sk.cujo-第42节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


'They　don't　work！'　Tad　had　screamed　in　a　hopeless；　despairing　voice　that　had　hollowed　out　Vic's　guts　with　fear。　'Daddy；　the　Monster　Words　don't　work！　Oh；　Daddy；　they　don't　work；　they　never　worked！　You　lied；　Daddy！　You　lied！'
He　ran　on；　but　it　was　as　if　he　were　on　a　treadmill。　And　he　had　looked　at　the　base　of　that　high　gray　wall　and　had　seen　a　heaped　drift　of　old　bones　and　grinning　skulls；　some　of　them　furred　with　green　moss。
That　was　when　he　woke　up。
What　had　the　monster　been；　anyway？
He　just　couldn't　remember。　Already　the　dream　seemed　like　a　scene　observed　through　the　wrong　end　of　a　telescope。　He　dropped　the　cigarette　into　the　john；　flushed　it；　and　ran　water　into　the　sink　as　well　to　swirl　the　ashes　down　the　drain。
He　urinated；　shut　off　the　light；　and　went　back　to　bed。　As　he　lay　down　he　glanced　at　the　telephone　and　felt　a　sudden　irrational　urge　to　call　home。　Irrational？　That　was　putting　it　mildly。　It　was　ten　minutes　of　two　in　the　morning。　He　would　not　only　wake　her　up；　he　would　probably　scare　the　living　hell　out　of　her　in　the　bargain。　You　didn't　interpret　dreams　literally；　everyone　knew　that。　When　both　your　marriage　and　your　business　seemed　in　danger　of　running　off　the　rails　at　the　same　time；　it　wasn't　really　surprising　that　your　mind　pulled　a　few　unsettling　head　games；　was　it？
Still；　just　to　bear　her　voice　and　know　she's　okay
He　turned　away　from　the　telephone；　punched　up　the　pillow；　and　resolutely　shut　his　eyes。
Call　her　in　the　morning；　if　that'll　make　you　feel　better。　Call　her　right　after　breakfast。
That　eased　his　mind；　and　very　shortly　he　drifted　off　to　sleep　again。　This　time　he　did　not　dream　…　or　if　he　did；　these　dreams　never　imprinted　themselves　on　his　conscious　mind。　And　when　the　wake…up　call　came　on　Tuesday；　he　had　forgotten　A　about　the　dream　of　the　beast　in　the　clearing。　He　had　only　the　vaguest　recollection　of　having　gotten　up　in　the　night　at　all。　Vic　did　not　call　home　that　day。
Charity　Camber　awoke　that　Tuesday　morning　on　the　dot　of　five　and　went　through　her　own　brief　period　of　disorientation　…yellow　wallpaper　instead　of　wood　walls；　colorful　green　print　curtains　instead　of　white　chintz；　a　narrow　single　bed　instead　of　the　double　that　had　begun　to　sag　in　the　middle。
Then　she　saw　where　she　was　…　Stratford；　Connecticut　…　and　felt　a　burst　of　pleased　anticipation。　She　would　have　the　whole　day　to　talk　to　her　sister；　to　hash　over　old　times；　to　find　out　what　she　had　been　doing　the　last　few　years。　And　Holly　had　talked　about　going　into　Bridgeport　to　do　some　shopping。
She　had　awakened　an　hour　and　a　half　before　her　usual　time；　probably　two　hours　or　more　before　things　began　to　stir　in　this　household。　But　a　person　never　slept　well　in　a　strange　bed　until　the　third　night　…　that　had　been　one　of　her　mother's　sayings；　and　it　was　a　true　one。
The　silence　began　to　give　up　its　Iittle　sounds　as　she　lay　awake　and　listening；　looking　at　the　thin　five…o'clock　light　that　fell　between　the　half…drawn　curtains　。。。　dawn's　early　fight；　always　so　white　and　clear　and　fine。　She　heard　the　creak　of　a　single　board。　A　bluejay　having　its　morning　tantrum。　The　day's　first　muter　train；　bound　for　Westport；　Greenwich；　and　New　York　City。
The　board　creaked　again。
And　again。
It　wasn't　just　the　house　settling。　It　was　footsteps。
Charity　sat　up　in　bed；　the　blanket　and　sheet　pooling　around　the　waist　of　her　sensible　pink　nightgown。　Now　the　steps　were　going　slowly　downstairs。　It　was　a　light　tread：　bare　feet　or　sock　feet。　It　was　Brett。　When　you　lived　with　people；　you　got　to　know　the　sound　of　their　walk。　It　was　one　of　those　mysterious　things　that　just　happen　over　a　course　of　years；　like　the　shape　of　a　leaf　sinking　into　a　rock。
She　pushed　the　covers　back；　got　up；　and　went　to　the　door。　Her　room　opened　on　the　upstairs　hall；　and　she　just　saw　the　top　of　Brett's　head　disappearing；　his　cowlick　sticking　up　for　a　moment　and　then　gone。
She　went　after　him。
When　Charity　reached　the　top　of　the　stairs；　Brett　was　just　disappearing　down　the　hallway　that　ran　the　width　of　the　house；　from　the　front　door　to　the　kitchen。　She　opened　her　mouth　to　call　him　。。。　and　then　shut　it　again。　She　was　intimidated　by　the　sleeping　house　that　wasn't　her　house。
Something　about　the　way　he　had　been　walking。。。　the　set　of　his　body　。。。　but　it　had　been　years　since　
She　descended　the　stairs　quickly　and　quietly　in　her　bare　feet。　She　followed　Brett　into　the　kitchen。　He　was　dressed　only　in　light　blue　pajama　bottoms；　their　white　cotton　drawstring　hanging　down　to　below　the　neat　fork　of　his　crotch。　Although　it　was　barely　midsummer　he　was　already　very　brown　…　he　was　naturally　dark；　like　his　father；　and　tanned　easily。
Standing　in　the　doorway　she　saw　him　in　profile；　that　same　fine；　clear　morning　light　pouring　over　his　body　as　he　hunted　along　the　line　of　cupboards　above　the　stove　and　the　counter　and　the　sink。　Her　heart　was　full　of　wonder　and　fear。　He's　beautiful；　she　thought。　Everything　that's　beautiful；　or　ever　was；　in　us；　is　in　him。　It　was　a　moment　she　never　forgot　…　she　saw　her　son　dad　only　in　his　pajama　bottoms　and　for　a　moment　dimly　prehended　the　mystery　of　his　boyhood；　so　soon　to　be　left　behind。　Her　mother's　eyes　loved　the　slim　curves　of　his　muscles；　the　line　of　his　buttocks；　the　clean　soles　of　his　feet。　He　seemed　。。。　utterly　perfect。
She　saw　it　clearly　because　Brett　wasn't　awake。　As　a　child　there　had　been　episodes　of　sleepwalking；　about　two　dozen　of　them　in　all；　between　the　ages　of　four　and　eight。　She　had　finally　gotten　worried　enough　…　scared　enough　…　to　consult　with　Dr。　Gresham　（without　Joe's　knowledge）。　She　wasn't　afraid　that　Brett　was　losing　his　mind　…anyone　who　was　around　him　could　see　he　was　bright　and　normal　…　but　she　was　afraid　that　he　might　hurt　himself　while　he　was　in　that
strange　state。　Dr。　Gresham　had　told　her　that　was　very　unlikely；　and　that　most　of　the　funny　ideas　people　had　about　somnambulism　came　from　cheap；　badly　researched　movies。
'We　only　know　a　Iittle　about　sleepwalking；'　he　had　told　her；　'but　we　do　know　that　it　is　more　mon　in　children　than　it　is　in　adults。　There's　a　constantly　growing；　constantly　maturing　interaction　between　the　mind　and　body；　Mrs。　Camber；　and　a　lot　of　people　who　have　done　research　in　this　field　believe　that　sleepwalking　may　be　a　sympton　of　a　temporary　and　not　terribly　significant　imbalance　between　the　two。'
'Like　growing　pains？'　she　had　asked　doubtfully。
'Very　much　like　that；'　Gresham　had　said　with　a　grin。　He　drew　a　bell　curve　on　his　office　pad；　suggesting　that　Brett's　somnambulism　would　reach　a　peak；　hold　for　a　while；　then　begin　to　taper　off。　Eventually　it　would　disappear。
She　had　gone　away　a　little　reassured　by　the　doctor's　conviction　that　Brett　would　not　go　sleepwalking　out　a　window　or　down　the　middle　of　a　highway；　but　without　being　much　enlightened。　A　week　later　she　had　brought　Brett　in。　He　had　been　just　a　month　or　two　past　his　sixth　birthday　then。　Gresham　had　given　him　a　plete　physical　and　had　pronounced　him　normal　in　every　way。　And　indeed；　Gresham　had　appeared　to　be　right。　The　last　of　what　Charity　thought　of　as　his　'nighwalks'　had　occurred　more　than　two　years　ago。
The　last；　that　was；　until　now。
Brett　opened　the　cupboards　one　by　one；　dosing　each　neatly　before　going　on　to　the　next；　disclosing　Holly's　casserole　dishes；　the　extra　elements　to　her　Jenn…Aire　range；　her　dishtowels　neatly　folded；　her　coffee…and…tea　creamer；　her　as…yet…inplete　set　of　Depression　glassware。　His　eyes　were　wide　and　blank；　and　she　felt　a　cool　certainty　that　he　was　seeing　the　contents　of　other　cabinets；　in　another　place。
She　felt　the　old；　helpless　terror　that　she　had　almost　pletely　forgotten　as　parents　do　the　alarms　and　the　excursions　of　their　children's　early　years：　the　teething；　the　vaccination　that　brought　the　frighteningly　high　fever　as　a　little　extra　added　attraction；　the　croup；　the　car　infection；　the　hand　or　leg　that　suddenly　began　to　spray。　irrational　blood。　What's　be　thinking？　she　wondered。　Where　is　be？　And　why　now；　after　two　quiet　years？　Was　it　being　in　a　strange　place？　He　hadn't　seemed　duly　upset　。。。　at　least；　not　until　now。
He　opened　the　last　cupboard　and　took　down　a　pink　gravy　boat。　He　put　it　on　the　counter。　He　picked　up　empty　air　and　mimed　pouring　something　into　the　gravy　boat。　Her　arms　suddenly　broke　out　in　gooseflesh　as　she　realized　where　he　was　and　what　this　dumbshow　was　all　about。　It　was　a　routine　he　went　through　each　day　at　home。　He　was　feeding　Cujo。
She　took　an　involuntary　step　toward　him　and　then　stopped。　She　didn't　believe　those　wives'　tales　about　what　might　happen　if　you　woke　a　sleepwalker　…　that　the　soul　would　be　forever　shut　out　of　the　body；　that　madness　might　result；　or　sudden　death　…and　she　hadn't　needed　Dr。　Gresham　to　reassure　her　on　that　score。　She　had　gotten　a　book　on　special　loan　from　the　Portland　City　Library　。。。　but　she　hadn't　really　needed　that；　either。　Her　own　good　mon　sense　told　her　what　happened　when　you　woke　up　a　sleepwalker　was　that　they　woke　up　…　no　more　and　no　less　than　just　that。　There　might　be　tears；　even　mild　hysteria；　but　that　sort　of　reaction　would　be　provoked　by　simple　disorientation。
Still；　she　had　never　wakened　Brett　during　one　of　his　nightwalks；　and　she　didn't　dare　to　do　so　now。　Good　mon　sense　was　one　thing。　Her　unreasoning　fear　was　another；　and　she　was　suddenly　very　afraid；　and　unable　to　think　why。　What　could　be　so　dreadful　in　Brett's　acte