pzb.drawingblood-第21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！


　　He　also　remembered　a　drawing　he　had　done　soon　afterward；　a　cutaway　view　of　the　grave。　He　made　the　headstone　look　shiny　and　slick；　as　if　some　thick　dark　substance　coated　the　granite。　The　earth　below　was　loamy；　seeded　here　and　there　with　worms；　nuggets　of　rock；　stray　bones　e　loose　from　their　moorings。　There　were　three　coffins；　two　large　ones　with　long　shrouded　forms　within；　their　folds　suggesting　ruined　faces。　The　shape　in　the　littlest　coffin　was　strange…it　might　have　been　one　form　grossly　misshapen；　or　two　small　forms　mingled。
　　Mr。　Webb；　the　junior　high　art　teacher　who　hid　Listerine　bottles　full　of　rotgut　whiskey　in　his　desk；　had　called　the　drawing　morbid　and　crumpled　it。　When　Trevor　flew　at　him；　skinny　arms　outstretched；　hands　hooked　into　claws　going　unthinkingly　for　Webb's　eyes；　the　teacher　backhanded　him　before　he　knew　what　he　was　doing。　Both　were　disciplined；　Webb　with　a　week's　suspension；　Trevor　with　expulsion　from　art　class　and　confiscation　of　his　sketchbook。　He　covered　the　walls　of　his　room　with　furious　art：　swarming　thousand…legged　bugs；　soaring　skeletal　birds；　beautifully　lettered　curse　words；　screaming　faces　with　black　holes　for　eyes。
　　They　never　let　him　take　an　art　class　again。
　　Now　here　was　the　place　of　his　drawing　and　his　dreams；　the　place　he　had　imagined　so　often　that　it　already　seemed　familiar。　The　graveyard　was　much　as　he　had　pictured　it；　small　and　shady　and　overgrown；　many　of　the　stones　listing；　the　roots　of　large　trees　twining　through　the　graves　and　down　into　the　rich　soil；　mining　the　fertile　deposits　of　the　bodies　buried　there。　Trevor　wondered　whether　he　might　find　Didi's　face　in　a　knothole；　the　many　colors　of　Momma's　hair　in　a　shock　of　sun…bleached　grass；　the　shape　of　his　father's　long…fingered　hands　in　a　gracefully　gnarled　branch。
　　Maybe。　First；　though；　he　had　to　find　their　grave。
　　Trevor　rummaged　in　his　backpack；　found　a　can　of　Jolt　Cola；　popped　the　top；　and　tipped　the　warm　soda　into　his　mouth。　The　sickly…sweet　taste　foamed　over　his　tongue；　trickled　into　the　cracks　between　his　teeth。　It　tasted　horrible；　like　stale　carbonated　saliva。　But　the　caffeine　sent　immediate　electric　tendrils　into　his　brain；　soothed　the　pounding　at　his　temples；　cleared　the　red　cobwebs　from　his　vision。
　　It　was　the　only　drug　he　had　much　use　for。　Once　he'd　started　to　develop　a　taste　for　speed；　but　quit　the　first　time　he　detected　a　tremor　in　his　hand。　Pot　reminded　him　too　much　of　his　parents　in　the　good　days；　back　when　Bobby　was　drawing。　Alcohol　terrified　him；　it　was　nothing　more　than　death；　distilled　and　bottled。　And　junk　held　such　a　morbid　fascination　for　him　that　he　dared　not　try　it；　though　he　had　been　in　plenty　of　low　haunts　and　back　alleys　where　he　could　have　had　some　if　he'd　wanted　to。　He　knew　it　was　supposed　to　be　clear；　yet　he　imagined　it　black　as　ink；　swirling　out　of　the　needle　and　through　his　veins；　lulling　him　into　some　dreadfully　familiar　nightmare　world。
　　He　drank　the　last　vile　swig　of　Jolt；　stuck　the　empty　can　back　in　his　backpack；　and　set　out　on　a　meandering　path　through　the　graveyard。　The　ground　was　uneven；　the　weeds　in　some　places　tall　enough　to　brush　the　tips　of　his　fingers。　He　caught　at　them；　let　them　slip　through　his　hands。
　　This　was　not　Missing　Mile's　only　burying　ground。　Trevor　had　glimpsed　a　few　small　church　cemeteries　on　his　way　into　town；　and　he　remembered　that　the　surrounding　woods　were　seeded　with　old　Civil　War　graves　and　family　plots；　sometimes　just　two　or　three　rough…hewn　stones　in　a　lonely　little　cluster。
　　But　this　was　the　oldest　one　still　in　use。　There　were　recent　stones；　letters　and　dates　chiseled　so　sharply　that　they　seemed　to　float　just　above　the　slick　surface　of　the　granite。　Flecks　of　quartz　and　mica　caught　the　receding　light。　There　were　old　markers；　stone　crosses　and　arched　tablets　of　slate；　their　edges　crumbling；　their　inscriptions　beginning　to　blur。　There　were　the　small　white　stones　of　children；　some　topped　with　lambs　like　smooth　cakes　of　soap　partly　melted　in　the　shower。　Some　graves　were　splashed　with　gaudy　color；　flowers　arranged　in　bright　sprays　or　tortured　into　wreaths。　Some　had　gone　undecorated　for　a　very　long　time。
　　And　some　had　never　been　decorated。
　　Pain　shot　through　his　hands。　Trevor　found　himself　standing　before　a　long；　plain　slab　of　granite。　He　realized　he　had　been　standing　there　for　several　minutes；　working　his　hands　against　each　other；　twisting　his　fingers　together　until　the　joints　screamed。　He　made　himself　flex　them；　one　by　one。
　　Then　he　raised　his　head　and　looked　at　the　gravestone　of　everyone　he　had　ever　loved。
　　
　　McGEE
　　
　　ROBERT　FREDRIC　FREDRIC　DYLAN　ROSENA　PARKS
　　
　　B。　APRIL　20；　B。　SEPT。　6；　B。　OCT。　20；
　　1937　1969　1942
　　
　　DIED　JUNE　14；　1972
　　
　　Trevor　had　forgotten　that　his　brother's　middle　name　was　Dylan。　Momma　had　always　told　people　it　was　for　Dylan　Thomas；　the　poet。　Bobby　pointed　out　that　the　kid　was　born　in　'69；　no　matter　what　anyone　said；　everybody　would　assume　he　was　named　after　Bob　Dylan。　It　would　haunt　him　all　his　life。
　　But　Bobby　had　taken　care　of　that。
　　During　his　walk　out　here　Trevor　had　wondered　if　they　might　all　start　yammering　at　him；　their　voices　worming　up　through　six　feet　of　hard…packed　earth；　through　twenty　years　of　decay　and　dissolution；　over　the　chirrup　and　buzz　of　insects　in　the　tall　grass　and　the　slow　rumble　of　the　storm　ing　in。　But；　though　he　still　sensed　the　soft　hum　of　the　collective　dead；　his　own　dead　were　silent。　Now　that　he　was　here　he　felt　curiously　flat；　almost　disappointed；　no　one　had　spoken　to　him；　no　skeletal　hand　had　thrust　up　to　grab　his　ankle　and　drag　him　down　with　them。　Left　out　again。
　　Trevor　knelt　and　laid　his　palms　briefly　against　the　cool　stone；　then　put　his　backpack　down　and　stretched　out　on　the　ground。　In　the　center　of　the　grave；　over　Didi；　he　supposed。　It　was　hard　to　believe　that　Didi's　body；　the　body　he　had　last　seen　stiff　and　cold　in　bed　with　its　head　smeared　like　overripe　fruit　across　the　pillow；　lay　directly　beneath　him。　He　wondered　if　any　reconstruction　of　the　heads　and　faces　had　been　done；　or　if　Didi's　fragile　skull　had　been　left　to　fall　to　pieces　like　a　broken　Easter　egg。　The　ground　was　warm　under　his　back；　the　sky　overhead　pregnant　with　clouds；　nearly　black。　If　he　was　going　to　do　any　drawing　here；　he'd　better　get　started。
　　He　unzipped　his　bag　and　took　out　his　sketchbook。　A　pencil　was　wedged　into　the　coiled　wire　binding。　Trevor　fingered　it　but　did　not　pull　it　out　just　yet。　Instead　he　turned　to　the　drawing　he　had　finished　on　the　bus。　Rosena　Black：　the　dead　version　of　Rosena　McGee；　with　none　of　her　wit　or　warmth；　with　nothing　but　a　cold　ruined　shell　of　a　body。　Seven　fingers　broken　as　she　tried　to　fight　Bobby　off　in　the　doorway　to　the　hall；　beyond　which　lay　her　sleeping　sons。　Had　she　been　trying　to　grab　the　hammer；　and　if　she　got　it；　would　she　have　killed　her　husband　with　it？　Trevor　thought　so。
　　That　would　have　changed　every　part　of　the　equation　but　one：　Bobby　would　still　be　dead；　and　Trevor　would　still　be　alive。　Only　if　it　had　gone　down　that　way；　at　least　Trevor　would　know　why　he　was　alive。
　　He　reached　into　his　backpack　again；　felt　way　down　deep　in　the　bottom；　found　a　battered　manila　envelope　and　took　out　three　folded　sheets　of　paper。　The　folds　had　worn　through　many　times　over；　had　been　taped　back　together　and　refolded　until　some　of　the　photocopied　words　on　the　paper　were　nearly　illegible。　It　didn't　matter；　Trevor　knew　them　by　heart。
　　They　all　followed　the　same　format。　Robert　F。　McGee；　Rural　Box　17；　Violin　Road；　male　Caucasian；　35　yrs；　5…9；　130　pounds；　blond　hair；　blue　eyes。　Occupation：　Artist。　Cause　of　death：　Strangulation　by　hanging。　Manner　of　death：　Suicide。　Other　marks：　Scratches　on　face；　arms；　chest　area　。　。　。
　　He　knew　Momma　had　made　those　scratches。　But　they　hadn't　been　enough；　not　nearly　enough。　Fingernails　weren't　much　use　once　the　fingers　were　broken。
　　He　folded　the　autopsy　reports　and　slid　them　back　into　the　envelope。　He　had　stolen　them　from　his　file　at　the　Home　and　carried　them　with　him　since　then。　The　paper　was　worn　soft　and　thin；　read　a　thousand　times。　The　ink　was　smudged　with　the　whorls　of　his　fingerprints。
　　The　storm　was　very　close　now。　The　hum　of　insects　in　the　grass；　the　trill　and　call　of　birds　in　the　surrounding　woods　seemed　very　loud。　The　afternoon　light　had　taken　on　a　lurid　greenish　cast。　The　air　was　full　of　electricity。　Trevor　felt　the　fine　hairs　on　his　arms　standing　up；　the　nape　of　his　neck　prickling。
　　He　flipped　to　a　clean　page　in　his　book；　freed　his　pencil；　and　began　sketching　rapidly。　In　a　few　minutes　he　had　roughed　out　the　first　half　of　his　idea　for　a　strip。
　　It　stemmed　from　an　incident　in　a　biography　of　Charlie　Parker　he　had　read　at　the　Home。　In　his　thirteen　years　there；　Trevor　had　read　just　about　everything　in　the　meager　library。　Most　of　the　other　kids　wondered　why　he　wanted　to　read　anything　at　all；　let　alone　a　book　about　some　dead　musician　who　had　played　a　kind　of　music　that　nobody　listened　to　anymore。
　　The　incident　had　happened　when　Bird　was　touring　the　South　with　the　Jay　McShann　Orchestra。　Jackson；　Mississippi；　was　a　bad　place　for　black　people　in　1941。　（Trevor　doubted　it　was　any　great　shakes　for　them　now。）　There　was　a　curfew　requiring　them　to　be　off　the　street　by　eleven　P。M。