sk.thetalisman-第4节

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　and　then　pulled　the　living　meat　out　of　it　like　a　rubber　band。
　　Hhhhhhaaaahhhhh；　the　sand…spout　mocked　in　its　dead；　dry　voice。　That　was　not　a　mind…voice。　No　matter　how　much　Jack　wished　it　were　only　in　his　head；　that　voice　was　real。　His　false　teeth　flew；　Jack；　when　the　old　WILD　CHILD　hit　him；　out　they　went；　rattledy…bang！　Yale　or　no　Yale；　when　the　old　WILD　CHILD　van　es　and　knocks　your　false　teeth　out；　Jacky；　you　got　to　go。　And　your　mother…
　　Then　he　was　running　again；　blindly；　not　looking　back；　his　hair　blown　off　his　forehead；　his　eyes　wide　and　terrified。
　　　
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　　Jack　walked　as　quickly　as　he　could　through　the　dim　lobby　of　the　hotel。　All　the　atmosphere　of　the　place　forbade　running：　it　was　as　quiet　as　a　library；　and　the　gray　light　which　fell　through　the　tall　mullioned　windows　softened　and　blurred　the　already　faded　carpets。　Jack　broke　into　a　trot　as　he　passed　the　desk；　and　the　stooped　ashen…skinned　day…clerk　chose　that　second　to　emerge　through　an　arched　wooden　passage。　The　clerk　said　nothing；　but　his　permanent　scowl　dragged　the　corners　of　his　mouth　another　centimeter　downward。　It　was　like　being　caught　running　in　church。　Jack　wiped　his　sleeve　across　his　forehead；　made　himself　walk　the　rest　of　the　way　to　the　elevators。　He　punched　the　button；　feeling　the　desk　clerk's　frown　burning　between　his　shoulder　blades。　The　only　time　this　week　that　Jack　had　seen　the　desk　clerk　smile　had　been　when　the　man　had　recognized　his　mother。　The　smile　had　met　only　the　minimum　standards　for　graciousness。
　　'I　suppose　that's　how　old　you　have　to　be　to　remember　Lily　Cavanaugh；'　she　had　said　to　Jack　as　soon　as　they　were　alone　in　their　rooms。　There　had　been　a　time；　and　not　so　long　ago；　when　being　identified；　recognized　from　any　one　of　the　fifty　movies　she　had　made　during　the　fifties　and　sixties　（'Queen　of　the　Bs；'　they　called　her；　her　own　ment：　'Darling　of　the　Drive…ins'）…whether　by　a　cabdriver；　waiter；　or　the　lady　selling　blouses　at　the　Wilshire　Boulevard　Saks…perked　her　mood　for　hours。　Now　even　that　simple　pleasure　had　gone　dry　for　her。
　　Jack　jigged　before　the　unmoving　elevator　doors；　hearing　an　impossible　and　familiar　voice　lifting　to　him　from　a　whirling　funnel　of　sand。　For　a　second　he　saw　Thomas　Woodbine；　solid　fortable　Uncle　Tommy　Woodbine；　who　was　supposed　to　have　been　one　of　his　guardians…a　strong　wall　against　trouble　and　confusion…crumpled　and　dead　on　La　Cienega　Boulevard；　his　teeth　like　popcorn　twenty　feet　away　in　the　gutter。　He　stabbed　the　button　again。
　　Hurry　up！
　　Then　he　saw　something　worse…his　mother　hauled　into　a　waiting　car　by　two　impassive　men。　Suddenly　Jack　had　to　urinate。　He　flattened　his　palm　against　the　button；　and　the　bent　gray　man　behind　the　desk　uttered　a　phlegmy　sound　of　disapproval。　Jack　pressed　the　edge　of　his　other　hand　into　that　magic　place　just　beneath　his　stomach　which　lessened　the　pressure　on　his　bladder。　Now　he　could　hear　the　slow　whir　of　the　descending　elevator。　He　closed　his　eyes；　squeezed　his　legs　together。　His　mother　looked　uncertain；　lost　and　confused；　and　the　men　forced　her　into　the　car　as　easily　as　they　would　a　weary　collie　dog。　But　that　was　not　really　happening；　he　knew；　it　was　a　memory…part　of　it　must　have　been　one　of　the　Daydreams…and　it　had　happened　not　to　his　mother　but　to　him。
　　As　the　mahogany　doors　of　the　elevator　slid　away　to　reveal　a　shadowy　interior　from　which　his　own　face　met　him　in　a　foxed　and　peeling　mirror；　that　scene　from　his　seventh　year　wrapped　around　him　once　again；　and　he　saw　one　man's　eyes　turn　to　yellow；　felt　the　other's　hand　alter　into　something　claw…like；　hard　and　inhuman　。　。　。　he　jumped　into　the　elevator　as　if　he　had　been　jabbed　with　a　fork。
　　Not　possible：　the　Daydreams　were　not　possible；　he　had　not　seen　a　man's　eyes　turning　from　blue　to　yellow；　and　his　mother　was　fine　and　dandy；　there　was　nothing　to　be　scared　of；　nobody　was　dying；　and　danger　was　what　a　seagull　meant　to　a　clam。　He　closed　his　eyes　and　the　elevator　toiled　upward。
　　That　thing　in　the　sand　had　laughed　at　him。
　　Jack　squeezed　through　the　opening　as　soon　as　the　doors　began　to　part。　He　trotted　past　the　closed　mouths　of　the　other　elevators；　turned　right　into　the　panelled　corridor　and　ran　past　the　sconces　and　paintings　toward　their　rooms。　Here　running　seemed　less　a　sacrilege。　They　had　407　and　408；　consisting　of　two　bedrooms；　a　small　kitchen；　and　a　living　room　with　a　view　of　the　long　smooth　beach　and　the　vastness　of　the　ocean。　His　mother　had　appropriated　flowers　from　somewhere；　arranged　them　in　vases；　and　set　her　little　array　of　framed　photographs　beside　them。　Jack　at　five；　Jack　at　eleven；　Jack　as　an　infant　in　the　arms　of　his　father。　His　father；　Philip　Sawyer；　at　the　wheel　of　the　old　DeSoto　he　and　Morgan　Sloat　had　driven　to　California　in　the　unimaginable　days　when　they　had　been　so　poor　they　had　often　slept　in　the　car。
　　When　Jack　threw　open　408；　the　door　to　the　living　room；　he　called　out；　'Mom？　Mom？'　
　　The　flowers　met　him；　the　photographs　smiled；　there　was　no　answer。　'Mom！'　The　door　swung　shut　behind　him。　Jack　felt　his　stomach　go　cold。　He　rushed　through　the　living　room　to　the　large　bedroom　on　the　right。　'Mom！'　Another　vase　of　tall　bright　flowers。　The　empty　bed　looked　starched　and　ironed；　so　stiff　a　quarter　would　bounce　off　the　quilt。　On　the　bedside　table　stood　an　assortment　of　brown　bottles　containing　vitamins　and　other　pills。　Jack　backed　out。　His　mother's　window　showed　black　waves　rolling　and　rolling　toward　him。
　　Two　men　getting　out　of　a　nondescript　car；　themselves　nondescript；　reaching　for　her　。　。　。
　　'Mom！'　he　shouted。
　　'I　hear　you；　Jack；'　came　his　mother's　voice　through　the　bathroom　door。　'What　on　earth　。　。　。　？'
　　'Oh；'　he　said；　and　felt　all　his　muscles　relax。　'Oh；　sorry。　I　just　didn't　know　where　you　were。'
　　'Taking　a　bath；'　she　said。　'Getting　ready　for　dinner。　Is　that　still　allowed？'　Jack　realized　that　he　no　longer　had　to　go　to　the　bathroom。　He　dropped　into　one　of　the　overstuffed　chairs　and　closed　his　eyes　in　relief。　She　was　still　okay…
　　Still　okay　for　now；　a　dark　voice　whispered；　and　in　his　mind　he　saw　that　sand　funnel　open　again；　whirling。
　　　
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　　Seven　or　eight　miles　up　the　coast　road；　just　outside　Hampton　Township；　they　found　a　restaurant　called　The　Lobster　Chateau。　Jack　had　given　a　very　sketchy　account　of　his　day…already　he　was　backing　away　from　the　terror　he　had　experienced　on　the　beach；　letting　it　diminish　in　his　memory。　A　waiter　in　a　red　jacket　printed　with　the　yellow　image　of　a　lobster　across　the　back　showed　them　to　a　table　beside　a　long　streaky　window。
　　'Would　Madam　care　for　a　drink？'　The　waiter　had　a　stony…cold　off…season　New　England　face；　and　looking　at　it；　suspecting　the　resentment　of　his　Ralph　Lauren　sport　coat　and　his　mother's　carelessly　worn　Halston　afternoon　dress　behind　those　watery　blue　eyes；　Jack　felt　a　more　familiar　terror　needle　him…simple　homesickness。　Mom；　if　you're　not　really　sick；　what　the　hell　are　we　doing　here？　The　place　is　empty！　It's　creepy！　Jesus！
　　'Bring　me　an　elementary　martini；'　she　said。　The　waiter　raised　his　eyebrows。　'Madam？'
　　'Ice　in　a　glass；'　she　said。　'Olive　on　ice。　Tanqueray　gin　over　olive。　Then…are　you　getting　this？'
　　Mom；　for　God's　sake；　can't　you　see　his　eyes？　You　think　you're　being　charming…he　thinks　you're　making　fun　of　him！　Can't　you　see　his　eyes？
　　No。　She　couldn't。　And　that　failure　of　empathy；　when　she　had　always　been　so　sharp　about　how　other　people　were　feeling；　was　another　stone　against　his　heart。　She　was　withdrawing　。　。　。　in　all　ways。
　　'Yes；　madam。'
　　'Then；'　she　said；　'you　take　a　bottle　of　vermouth…any　brand…and　hold　it　against　the　glass。　Then　you　put　the　vermouth　back　on　the　shelf　and　bring　the　glass　to　me。　'Kay？'
　　'Yes；　madam。'　Watery…cold　New　England　eyes；　staring　at　his　mother　with　no　love　at　all。　We're　alone　here；　Jack　thought；　really　realizing　it　for　the　first　time。　Jeez；　are　we。　'Young　sir？'
　　'I'd　like　a　Coke；'　Jack　said　miserably。
　　The　waiter　left。　Lily　rummaged　in　her　purse；　came　up　with　a　package　of　Herbert　Tarrytoons　（so　she　had　called　them　since　he　had　been　a　baby；　as　in　'Bring　me　my　Tarrytoons　from　over　there　on　the　shelf；　Jacky；'　and　so　he　still　thought　of　them）　and　lit　one。　She　coughed　out　smoke　in　three　harsh　bursts。
　　It　was　another　stone　against　his　heart。　Two　years　ago；　his　mother　had　given　up　smoking　entirely。　Jack　had　waited　for　her　to　backslide　with　that　queer　fatalism　which　is　the　flip　side　of　childish　credulity　and　innocence。　His　mother　had　always　smoked；　she　would　soon　smoke　again。　But　she　had　not　。　。　。　not　until　three　months　ago；　in　New　York。　Carltons。　Walking　around　the　living　room　in　the　apartment　on　Central　Park　West；　puffing　like　a　choo…choo；　or　squatting　in　front　of　the　record　cabinet；　pawing　through　her　old　rock　records　or　her　dead　husband's　old　jazz　records。
　　'You　smoking　again；　Mom？'　he'd　asked　her。　
　　'Yeah；　I'm　smoking　cabbage　leaves；'　she'd　said。　
　　'I　wish　you　wouldn't。'
　　'Why　don't　you　turn　on　the　TV？'　she'd　responded　with　uncharacteristic　sharpness；　turning　toward　him；　her　lips　pressed　tightly　together。　'Maybe　you　can　find　Jimmy　Swaggart　or　Reverend　Ike。　Get　down　there　in　the　hallelujah　corner　with　the　amen　sisters。'
　　'Sorry；'　he'd　muttered。
　　Well…it　was　only　Carltons。　Cabbage　leaves。　But　here　were　the　He