dk.solesurvivor-第44节

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　　By　the　time　Joe　was　thirteen；　his　daily　routine　included　helping　his　dad　dress　and　bathe　when　his　mother　was　at　work。　From　the　first；　he　never　resented　any　tasks　that　fell　to　him；　to　his　surprise；　he　found　within　himself　a　tenderness　that　was　a　counterweight　to　the　omnipresent　anger　that　he　directed　at　God　but　that　he　inadequately　relieved　on　those　unlucky　boys　with　whom　he　periodically　picked　fights。　For　a　long　time　Frank　was　mortified　to　have　to　rely　on　his　son　for　such　private　matters；　but　eventually　the　shared　challenge　of　bathing；　grooming；　and　toilet　brought　them　closer；　deepened　their　feelings　for　each　other。
　　By　the　time　Joe　was　sixteen；　Frank　was　suffering　with　fibrous　ankylosis。　Huge　rheumatoid　nodules　had　formed　at　several　joints；　including　one　the　size　of　a　golf　ball　on　his　right　wrist。　His　left　elbow　was　deformed　by　a　nodule　almost　as　large　as　the　softball　that　he　had　thrown　so　many　hundreds　of　times　in　backyard　practices　when　Joe　had　been　six　years　old　and　getting　into　Little　League。
　　His　dad　lived　now　for　Joe's　achievements；　so　Joe　was　an　honour　student　in　spite　of　a　part…time　job　at　McDonald's。　He　was　a　star　quarterback　on　the　high…school　football　team。　Frank　never　put　any　pressure　on　him　to　excel。　Love　motivated　Joe。
　　In　the　summer　of　that　year；　he　joined　the　YMCA　Youth　Athletics　Program：　the　boxing　league。　He　was　quick　to　learn；　and　the　coach　liked　him；　said　he　had　talent。　But　in　his　first　two　practice　matches；　he　continued　hammering　punches　into　opponents　after　they　were　sagging　on　the　ropes；　beaten　and　defenceless。　He'd　had　to　be　pulled　off。　To　them；　boxing　was　recreation　and　self…defence；　but　to　Joe　it　was　savage　therapy。　He　didn't　want　to　hurt　anyone；　not　any　specific　individual；　but　he　did　hurt　them；　consequently；　he　was　not　permitted　to　pete　in　the　league。
　　Frank's　chronic　pericarditis；　arising　from　the　rheumatoid　arthritis；　led　to　a　virulent　infection　of　the　pericardium；　which　ultimately　led　to　heart　failure。　Frank　died　two　days　before　Joe's　eighteenth　birthday。
　　The　week　following　the　funeral　Mass；　Joe　visited　the　same　church　after　midnight；　when　it　was　deserted。　He'd　had　too　many　beers。　He　sprayed　black　paint　on　all　the　stations　of　the　cross。　He　overturned　a　cast…stone　statue　of　Our　Lady　and　smashed　a　score　of　the　ruby…red　glasses　from　the　votive…candle　rack。
　　He　might　have　done　considerably　more　damage　if　he　had　not　quickly　been　overe　by　a　sense　of　futility。　He　could　not　teach　remorse　to　God。　He　could　not　express　his　pain　with　sufficient　power　to　penetrate　the　steel　veil　between　this　world　and　the　next…if　there　was　a　next。
　　Slumping　in　the　front　pew；　he　wept。
　　He　sat　there　less　than　a　minute；　however；　because　suddenly　he　felt　that　weeping　in　the　church　might　seem　to　be　an　admission　of　his　powerlessness。　Ludicrously；　he　thought　it　important　that　his　tears　not　be　misconstrued　as　an　acceptance　of　the　cruelty　with　which　the　universe　was　ruled。
　　He　left　the　church　and　was　never　apprehended　for　the　vandalism。　He　felt　no　guilt　about　what　he'd　done…and　again；　no　pride。
　　For　a　while　he　was　crazy；　and　then　he　went　to　college；　where　he　fit　in　because　half　of　the　student　body　was　crazy　too；　with　youth；　and　the　faculty　with　tenure。
　　His　mother　died　just　three　years　later；　at　the　age　of　forty…seven。　Lung　cancer；　spreading　to　the　lymphatic　system。　She　had　never　been　a　smoker。　Neither　had　his　father。　Maybe　it　was　the　fumes　of　the　benzene　and　other　solvents　in　the　dry…cleaner's　shop。　Maybe　it　was　weariness；　loneliness；　and　a　way　out。
　　The　night　she　died；　Joe　sat　at　her　bedside　in　the　hospital；　holding　her　hand；　putting　cold　presses　on　her　brow；　and　slipping　slivers　of　ice　into　her　parched　mouth　when　she　asked　for　them；　while　she　spoke　sporadically；　half　coherently；　about　a　Knights　of　Columbus　dinner　dance　to　which　Frank　had　taken　her　when　Joe　was　only　two；　the　year　before　the　accident　and　amputation。　There　was　a　big　hand　with　eighteen　fine　musicians；　playing　genuine　dance　music；　not　just　shake…in…place　rock…'n'…roll。　She　and　Frank　were　self…taught　in　the　fox　trot；　swing；　and　the　cha…cha；　but　they　weren't　bad。　They　knew　each　other's　moves。　How　they　laughed。　There　were　balloons；　oh；　hundreds　of　balloons；　suspended　in　a　net　from　the　ceiling。　The　centrepiece　on　each　table　was　a　white　plastic　swan　holding　a　fat　candle　surrounded　by　red　chrysanthemums。　Dessert　was　ice　cream　in　a　sugar　swan。　It　was　a　night　of　swans。　The　balloons　were　red　and　white；　hundreds　of　them。　Holding　her　close　in　a　slow　dance；　he　whispered　in　her　ear　that　she　was　the　most　beautiful　woman　in　the　room；　and　oh　how　he　loved　her。　A　revolving　ballroom　chandelier　cast　off　splinters　of　coloured　light；　the　balloons　came　down　red　and　white；　and　the　sugar　swan　tasted　of　almonds　when　it　crunched　between　the　teeth。　She　was　twenty…nine　years　old　the　night　of　the　dance；　and　she　relished　this　memory　and　no　other　through　the　final　hour　of　her　life；　as　though　it　had　been　the　last　good　time　she　could　recall。
　　Joe　buried　her　from　the　same　church　that　he　had　vandalized　two　years　earlier。　The　stations　of　the　cross　had　been　restored。　A　new　statue　of　the　Holy　Mother　watched　over　a　full　plement　of　votive　glasses　on　the　tiered　rack。
　　Later；　he　expressed　his　grief　in　a　bar　fight。　His　nose　was　broken；　but　he　did　worse　damage　to　the　other　guy。
　　He　stayed　crazy　until　he　met　Michelle。
　　On　their　first　date；　as　he　had　returned　her　to　her　apartment；　she　had　told　him　that　he　had　a　wild　streak　a　foot　wide。　When　he'd　taken　that　as　a　pliment；　she　had　told　him　that　only　a　moron；　a　hormone…crazed　pubescent　boy；　or　an　ape　in　the　zoo　would　be　witless　enough　to　take　pride　in　it。
　　Thereafter；　by　her　example；　she　taught　him　everything　that　was　to　shape　his　future。　That　love　was　worth　the　risk　of　loss。　That　anger　harms　no　one　more　than　he　who　harbours　it。　That　both　bitterness　and　true　happiness　are　choices　that　we　make；　not　conditions　that　fall　upon　us　from　the　hands　of　fate。　That　peace　is　to　be　found　in　the　acceptance　of　things　that　we　are　unable　to　change。　That　friends　and　family　are　the　blood　of　life；　and　that　the　purpose　of　existence　is　caring；　mitment。
　　Six　days　before　their　wedding；　in　the　evening；　Joe　went　alone　to　the　church　from　which　he'd　buried　his　parents。　Having　calculated　the　cost　of　the　damage　he'd　done　years　before；　he　stuffed　a　wad　of　hundred…dollar　bills　into　the　poor　box。
　　He　made　the　contribution　neither　because　of　guilt　nor　because　his　faith　was　regained。　He　did　it　for　Michelle；　though　she　would　never　know　of　the　vandalism　or　of　this　act　of　restitution。
　　Thereafter；　his　life　had　begun。
　　And　then　ended　one　year　ago。
　　
　　Now；　Nina　was　in　the　world　again；　waiting　to　be　found；　waiting　to　be　brought　home。
　　With　the　hope　of　finding　Nina　as　balm；　Joe　was　able　to　take　the　heat　out　of　his　anger。　To　recover　Nina；　he　must　be　totally　in　control　of　himself。
　　Anger　harms　no　one　more　than　he　who　harbours　it。
　　He　was　ashamed　by　how　quickly　and　absolutely　he　had　turned　away　from　all　the　lessons　that　Michelle　had　taught　him。　With　the　fall　of　Flight　353；　he　too　had　fallen；　had　plummeted　out　of　the　sky　into　which　Michelle　had　lifted　him　with　her　love；　and　had　returned　to　the　mud　of　bitterness。　His　collapse　was　a　dishonour　to　her；　and　now　he　felt　a　sting　of　guilt　as　sharp　as　he　might　have　felt　if　he'd　betrayed　her　with　another　woman。
　　Nina；　mirror　of　her　mother；　offered　him　the　reason　and　the　chance　to　rebuild　himself　into　a　reflection　of　the　person　that　he　had　been　before　the　crash。　He　could　bee　again　a　man　worthy　of　being　her　father。
　　Neen…ah；　Nine…ah；　no　one　finah。
　　He　slowly　leafed　through　his　treasure　trove　of　mental　images　of　Nina；　and　the　effect　was　soothing。　Gradually　his　clenched　hands　relaxed。
　　He　began　the　last　hour　of　the　flight　by　reading　two　of　the　four　printouts　of　articles　about　Teknologik；　which　he　had　retrieved　from　the　Post　puter　the　previous　afternoon。
　　In　the　second；　he　came　upon　a　piece　of　information　that　stunned　him。　Thirty…nine　percent　of　Teknologik's　stock；　the　largest　single　block；　was　owned　by　Nellor　et　Fils；　a　Swiss　holding　pany　with　extensive　and　diverse　interests　in　drug　research；　medical　research；　medical　publishing；　general　publishing；　and　the　film　and　broadcasting　industries。
　　Nellor　et　Fils　was　the　principal　vehicle　by　which　Horton　Nellor　and　his　son；　Andrew；　invested　the　family　fortune；　which　was　thought　to　be　in　excess　of　four　billion　dollars。　Nellor　was　not　Swiss；　of　course；　but　American。　He　had　taken　his　base　of　operations　offshore　a　long　time　ago。　And　more　than　twenty　years　ago；　Horton　Nellor　had　founded　the　Los　Angeles　Post。　He　still　owned　it。
　　For　a　while　Joe　fingered　his　astonishment　as　though　he　were　a　whittler　with　an　intriguingly　shaped　piece　of　driftwood；　trying　to　decide　how　best　to　carve　it。　As　in　raw　wood；　something　waited　here　to　be　discovered　by　the　craftsman's　hand；　his　knives　were　his　mind　and　his　journalistic　instinct。
　　Horton　Nellor's　investments　were　widespread；　so　it　might　mean　nothing　whatsoever　that　he　owned　pieces　of　both　Teknologik　and　the　Post。　Probably　pure　coincidence。
　　He　owned　the　Post　outright　and　was　not　an　absentee　publisher　concerned　only　about　profit；　through　his　son；　he　exerted　control　over　the