stephen king - mist-第21节

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　But　the　birds　and　the　buglike　things　the　birds　ate　weren't　the　only　things　out　there。　There　was　the　tentacled　thing　that　had　taken　Norm。　There　was　the　frayed　clothesline　to　think　about。　There　was　the　unseen　thing　that　had　uttered　that　low；　guttural　roar　to　think　about。　We　had　heard　sounds　like　it　sincesometimes　quite　distant…but　how　far　was　〃distant〃　through　the　damping　effect　of　the　mist？　And　sometimes　they　were　close　enough　to　shake　the　building　and　make　it　seem　as　if　the　ventricles　of　your　heart　had　suddenly　been　loaded　up　with　ice　water。
　Billy　started　in　my　lap　and　moaned。　I　brushed　his　hair　and　he　moaned　more　loudly。　Then　he　seemed　to　find　sleep's　less　dangerous　waters　again。　My　own　doze　was　broken　and　I　was　staring　wide　awake　again。　Since　dark；　I　had　only　managed　to　sleep　about　ninety　minutes；　and　that　had　been　dream…haunted。　in　one　of　the　dream　fragments；　it　had　been　the　night　before　again。　Billy　and　Steffy　were　standing　in　front　of　the　picture　window；　looking　out　at　the　black　and　slate…gray　waters；　out　at　the　silver　spinning　waterspout　that　heralded　the　storm。　I　tried　to　get　to　them；　knowing　that　a　strong　enough　wind　could　break　the　window　and　throw　deadly　glass　darts　all　the　way　across　the　living　room。　But　no　matter　how　I　ran；　I　seemed；　to　get　no　closer　to　them。　And　then　a　bird　rose　out　of　the　waterspout；　a　gigantic　scarlet　oiseau　de　mort　whose　prehistoric　wingspan　darkened　the　entire　lake　from　west　to　east。　Its　beak　opened；　revealing　a　maw　the　size　of　the　Holland　Tunnel。　And　as　the　bird　came　to　gobble　up　my　wife　and　son；　a　low；　sinister　voice　began　to　whisper　over　and　over　again：　The　Arrowhead　Project　。。。　the　Arrowhead　Project　。。。　the　Arrowhead　Project　。。。
　Not　that　Billy　and　I　were　the　only　ones　sleeping　poorly。　Others　screamed　in　their　sleep；　and　some　went　on　screaming　after　they　woke　up。　The　beer　was　disappearing　from　the　cooler　at　a　great　rate。　Buddy　Eagleton　had　restocked　it　once　from　out　back　with　no　ment。　Mike　Hatlen　told　me　the　Sominex　was　gone。　Not　depleted　but　totally　wiped　out。　He　guessed　that　some　people　might　have　taken　six　or　eight　bottles。
　〃There's　some　Nytol　left；〃　he　said。　〃You　want　a　bottle；　David？〃　I　shook　my　head　and　thanked　him。
　And　in　the　last　aisle　down　by　Register　5；　we　had　our　winos。　There　were　about　seven　of　them；　all　out…of…staters；　except　for　Lou　Tattinger；　who　ran　the　Pine　Tree　Car　Wash。　Lou　didn't　need　any　excuse　to　sniff　the　cork；　as　the　saying　was。　The　wino　brigade　was　pretty　well　anesthetized。
　Oh　yes…there　were　also　six　or　seven　people　who　had　gone　crazy。
　Crazy　isn't　the　best　word；　perhaps　I　just　can't　think　of　the　proper　one。　But　there　were　these　people　who　had　lapsed　into　a　plete　stupor　without　benefit　of　beer；　wine；　or　pills。　They　stared　at　you　with　blank　and　shiny　doorknob　eyes。　The　hard　cement　of　reality　had　e　apart　in　some　unimaginable　earthquake；　and　these　poor　devils　had　fallen　through。　In　time；　some　of　them　might　e　back。　If　there　was　time。
　The　rest　of　us　had　made　our　own　mental　promises；　and　in　some　cases　I　suppose　they　were　fairly　odd。　Mrs。　Reppler；　for　instance；　was　convinced　the　whole　thing　was　a　dream…or　so　she　said。　And　she　spoke　with　some　conviction。
　I　looked　over　at　Amanda。　I　was　developing　an　unfortably　…strong　feeling　for　her…unfortable　but　not　exactly　unpleasant。　Her　eyes　were　an　incredible；　brilliant　green　。。。　for　a　while　I　had　kept　an　eye　on　her　to　see　if　she　was　going　to　rake　out　a　pair　of　contact　lenses；　but　apparently　the　color　was　true。　I　wanted　to　make　love　to　her。　My　wife　was　at　home；　maybe　alive；　more　probably　dead；　alone　either　way；　and　I　loved　her；　I　wanted　to　get　Billy　and　me　back　to　her　more　than　anything；　but　I　also　wanted　to　screw　this　lady　named　Amanda　Dumfries。　I　tried　to　tell　myself　it　was　just　the　situation　we　were　in；　and　maybe　it　was；　but　that　didn't　change　the　wanting。
　I　dozed　in　and　out；　then　jerked　awake　more　fully　around　three。　Amanda　had　shifted　into　a　sort　of　fetal　position；　her　knees　pulled　up　toward　her　chest；　hands　clasped　between　her　thighs。　She　seemed　to　be　sleeping　deeply。　Her　sweatshirt　had　pulled　up　slightly　on　one　side；　showing　clean　white　skin。　I　looked　at　it　and　began　to　get　an　extremely　useless　and　unfortable　erection。
　I　tried　to　divert　my　mind　to　a　new　track　and　got　thinking　about　how　I　had　wanted　to　paint　Brent　Norton　yesterday。　No；　nothing　as　important　as　a　painting；　but　。。。　just　sit　him　on　a　log　with　my　beer　in　his　hand　and　sketch　his　sweaty；　tired　face　and　the　two　wings　of　his　carefully　processed　hair　sticking　up　untidily　in　the　back。　it　could　have　been　a　good　picture。　It　took　me　twenty　years　of　living　with　my　father　to　accept　the　idea　that　being　good　could　be　good　enough。
　You　know　what　talent　is？　The　curse　of　expectation。　As　a　kid　you　have　to　deal　with　that；　beat　it　somehow。　if　you　can　write；　you　think　God　put　you　on　earth　to　blow　Shakespeare　away。　Or　if　you　can　paint；　maybe　you　think　…　I　did　…　that　God　put　you　on　earth　to　blow　your　father　away。
　It　turned　out　I　wasn't　as　good　as　he　was。　I　kept　trying　to　be　for　longer　than　I　should　have；　maybe。　I　had　a　show　in　New　York　and　it　did　poorly　…　the　art　critics　beat　me　over　the　head　with　my　father。　A　year　later　I　was　supporting　myself　and　Steff　with　the　mercial　stuff。　She　was　pregnant　and　I　sat　down　and　talked　to　myself　about　it。　The　result　of　that　conversation　was　a　belief　that　serious　art　was　always　going　to　be　a　hobby　for　me；　no　more。
　I　did　Golden　Girl　Shampoo　ads…the　one　where　the　Girl　is　standing　astride　her　bike；　the　one　where　she's　playing　Frisbee　on　the　beach；　the　one　where　she's　standing　on　the　balcony　of　her　apartment　with　a　drink　in　her　hand。　I've　done　short…story　illustrations　for　most　of　the　big　slicks；　but　I　broke　into　that　field　doing　fast　illustrations　for　the　stories　in　the　sleazier　men's　magazines。　I've　done　some　movie　posters。　The　money　es　in。　We　keep　our　heads　nicely　above　water。
　I　had　one　final　show　in　Bridgton；　just　last　summer。　I　showed　nine　canvases　that　I　had　painted　in　five　years；　and　I　sold　six　of　them。　The　one　I　absolutely　would　not　sell　showed　the　Federal　market；　by　some　queer　coincidence。　The　perspective　was　from　the　far　end　of　the　parking　lot。　in　my　picture；　the　parking　lot　was　empty　except　for　a　line　of　Campbell's　Beans　and　Franks　cans；　each　one　larger　than　the　last　as　they　marched　toward　the　viewer's　eye。　The　last　one　appeared　to　be　about　eight　feet　tall。　The　picture　was　titled　Beans　and　False　Perspective。　A　man　from　California　who　was　a　top　exec　in　some　pany　that　makes　tennis　balls　and　rackets　and　who　knows　what　other　sports　equipment　seemed　to　want　that　picture　very　badly；　and　would　not　take　no　for　an　answer　in　spite　of　the　NFS　card　tucked　into　the　bottom　left…hand　corner　of　the　spare　wooden　frame。　He　began　at　six　hundred　dollars　and　worked　his　way　up　to　four　thousand。　He　said　he　wanted　it　for　his　study。　I　would　not　let　him　have　it；　and　he　went　away　sorely　puzzled。　Even　so；　he　didn't　give　up；　he　left　his　card　in　case　I　changed　my　mind。
　I　could　have　used　the　money…that　was　the　year　we　put　the　addition　on　the　house　and　bought　the　four…wheeldrive…but　I　just　couldn't　sell　it。　I　couldn't　sell　it　because　I　felt　it　was　the　best　painting　I　had　ever　done　and　I　wanted　it　to　look　at　after　someone　would　ask　me；　with　totally　unconscious　cruelty；　when　I　was　going　to　do　something　serious。
　Then　I　happened　to　show　it　to　Ollie　Weeks　one　day　last　fall。　He　asked　me　if　he　could　photograph　it　and　run　it　as　an　ad　one　week；　and　that　was　the　end　of　my　own　false　perspective。　Ollie　had　recognized　my　painting　for　what　it　was；　and　by　doing　so；　he　forced　me　to　recognize　it；　too。　A　perfectly　good　piece　of　slick　mercial　art。　No　more。　And；　thank　God；　no　less。
　I　let　him　do　it；　and　then　I　called　the　exec　at　his　home　in　San　Luis　Obispo　and　told　him　he　could　have　the　painting
　for　twenty…five　hundred　if　he　still　wanted　it。　He　did；　and　I　shipped　it　UPS　to　the　coast。　And　since　then　that　voice　of　disappointed　expectation…that　cheated　child's　voice　that　can　never　be　satisfied　with　such　a　mild　superlative　as　good…has　fallen　pretty　much　silent。　And　except　for　a　few　rumbles…like　the　sounds　of　those　unseen　creatures　somewhere　out　in　the　foggy　night…it　has　been　pretty　much　silent　ever　since。　Maybe　you　can　tell　me…why　should　the　silencing　of　that　childish；　demanding　voice　seem　so　much　like　dying？
　Around　four　o'clock　Billy　woke　up…partially；　at　least…and　looked　around　with　bleary；　unprehending　eyes。　〃Are　we　still　here？〃
　〃Yeah；　honey；〃　I　said。　〃We　are。〃
　He　started　to　cry　with　a　weak　helplessness　that　was　horrible。　Amanda　woke　up　and　looked　at　us。
　〃Hey；　kid；〃　she　said；　and　pulled　him　gently　to　her。　〃Everything　is　going　to　look　a　little　better　e　morning。
　〃No；〃　Billy　said。　〃No　it　won't。　It　won't。　It　won't。〃
　〃Shh；〃　she　said。　Her　eyes　met　mine　over　his　head。　〃Shh；　it's　past　your　bedtime。〃
　〃I　want　my　mother！〃
　〃Yeah；　you　do；〃　Amanda　said。　〃Of　course　you　do。〃
　Billy　squirmed　around　in　her　lap　until　he　could　look　at　me。　Which　he　did　for　some　time。　And　then　slept　again。
　〃Thanks；〃　I　said。　〃He　needed　you。〃
　〃He　doesn't　even　know　me。〃
　〃That　doesn't　change　it。〃
　〃So　what　do　you　think？〃　she　asked。　Her　green　eyes　held　mine　steadily。　〃What　do　you　really　think
　〃Ask　me　in　the　morning。〃
　〃I'm　asking　you　now。〃
　I　opened　my　mouth　t