　the　scientific　munity　to　swallow；　with　its　horror…movie　trappings　of　ouija　boards　and　mediums　and　table　rappings　and　floating　coronets；　but　understanding　will　still　not　excuse　scientific　irresponsibility。
The　oute　of　the　White　affair　raises　grave　and　difficult　questions。　An　earthquake　has　struck　our　order　notions　of　the　way　the　natural　world　is　supposed　to　act　and　react。　Can　you　blame　even　such　a　renowned　physicist　as　Gerald　Luponet　for　claiming　the　whole　thing　is　a　hoax　and　a　fraud；　even　in　the　face　of　such　overwhelming　evidence　as　the　White　mission　presented？　For　if　Carrie　White　is　the　truth；　then　what　of　Newton？　。。。
They　sat　in　the　living　room；　Carrie　and　Momma；　listening　to　Tennessee　Ernie　Ford　singing　'Let　the　Lower　Lights　Be　Burning'　on　a　Webcor　phonograph　（which　Momma　called　the　victrola；　or；　if　in　a　particularly　good　mood；　the　vic）。　Carrie　sat　at　the　sewing　machine；　pumping　with　her　feet　as　she　sewed　the　sleeves　on　a　new　dress。　Momma　sat　beneath　the　plaster　crucifix；　tatting　doilies　and　bumping　her　feet　in　time　to　the　song；　which　was　one　of　her　favourites。　Mr　P。　P。　Bliss；　who　had　written　this　hymn　and　others　seemingly　without　number；　was　one　of　Momma's　shining　examples　of　God　at　work　upon　the　face　of　the　earth。　He　had　been　a　sailor　and　a　sinner　（two　terms　that　were　synonymous　in　Momma's　lexicon）；　a　great　blasphemer；　a　laugher　in　the　face　of　the　Almighty。　Then　a　great　storm　had　e　up　at　sea；　the　boat　had　threatened　to　capsize；　and　Mr　P。　P。　Bliss　had　gotten　down　on　his　sinsickly　knees　with　a　vision　of　Hell　yawning　beneath　the　ocean　floor　to　receive　him；　and　he　had　prayed　to　God。　Mr　P。　P。　Bliss　promised　God　that　if　He　saved　him；　he　would　dedicate　the　rest　of　his　life　to　Him。　The　storm；　of　course；　had　cleared　immediately。
Brightly　beams　our　Father's　mercy
From　his　lighthouse　evermore；
But　to　us　he　gives　the　keeping
Of　the　lights　along　the　shore　。。。
All　of　Mr　P。　P。　Bliss's　hymns　had　a　seagoing　flavour　to　them。
The　dress　she　was　sewing　was　actually　quite　pretty；　a　dark　wine　colour…the　closest　Momma　would　allow　her　to　red…and　the　sleeves　were　puffed。　She　tried　to　keep　her　mind　strictly　on　her　sewing；　but　of　course　it　wandered。
The　overhead　fight　was　strong　and　harsh　and　yellow；　the　small　dusty　plush　sofa　was　of　course　deserted　（Carrie　had　never　had　a　boy　in　To　Sit）；　and　on　the　far　wall　was　a　twin　shadow：　the　crucified　Jesus；　and　beneath　Him；　Momma。
The　school　had　called　Momma　at　the　laundry　and　she　had　e　home　at　noon。　Carrie　had　watched　her　e　up　the　walk；　and　her　belly　trembled。
Momma　was　a　very　big　woman；　and　she　always　wore　a　hat。　Lately　her　legs　had　begun　to　swell；　and　her　feet　always　seemed　on　the　point　of　overflowing　her　shoes。　She　wore　a　black　cloth　coat　with　a　black　fur　collar。　Her　eyes　were　blue　and　magnified　behind　rimless　bifocals。　She　always　carried　a　large　black　satchel　purse　and　in　it　was　her　change　purse；　her　billfold　（both　black）；　a　large　King　James　Bible　（also　black）　with　her　name　stamped　on　the　front　in　gold；　and　a　stack　of　tracts　secured　with　a　rubber　band。　The　Tracts　were　usually　orange；　and　smearily　printed。
Carrie　knew　vaguely　that　Momma　and　Daddy　Ralph　had　been　Baptists　once　but　had　left　the　church　when　they　became　convinced　that　the　Baptists　were　doing　the　work　of　the　Antichrist。　Since　that　time；　all　worship　had　taken　place　at　h