sk.cujo-第43节

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s　suddenly　very　afraid；　and　unable　to　think　why。　What　could　be　so　dreadful　in　Brett's　acted…out　dream　of　feeding　his　dog？　It　was　perfectly　natural；　as　worried　as　he　had　been　about　Cujo。
He　was　bent　over　now；　holding　the　gravy　boat　out；　the　drawstring　of　his　pajama　trousers　making　a　right…angled　white　line　to　the　horizontal　plane　of　the　red　and　black　linoleum　floor。　His　face　went　though　a　slow…motion　pantomime　of　sorrow。　He　spoke　then；　muttering　the　words　as　sleepers　so　often　do；　gutturally；　rapidly；　almost　unintelligibly。　And　with　no　emotion　in　the　words　themselves；　that　was　all　inside；　held　in　the　cocoon　of　whatever　dream　had　been　vivid　enough　to　make　him　nightwalk　again；　after　two　quiet　years。　There　was　nothing　inherently　melodramatic　about　the　words；　spoken　all　of　a　rush　in　a　quick　sleeping　sigh；　but　Charity's　hand　went　to　her　throat　anyway。　The　flesh　there　was　cold；　cold。
'Cujo's　not　hungry　no　more；'　Brett　said；　the　words　riding　out　on　that　sigh。　He　stood　up　again；　now　holding　the　gravy　boat　cradled　to　his　chest。　'Not　no　more；　not　no　more。'
He　stood　immobile　for　a　short　time　by　the　counter；　and　Charity　did　likewise　by　the　kitchen　door。　A　single　tear　had　slipped　down　his　face。　He　put　the　gravy　boat　on　the　counter　and　headed　for　the　door。　His　eyes　were　open　but　they　slipped　indifferently　and　unseeingly　over　his　mother。　He　stopped；　looking　back。
'Look　in　the　weeds；'　he　said　to　someone　who　was　not　there。
Then　be　began　to　walk　toward　her　again。　She　stood　aside；　her　hand　still　pressed　against　her　throat。　He　passed　her　quickly　and　noiselessly　on　his　bare　feet　and　was　gone　up　the　hall　toward　the　stairs。
She　turned　to　follow　him　and　remembered　the　gravy　boat。　It　stood　by　itself　on　the　bare；　ready…for…the…day　counter　like　the　focal　point　in　a　weird　painting。　She　picked　it　up　and　it　slipped　through　her　fingers　…　she　hadn't　realized　that　her　fingers　were　slick　with　sweat。　She　juggled　it　briefly；　imagining　the　crash　in　the　still；　sleeping　hours。　Then　she　had　it　cradled　safely　in　both　hands。　She　put　it　back　on　the　shelf　and　closed　the　cupboard　door　and　could　only　stand　there　for　a　moment；　listening　to　the　heavy　thud　of　her　heart；　feeling　her　strangeness　in　this　kitchen。　She　was　an　intruder　in　this　kitchen。　Then　she　followed　her　son。
She　got　to　the　doorway　of　his　room　just　in　time　to　see　him　climb　into　bed。　He　pulled　the　sheet　up　and　rolled　over　on　his　left　side；　his　usual　sleeping　position。　Although　she　knew　it　was　over　now；　Charity　stood　there　yet　awhile　longer。
Somebody　down　the　hall　coughed；　reminding　her　again　that　this　was　someone　else's　house。　She　felt　a　strong　wave　of　homesickness；　for　a　few　moments　it　was　as　if　her　stomach　were　full　of　some　numbing　gas；　the　kind　of　stuff　dentists　use。　In　this　fine　still　morning　light；　her　thoughts　of　divorce　seemed　as　immature　and　without　regard　for　the　realities　as　the　thoughts　of　a　child。　It　was　easy　for　her　to　think　of　such　things　here。　It　wasn't　her　house；　not　her　place。
Why　had　his　pantomime　of　feeding　Cujo；　and　those　rapid；　sighing　words；　frightened　her　so　much？　Cujo's　not　hungry　no　more；　not　no　more。
She　went　back　to　her　own　room　and　lay　there　in　bed　as　the　sun　came　up　and　brightened　the　room。　At　breakfast；　Brett　seemed　no　different　than　ever。　He　did　not　mention　Cuio；　and　he　had　apparently　forgotten　about　calling　home；　at　least　for　the　time　being。　After　some　interior　debate；　Charity　decided　to　let　the　matter　rest　there。
It　was　hot。
Donna　uncranked　her　window　a　little　farther　…　about　a　quarter　of　the　way；　as　far　as　she　dared　…　and　then　leaned　across　Tad's　lap　to　unroll　his　too。　That　was　when　she　noticed　the　creased　yellow　sheet　on　paper　in　his　lap。
'What's　that；　Tad？'
He　looked　up　at　her。　There　were　smudged　brown　circles　under　his　eyes。　'The　Monster　Words；'　he　said。。
'Can　I　see？'
He　held　them　tightly　for　a　moment　and　then　let　her　take　the　paper。　There　was　a　watchful；　almost　proprietary　expression　on　his　face；　and　she　felt　an　instant's　jealousy。　It　was　brief　but　very　strong。　So　far　she　had　managed　to　keep　him　alive　and　unhurt；　but　it　was　Vic's　hocus…pocus　he　cared　about。　Then　the　feeling　dissipated　into　bewilderment；　sadness；　and　self…disgust。　It　was　she　who　had　put　him　in　this　situation　in　the　first　place。　If　she　hadn't　given　in　to　him　about　the　baby…sitter　。。。
'I　put　them　in　my　pocket　yesterday；'　he　said；　'before　we　went　shopping。　Mommy；　is　the　monster　going　to　eat　us？'
'It's　not　a　monster；　Tad；　it's　just　a　dog；　and　no；　it　isn't　going　to　eat　us！'　She　spoke　more　sharply　than　she　had　intended。　'I　told　you；　when　the　mailman　es；　we　can　go　home。'　And　I　told　him　the　car　would　start　in　just　a　little　while；　and　I　told　him　someone　would　e；　that　the　Cambers　would　be　home　soon
But　what　was　the　use　of　thinking　that？
'May　I　have　my　Monster　Words　back？'　he　asked。
For　a　moment　she　felt　a　totally　insane　urge　to　tear　the　sweat…stained；　creased　sheet　of　yellow　legal　paper　to　bits　and　toss　them　out　of　her　window；　so　much　fluttering　confetti。　Then　she　handed　the　paper　back　to　Tad　and　ran　both　hands　through　her　hair；　ashamed　and　scared。　What　was　happening　to　her；　for　Christ's　sake？　A　sadistic　thought　like　that。　Why　would　she　want　to　make　it　worse　for　him？　Was　it　Vic？　Herself？　What？
It　was　so　hot　…　too　hot　to　think。　Sweat　was　streaming　down　her　face　and　she　could　see　it　trickling　down　Tad's　cheeks　as　well。　His　hair　was　plastered　against　his　skull　in　unlovely　chunks；　and　it　looked　two　shades　darker　than　its　usual　medium…blond。　He　needs　his　hair　washed；　she　thought　randomly；　and　that　made　her　think　of　the　bottle　of　Johnson's　No　More　Tears　again；　sitting　safely　and　sanely　on　the　bathroom　shelf；　waiting　for　someone　to　take　it　down　and　pour　a　capful　or　two　into　one　cupped　palm。
（don't　lose　control　of　yourself）
No；　of　course　not。　She　had　no　reason　to　lose　control　of　herself。　Everything　was　going　to　be　all　right；　wasn't　it？　Of　course　it　was。　The　dog　wasn't　even　in　sight；　hadn't　been　for　more　than　an　hour。　And　the　mailman。　It　was　almost　ten　o'clock　now。　The　mailman　would　be　along　soon；　and　then　it　wouldn't　matter　that　it　was　so　hot　in　the　car。　'The　greenhouse　effect'；　they　called　it。　She　had　seen　that　on　an　SPCA　handout　somewhere；　explaining　why　you　shouldn't　shut　your　dog　up　in　your　car　for　any　length　of　time　when　it　was　hot　like　this。　The　greenhouse　effect。　The　pamphlet　had　said　that　the　temperature　in　a　car　that　was　parked　in　the　sun　could　go　as　high　as　140　degrees　Fahrenheit　if　the　windows　were　rolled　up；　so　it　was　cruel　and　dangerous　to　lock　up　a　pet　while　you　did　your　shopping　or　went　to　see　a　movie。　Donna　uttered　a　short；　cracked…sounding　chuckle。　The　shoe　certainly　was　on　the　other　foot　here；　wasn't　it？　it　was　the　dog　that　had　the　people　locked　up。
Well；　the　mailman　was　ing。　The　mailman　was　ing　and　that　would　end　it。　It　wouldn't　matter　that　they　had　only　a　quarter　of　a　Thermos　of　milk　left；　or　that　early　this　morning　she　had　to　go　to　the　bathroom　and　she　had　used　Tad's　smaller　Thermos　…　or　had　tried　to　…　and　it　had　overflowed　and　now　the　Pinto　smelled　of　urine；　an　unpleasant　smell　that　only　seemed　to　grow　stronger　with　the　heat。　She　had　capped　the　Thermos　and　thrown　it　out　the　window。　She　had　heard　it　shatter　as　it　hit　the　gravel。　Then　she　had　cried。
But　none　of　it　mattered。　It　was　humiliating　and　demeaning　to　have　to　try　and　pee　into　a　Thermos　bottle；　sure　it　was；　but　it　didn't　matter　because　the　mailman　was　ing　…　even　now　he　would　be　loading　his　small　blue…and…white　truck　at　the　ivy…covered　brick　post　office　on　Carbine　Street　。。。　or　maybe　he　had　already　begun　his　route；　working　his　way　out　Route　117　toward　the　Maple　Sugar　Road。　Soon　it　would　end。　She　would　take　Tad　home；　and　they　would　go　upstairs。　They　would　strip　and　shower　together；　but　before　she　got　into　the　tub　with　him　and　under　the　shower；　she　would　take　the　bottle　of　shampoo　from　the　shelf　and　put　the　cap　neatly　on　the　edge　of　the　sink；　and　she　would　wash　first　Tad's　hair　and　then　her　own。
Tad　was　reading　the　yellow　paper　again；　his　lips　moving　soundlessly。　Not　real　reading；　not　the　way　he　would　be　reading　in　a　couple　of　years　（if　we　get　out　of　this；　her　traitorous　mind　insisted　on　adding　senselessly　but　instantly）；　but　the　kind　that　came　from　rote　memorization。　The　way　driving　schools　prepared　functional　illiterates　for　the　written　part　of　the　driver's　exam。　She　had　read　that　somewhere　too；　or　maybe　seen　it　on　a　TV　news　story；　and　wasn't　it　amazing；　the　amount　of　crud　the　human　mind　was　capable　of　storing　up？　And　wasn't　it　amazing　how　easily　it　all　came　spewing　out　when　there　was　nothing　else　to　engage　it？　Like　a　subconscious　garbage　disposal　running　in　reverse。
That　made　her　think　of　something　that　had　happened　in　her　parents'　house；　back　when　it　had　still　been　her　house　too。　Less　than　two　hours　before　one　of　her　mother's　Famous　Cocktail　Parties　（that　was　how　'　Donna's　father　always　referred　to　them；　with　a　satirical　tone　that　automatically　conferred　the　capital　letters　…　the　same　satirical　tone　that　could　sometimes　drive　Samantha　into　a　frenzy）；　the　disposal　in　the　kitchen　sink　had　somehow　backed　up　into　the　bar　sink；　and　when　her　mother　turned　the　gadget　on　again　in　an　effort　to　get　rid　of　everything；　green　goo　had　exploded　all　over　the　ceiling。　Donna　had　been　about　fourteen　at　the　time；　and　she　remembered　that　her　mother's　utter