pzb.drawingblood-第20节

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　of　the　storeroom。　Then　by　some　silent　mutual　consent　they　rose　and　pulled　their　clothes　together　and　went　blinking　back　out　into　the　unmerciful　brightness　of　the　store。
　　At　the　door　they　clasped　hands　briefly。　〃By　the　way；〃　Leaf　told　him；　〃I　like　your　shirt。〃
　　Zach　glanced　down　at　himself。　He　was　still　wearing　the　exploding　Kennedy　head。　He　wondered　idly　if　some　buried　sixth　sense　had　made　him　put　it　on　this　morning　as　a　twisted　metaphor　for　what　was　to　follow。
　　〃Thanks；〃　he　said；　and　gave　Leaf's　talented　fingers　one　final　squeeze。　In　its　way　it　was　quite　a　tender　farewell。
　　The　day　had　followed　a　steep　curve　down　to　hell；　but　now　it　seemed　to　be　inching　back　up。　The　interlude　with　Leaf　had　relaxed　him；　left　him　feeling　sharp　and　awake；　as　if　Leaf　had　imbued　him　with　some　vital　essence　。。。　as　indeed　he　had。　Surely　there　was　some　energy　in　e；　some　electrifying　charge。
　　And　Zach　had　given　as　good　as　he　got。　He　always　deserted　in　the　end；　like　the　bastard　Eddy　thought　he　was；　but　he　always　tried　to　make　his　lovers　feel　good　in　the　brief　spans　of　time　he　spent　with　them。　He　had　even　left　Leaf　with　another　tightly　rolled；　sticky　joint　to　stave　off　tomorrow　night's　ennui。
　　All　in　all；　Zach　mused　as　he　reconnected　with　the　silent　ribbon　of　highway；　it　had　pretty　much　been　the　perfect　relationship。
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　Six
　　
　　Trevor　awoke　from　a　dream　of　blank　paper　laughing　up　at　him；　his　mind　a　monochrome　wash　of　panic；　his　heart　clenching　around　a　core　of　emptiness。　If　he　couldn't　draw　。。。　if　he　couldn't　draw　。　。　。
　　The　sheets　Kinsey　had　given　him　were　twined　around　his　legs；　sodden　with　nightmare　sweat。　Trevor　kicked　them　away　and　shoved　himself　upright。　His　bag　lay　on　the　floor　next　to　the　sofa。　He　pulled　out　his　sketchbook；　opened　it　to　a　clean　page；　and　sketched　furiously　for　several　minutes。　He　had　no　idea　what　he　was　drawing；　he　was　only　reassuring　himself　that　he　could。
　　When　his　heart　stopped　pounding　and　his　panic　began　to　fade；　Trevor　found　himself　staring　at　a　rough　sketch　of　his　brother　lying　on　a　stained　mattress；　small　hands　curled　in　death；　head　crushed　into　the　pillow。　He　remembered　that　today　was　the　day　his　family　had　died。
　　Trevor　felt　like　throwing　the　book　across　the　room。　Instead　he　closed　it　and　slid　it　back　into　his　bag；　found　his　toothbrush　in　the　zipper　pocket；　then　stood　up　and　stretched。　He　heard　his　shoulders　crack；　his　spine　make　a　noise　like　a　muffled　burst　of　gunfire。
　　Despite　the　flattened　cushions　and　the　occasional　sharp　end　of　a　spring；　Kinsey's　sofa　had　been　a　wele　place　to　sleep。　Trevor　was　surprised　to　find　it　forting　to　be　invited　into　someone's　home；　to　have　a　known　human　presence　in　the　next　room。　He　had　grown　used　to　cheap　hotels　and　run…down　boardinghouses。　On　the　other　side　of　the　wall　might　be　drunken　sobs　or　curses；　the　moist　tempo　of　sex；　the　silence　of　an　empty　room…but　never　anything　familiar；　never　anyone　who　cared　that　Trevor　Black　was　there。
　　Kinsey's　living　room　was　sparsely　furnished　with　more　thrift…shop　relics：　an　easy　chair；　a　reading　lamp；　a　wooden　bookcase　listing　under　the　weight　of　too　many　volumes。　Paperbacks；　mostly。　Trevor　read　some　titles　as　he　passed。　One　Hundred　Years　of　Solitude；　The　Stand；　Short　Stories　of　Franz　Kafka；　whole　shelves　of　Hesse　and　Kerouac；　even　Lo！　by　Charles　Fort。　Eclectic　tastes；　that　Kinsey。
　　There　were　some　crates　of　ics　too；　but　Trevor　did　not　look　through　them。　He　had　his　own　copies　of　Birdland。　ing　upon　other　copies　in　a　ic　shop　or　someone's　collection　was　always　unnerving；　like　seeing　someone　he　had　thought　dead。
　　There　was　no　TV；　Trevor　noted　approvingly。　He　hated　TV。　It　brought　back　memories　of　a　crowded　dayroom　at　the　Home；　the　sweaty　smell　of　boys；　voices　raised　in　fury　over　what　channel　to　watch。　The　stupidest　ones　had　always　screamed　for　a　cartoon　show　out　of　Raleigh　called　Barney's　Army。　Barney　was　a　cartoon　character　himself；　squat　and　ugly；　announcing　kids'　birthdays　and　cracking　lame　jokes　between　Looney　Toons　shorts。　He　was　so　badly　animated　that　no　part　of　him　moved　but　his　pitifully　stubby；　flipperlike　arms；　his　prognathous　jaw；　and　his　big　googly　eyes。　Trevor　figured　he　had　probably　hated　Barney　as　much　as　any　real　person　he　had　ever　known。
　　The　bathroom　tiles　were　spotless；　deliriously　cold　against　his　bare　feet。　He　used　the　Tom's　of　Maine　cinnamon…flavored　toothpaste　on　the　edge　of　the　sink；　then　splashed　cold　water　on　his　face。　For　a　long　moment　he　stood　staring　into　the　mirror。　His　father's　eyes　looked　back　at　him；　ice　rimmed　in　black；　faintly　challenging。　Do　you　dare？
　　You　bet　I　do。
　　The　door　of　Kinsey's　bedroom　was　ajar。　Trevor　peeked　into　the　shady　room。　Kinsey's　tall　form　lay　sprawled　across　the　bed；　skinny　legs　half…covered　by　a　vivid　patch…work　quilt。　He　was　the　only　person　Trevor　had　ever　seen　who　actually　wore　pajamas…bright　blue　ones；　the　same　color　as　his　eyes；　patterned　with　little　gold　moons　and　stars。　Trevor　hadn't　even　known　they　made　pajamas　in　Kinsey's　size。
　　For　a　few　minutes　he　watched　the　gentle　rise　and　fall　of　Kinsey's　chest；　the　draft　from　the　open　window　that　stirred　Kinsey's　scraggly　hair；　and　he　wondered　if　he　had　ever　slept　so　peacefully。　Even　when　Trevor　wasn't　having　bad　dreams　his　sleep　was　uneasy；　sporadic；　full　of　flickering　pictures　and　half…remembered　faces。
　　But　the　luminous　face　of　the　clock　on　Kinsey's　nightstand　（no　cheap　digital　job；　but　a　molded…plastic　relic　done　in　early　sixties　aqua；　its　corners　rounded　and　streamlined）　told　him　it　was　nearly　noon。　He　had　to　go。　Not　to　the　house　yet；　no；　but　he　had　to　take　the　first　step　toward　the　house。
　　Trevor　slung　his　backpack　over　his　shoulder；　stepped　out　into　the　tranquil　Sunday　morning；　and　locked　Kinsey's　door　behind　him。
　　
　　The　road　that　led　out　to　Missing　Mile's　small　graveyard　was　hot　and　flat　and　muddy。　Trevor　was　accustomed　to　walking　city　streets；　where　the　languid　haze　of　summer　was　shot　through　with　blasts　of　air…conditioning　from　doors　constantly　opening　onto　the　sidewalk；　where　you　could　always　duck　under　an　awning　or　the　overhang　of　a　building；　into　a　little　pocket　of　shade。
　　But　this　road；　Burnt　Church　Road　according　to　the　crooked　signpost　where　it　ran　into　Firehouse　Street；　offered　no　shade　except　the　occasional　leafy　canopy　of　a　tree。　The　houses　out　here　were　few　and　far　apart。　Most　had　been　built　on　farmland；　and　the　road　was　bordered　by　fields　of　leathery　tobacco　and　bristling　corn。　This　was　a　nicer　area　than　Violin　Road；　the　dirt　here　had　not　yet　been　farmed　to　death。　The　houses　were　not　new　or　fancy；　but　their　yards　were　large　grassy　expanses　unmarred　by　scrap　heaps　or　the　rusting　hulks　of　autos。
　　The　sun　beat　mercilessly　on　the　road　and　on　the　coarse　gravel　that　paved　it；　broken　granite　like　the　crushed　leavings　of　a　cemetery；　mired　in　wet　red　clay；　catching　the　light　and　shattering　it　into　a　million　razored　fragments。　Trevor　was　glad　when　clouds　began　to　blow　in；　a　slowbrewing　summer　thunderstorm　on　the　way。　His　brain　felt　baked　in　his　skull；　and　his　skin　already　tingled　with　fresh　sunburn。　His　backpack　was　waterproof；　to　keep　his　sketchbook　dry。　If　the　storm　held　long　enough；　he　would　start　a　new　drawing　at　the　graveyard。　If　not；　he　would　sit　on　the　ground　and　let　the　rain　soak　him。
　　Trevor　could　feel　the　nearly　silent　presence　of　death　up　ahead；　not　precisely　watchful；　not　even　really　aware；　but　somehow　detectable。　It　was　like　a　frequency　on　a　radio；　or　rather　the　empty　space　on　the　band　between　frequencies：　there　were　no　signals　to　pick　up；　but　still　you　heard　a　faint　electric　hum；　not　quite　silence；　not　quite　sound。　It　was　like　being　in　a　room　someone　had　just　left；　a　room　that　still　bore　the　faint　scent　of　breath　and　skin；　the　subtle　displacement　of　air。　An　epileptic　kid　had　died　on　his　hall　at　the　Boys'　Home　once；　pitched　a　grand　mal　fit　in　the　hours　before　dawn；　when　no　one　was　awake　to　help　him。　Trevor　had　woken　in　the　cool；　still　morning　and　known　that　death　was　close　by；　though　he　hadn't　known　who　it　had　e　to；　or　how。
　　But　the　graveyard　gave　off　only　a　quiet　buzz　like　crickets　in　the　sun；　like　the　cogs　of　a　watch　beginning　to　wind　down。　Set　back　at　the　shady　dead　end　of　Burnt　Church　Road；　surrounded　by　woods　on　three　sides；　it　was　a　place　that　felt　like　surcease　from　pain。　Trevor　had　never　seen　the　burial　place　of　his　family。　As　soon　as　it　came　into　view；　he　knew　that　this　was　a　fitting　prelude　to　going　home。
　　Of　course　they　hadn't　let　him　attend　the　funeral。　As　far　as　Trevor　knew；　there　had　been　no　proper　funeral。　Bobby　McGee　had　burned　most　of　his　bridges　when　they　left　Austin；　and　they　had　no　family　but　each　other。　The　town；　he　supposed；　had　paid　for　the　interment　of　three　cheap　pine　coffins。
　　Later；　a　group　of　ics　artists　and　publishers　had　taken　up　money　for　a　stone。　Someone　had　sent　Trevor　a　Polaroid　snapshot　of　it　years　ago。　He　remembered　turning　the　picture　over　and　over　in　his　hands　until　the　oil　from　his　fingers　marred　the　slick　paper；　wondering　who　had　cared　enough　to　visit　and　photograph　the　grave　of　his　family　but　not　enough　to　rescue　him　from　the　hell　that　was　the　Boys'　Home。
　　He　also　remembered　a　drawing　he　had　done　soon　afterward；　a　cutaway　view　of　the　grave。　He　made　the　headstone　l