sk.cujo-第47节

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s　erection　was　back　now；　raging。　Thoughts　of　caution；　of　possible　discovery；　had　departed　his　mind。　He　was　somewhere　inside。　He　was　down　a　dark　hole。
In　the　kitchen　he　yanked　the　bottom　drawer　of　the　stove　out　to　its　stop　and　threw　pots　and　pans　everywhere。　They　made　a　dreadful　clatter；　but　there　was　no　satisfaction　in　mere　clatter。　A　rank　of　cupboards　ran　around　three　of　the　room's　four　sides。　He　pulled　them　open　one　after　the　other。　He　grabbed　plates　by　the　double　handful　and　threw　them　on　the　floor。　Crockery　jingled　musically。　He　swept　the　glasses　out　and　grunted　as　they　broke。　Among　them　was　a　set　of　eight　delicate　long…stemmed　wine　glasses　that　Donna　had　had　since　she　was　twelve　years　old。　She　had　read　about　'hope　chests'　in　some　magazine　or　other　and　had　determined　to　have　such　a　chest　of　her　own。　As　it　turned　out；　the　wine　glasses　were　the　only　thing　she　had　actually　put　in　hers　before　losing　interest　（her　original　grand　intention　had　been　to　lay　by　enough　to　pletely　furnish　her　bridal　house　or　flat）；　but　she　had　had　them　for　more　than　half　her　life；　and　they　were　treasured。
The　gravy　boat　went。　The　big　serving　platter。　The　Sears　radioltape　player　went　on　the　floor　with　a　heavy　crunch。　Steve　Kemp　danced　on　it；　he　boogied　on　it。　His　penis；　hard　as　stone；　throbbed　inside　his　pants。　The　vein　in　the　center　of　his　forehead　throbbed　in　counterpoint。　He　discovered　booze　under　the　small　chromium　sink　in　the　corner。　He　yanked　out　half…　and　three…quarters…full　bottles　by　the　armload　and　then　flung　them　at　the　closed　door　of　the　kitchen　closet　one　by　one；　throwing　them　overhand　as　hard　as　he　could；　the　next　day　his　right　arm　would　be　so　stiff　and　sore　he　would　barely　be　able　to　lift　it　to　shoulder　level。　Soon　the　blue　closet　door　was　running　with　Gilbey's　Pi；　jack　Daniel's；　J　&　B　whisky；　sticky　green　creme　de　menthe；　the　amaretto　that　had　been　a　Christmas　present　from　Roger　and　Althea　Breakstone。　Glass　twinkled　benignly　in　the　hot　afternoon　sunlight　pouring　through　the　windows　over　the　sink。
Steve　tore　into　the　laundry　room；　where　he　found　boxes　of　bleach；　Spic　'n　Span；　Downy　fabric　softener　in　a　large　blue　plastic　bottle；　Lestoil；　Top　job；　and　three　kinds　of　powdered　detergent。　He　ran　back　and　forth　pouring　these　cleaning　potions　everywhere。
He　had　just　emptied　the　last　carton　…　when　he　saw　the　message　scrawled　on　the　noteminder　in　Donna's　unmistakable　spiky　handwriting：　Tad　&　I　have　gone　out　to
Camber's　garage　w/pinto。　Back　soon。
That　brought　him　back　to　the　realities　of　the　situation　with　a　bang。　He　had　already　been　here　half　an　hour　at　least；　maybe　longer。　The　time　had　passed　in　a　red　blur；　and　it　was　hard　to　peg　it　any　more　closely　than　that。　How　Iong　had　she　been　gone　when　he　came　in？　Who　had　the　note　been　Ieft　for？
Anybody　who　might　pop　in；　or　someone　specific？　He　had　to　get　out　of　here　。。。　but　there　was　one　other　thing　he　had　to　do　first。
He　erased　the　message　on　the　noteminder　with　one　swipe　of　his　sleeve　and　wrote　in　large　block　letters：
I　LEFT　SOMETHING　UPSTAIRS　FOR　YOU；　BABY
He　took　the　stairs　two　by　two　and　came　into　their　bedroom；　which　was　to　the　left　of　the　second…floor　landing。　He　felt　terribly　pressed　now；　almost　positive　that　the　doorbell　was　going　to　ring　or　someone　…　another　happy　housewife；　most　likely　…　would　poke　her　head　in　the　back　door　and　call　（as　he　had）；　Hi！　Anybody　home？'
But；　perversely；　that　added　the　final　spice　of　excitement　to　this　mad　happening。　He　unbuckled　his　belt；　jerked　his　fly　down；　and　let　his　jeans　drop　down　around　his　knees。　He　wasn't　wearing　underpants；　he　rarely　did。　His　cock　stood　out　stiffly　from　a　mass　of　reddish…gold　pubic　hair。　It　didn't　take　long；　he　was　too　excited。　Two　or　three　quick　jerks　through　his　closed　fist　and　orgasm　came；　immediate　and　savage。　He　spat　semen　onto　the　bedspread　in　a　convulsion。
He　yanked　his　jeans　back　up；　raked　the　zipper　closed　（almost　catching　the　head　of　his　penis　in　the　zipper's　small　teeth　…　that　would　have　been　a　laugh；　all　right）；　and　ran　or　the　door；　buckling　his　belt　again。　He　would　meet　someone　as　he　was　going　out。　Yes。　He　felt　positive　of　it；　as　if　it　were　preordained。　Some　happy　housewife　who　would　take　one　look　at　his　flushed　face；　his　bulging　eyes；　his　tented　jeans；　and　scream　her　head　off。
He　tried　to　prepare　himself　for　it　as　he　opened　the　back　door　and　went　out。　In　retrospect　it　seemed　that　he　had　made　enough　noise　to　wake　the　dead　。。。　those　pans！　Why　had　he　thrown　those　fucking　pans　around？　What　had　he　been　thinking　of？　Everyone　in　the　neighborhood　must　have　heard。
But　there　was　no　one　in　the　yard　or　in　the　driveway。　The　peace　of　the　afternoon　was　undisturbed。　Across　the　street；　a　lawn　sprinkler　twirled　unconcernedly。　A　kid　went　by　on　roller　skates。　Straight　ahead　was　a　high　hedge　which　separated　the　Trentons'　house　lot　from　the　next　one　over。　Looking　to　the　left　from　the　back　stoop　was　a　view　of　the　town　nestled　at　the　bottom　of　the　hill。　Steve　could　see　the　intersection　of　Route　117　and　High　Street　quite　dearly；　the　Town　mon　nestled　in　one　of　the　angles　made　by　the　crossing　of　the　two　roads。　He　stood　there　on　the　stoop；　trying　to　get　his　shit　back　together。　His　breath　slowed　a　little　at　a　time　back　into　a　more　normal　inhale…exhale　pattern。　He　found　a　pleasant　afternoon　face　and　put　it　on。　All　this　happened　in　the　length　of　time　it　took　for　the　traffic　light　on　the　corner　to　cycle　from　red　to　amber　to　green　and　back　to　red　again。
What　if　she　pulls　into　the　driveway　right　now？
That　got　him　going　again。　He'd　left　his　calling　card；　he　didn't　need　any　hassle　from　her　on　top　of　it。　There　was　no　way　she　could　do　a　thing　anyway；　unless　she　called　the　cops；　and　he　didn't　think　she'd　do　that。　There　were　too　many　things　he　could　tell：　The　Sex　Life　of　the　Great　American　Happy　Housewife　in　Its　Natural　Habitat。　It　had　been　a　crazy　scene；　though。　Best　to　put　miles　between　himself　and　CastIe　Rock。　Maybe　later　he　would　give　her　a　call。　Ask　her　how　she　had　liked　his　work。　That　might　be　sort　of　fun。
He　walked　down　the　driveway；　turned　left；　and　went　back　to　his　van。　He　wasn't　stopped。　Nobody　took　any　undue　notice　of　him。　A　kid　on　roller　skates　zipped　past　him　and　shouted　'HW　Steve　hi'd　him　right　back。
He　got　in　the　van　and　started　it　up。　He　drove　up　117　to　302　and　followed　that　road　to　its　intersection　with　Interstate　95　in　Portland。　He　took　an　Interstate　time…and…toll　ticket　and　rolled　south。　He　had　begun　having　uneasy　thoughts　about　what　he　had　done　…　the　red　rage　of　destruction　he　had　gone　into　when　he　saw　that　no　one　was　home。　Had　the　retribution　been　too　heavy　for　the　offense？　So　she　didn't　want　to　make　it　with　him　any　more；　so　what？　He　had　trashed　most　of　the　goddamn　house。　Did　that；　maybe；　say　something　unpleasant　about　where　his　head　was　at？
He　began　to　work　on　these　questions　a　Iittle　at　a　time；　the　way　most　people　do；　running　an　objective　set　of　facts　through　a　bath　of　various　chemicals　which；　when　taken　together；　make　up　the　plex　human　perceptual　mechanism　known　as　subjectivity。　Like　a　schoolchild　who　works　carefully　first　with　the　pencil；　then　with　the　eraser；　then　with　the　pencil　again；　he　tore　down　what　had　happened　and　then　carefully　rebuilt　it　…redrew　it　in　his　mind　…　until　both　the　facts　and　his　perception　of　the　facts　jibed　in　a　way　he　could　five　with。
When　he　reached　Route　495；　he　turned　west　toward　New　York　and　the　country　that　sprawled　beyond；　all　the　way　to　the　silent　reaches　of　Idaho；　the　place　that　Papa　Hemingway　had　gone　to　when　he　was　old　and　mortally　hurt。　He　felt　the　familiar　lift　in　his　feelings　that　came　with　cutting　old　ties　and　moving　on　…　that　magical　thing　that　Huck　had　called　'fighting　out　for　the　territory。'　At　such　times　he　felt　almost　newborn；　felt　strongly　that　he　was　in　possession　of　the　greatest　freedom　of　all；　the　freedom　to　recreate　himself。　He　would　have　been　unable　to　understand　the　significance　if　someone　had　pointed　out　the　fact　that；　whether　in　Maine　or　in　Idaho；　he　would　still　be　apt　to　throw　his　racket　down　in　angry　frustration　if　he　lost　a　game　of　tennis；　that　he　would　refuse　to　shake　the　hand　of　his　opponent　over　the　net；　as　he　always　had　when　he　lost。　He　only　shook　over　the　net　when　he　won。
He　stopped　for　the　night　in　a　small　town　called　Twickenham。　His　sleep　was　easy。　He　had　convinced　himself　that　trashing　the　Trentons'　house　had　not　been　an　act　of　half…mad　jealous　pique　but　a　piece　of　revolutionary　anarchy　…　offing　a　couple　of　fat　middle…class　pigs；　the　sort　who　made　it　easy　for　the　fascist　overlords　to　remain　in　power　by　blindly　paying　their　taxes　and　their　telephone　bills。　It　had　been　an　act　of　courage　and　of　clean；　justified　fury。　It　was　his　way　of　saying　'power　to　the　people'；　an　idea　he　tried　to　incorporate　in　all　his　poems。
Still；　he　mused；　as　he　turned　toward　sleep　in　the　narrow　motel　bed；　he　wondered　what　Donna　had　thought　of　it　when　
she　and　the　kid　got　home。　That　sent　him　to　sleep　with　a　slight　smile　on　his　lips。
By　three　thirty　that　Tuesday　afternoon；　Donna　had　given　up　on　the　mailman。
She　sat　with　one　arm　lightly　around　Tad；　who　was　in　a　dazed　half　sleep；　his　lips　cruelly　puffed　from　the　heat；　his　face　hectic　and　flushed。　There　was　a　tiny　bit　of　milk　left；　and　soon　she　would　give　it　to　him。　During　the　last　three　and　a　half　hours　…since　what　would　have　been　lunchtime　at　hom