sk.carrie-第4节

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（saviour　Jesus　meek　and　mild）
That　was　good　for　Momma；　all　right　for　her。　She　didn't　have　to　go　among　the　wolves　every　day　of　every　year；　out　into　a　carnival　of　laughers；　joke…tellers；　pointers；　snickerers。　And　didn't　Momma　say　there　would　be　a　Day　of　Judgment。
（the　name　of　that　star　shall　be　wormwood　and　they　shall　be　scourged　with　scorpions）
and　an　angel　with　a　sword？
If　only　it　would　be　today　and　Jesus　ing　not　with　a　lamb　and　a　shepherd's　crook；　but　with　a　boulder　on　each　hand　to　crush　the　laughters　and　the　snickerers；　to　root　out　the　evil　and　destroy　it　screaming　…　a　terrible　Jesus　of　blood　and　righteousness。
And　if　only　she　could　be　His　sword　and　His　arm。
She　had　tried　to　fit。　She　had　defied　Momma　in　a　hundred　little　ways；　had　tried　to　erase　the　red…plague　circle　that　had　been　drawn　around　her　from　the　first　day　she　had　left　the　controlled　environment　of　the　small　house　on　Carlin　Street　and　had　walked　up　to　the　Baker　Street　Grammar　School　with　her　Bible　under　her　arm。　She　could　still　remember　that　day；　the　stares；　and　the　sudden；　awful　silence　when　she　had　gotten　down　on　her　knees　before　lunch　in　the　school　cafeteria…the　laughter　had　begun　on　that　day　and　had　echoed　up　through　the　years。
The　red…plague　circle　was　like　blood　itself…you　could　scrub　and　scrub　and　scrub　and　still　it　would　be　there；　not　erased；　not　clean。　She　had　never　gotten　on　her　knees　in　a　public　place　again；　although　she　had　not　told　Momma　that。　Still；　the　original　memory　remained；　with　her　and　with　them。　She　had　fought　Momma　tooth　and　nail　over　the　Christian　Church　Camp；　and　had　earned　the　money　to　go　herself　by　taking　in　sewing。　Momma　told　her　darkly　that　it　was　Sin；　that　it　was　Methodists　and　Baptists　and　Congregationalists　and　that　it　was　Sin　and　Backsliding。　She　forbade　Carrie　to　swim　at　the　camp。　Yet　although　she　had　swum　and　had　laughed　when　they　ducked　her　（until　she　couldn't　get　her　breath　any　more　and　they　kept　doing　it　and　she　got　panicky　and　began　to　scream）　and　had　tried　to　take　part　in　the　camp's　activities；　a　thousand　practical　jokes　had　been　played　on　ol'　prayin'　Carrie　and　she　had　e　home　on　the　bus　a　week　early；　her　eyes　red　and　socketed　from　weeping；　to　be　picked　up　by　Momma　at　the　station；　and　Momma　had　told　her　grimly　that　she　should　treasure　the　memory　of　her　scourging　as　proof　that　Momma　knew；　that　Momma　was　right；　that　the　only　hope　of　safety　and　salvation　was　inside　the　red　circle。　'For　straight　is　the　gate；'　Momma　said　grimly　in　the　taxi；　and　at　home　she　had　sent　Carrie　to　the　closet　for　six　hours。
Momma　had；　of　course；　forbade　her　to　shower　with　the　other　girls；　Carrie　had　hidden　her　shower　things　in　her　school　locker　and　had　showered　anyway；　taking　part　in　a　naked　ritual　that　was　shameful　and　embarrassing　to　her　in　hopes　that　the　circle　around　her　might　fade　a　little；　just　a　little…
（but　today　o　today）
Tommy　Erbter；　age　five；　was　biking　up　the　other　side　of　the　street。　He　was　a　small；　intense…looking　boy　on　a　twenty…inch　Schwinn　with　bright…red　training　wheels。　He　was　humming　'Scoobie　Doo；　where　are　you？'　under　his　breath。　He　saw　Carrie；　brightened；　and　stuck　out　his　tongue。
'Hey；　ol'　fart…face！　Ol'　prayin'　Carrie！'
Carrie　glared　at　him　with　sudden　smoking　rage。　The　bike　wobbled　on　its　training　wheels　and　suddenly　fell　over。　Tommy　screamed。　The　bike　was　on　top　of　him。　Carrie　smiled　and　walked　on。　The　sound　of　Tommy's　wails　was　sweet；　jangling　music　in　her　ears。
If　only　she　could　make　something　like　that　happen　whenever　she　liked。
（just　did）
She　stopped　dead　seven　houses　up　from　her　own；　staring　blankly　at　nothing。　Behind　her；　Tommy　was　climbing　tearfully　back　on　to　his　bike；　nursing　a　scraped　knee。　He　yelled　something　at　her；　but　she　ignored　it。　She　had　been　yelled　at　by　experts。
She　had　been　thinking：
（fall　off　that　bike　kid　push　you　off　that　bike　and　split　your　rotten　head）
And　something　had　happened
Her　mind　had　。。。　had　。。。　she　groped　for　a　word。　Had　flexed。　That　was　not　just　right；　but　it　was　very　close。　There　had　been　a　curious　mental　bending；　almost　like　an　elbow　curling　a　dumbbell。　That　wasn't　exactly　right　either；　but　it　was　all　she　could　think　of。　An　elbow　with　no　strength。　A　weak　baby　muscle。
Flex。
She　suddenly　stared　fiercely　at　Mrs　Yorraty's　big　picture　window。　She　thought：
（stupid　frumpty　old　bitch　break　that　window）
Nothing。　Mrs　Yorraty's　picture　window　glittered　serenely　in　the　fresh　nine　o'clock　glow　of　morning。　Another　cramp　gripped　Carrie's　belly　and　she　walked　on。
But　。。。
The　light。　And　the　ashtray；　don't　forget　the　ashtray。
She　looked　back
（old　bitch　hates　my　momma）
over　her　shoulder。　Again　it　seemed　that　something　flexed　。。。　but　very　weakly。　The　flow　of　her　thoughts　shuddered　as　if　there　had　been　a　sudden　bubbling　from　a　wellspring　deeper　inside。
The　picture　window　seemed　to　ripple。　Nothing　more。　It　could　have　been　her　eyes。　Could　have　been。
Her　head　began　to　feel　tired　and　fuzzy；　and　it　throbbed　with　the　beginning　of　a　headache。　Her　eyes　were　hot；　as　if　she　had　just　sat　down　and　read　the　Book　of　Revelations　straight　through。
She　continued　to　walk　down　the　street　toward　the　small　white　house　with　the　blue　shutters。　The　familiar　hate…love…dread　feeling　was　churning　inside　her。　Ivy　had　crawled　up　the　west　side　of　the　bungalow　（they　always　called　it　the　bungalow　because　the　White　house　sounded　like　a　political　joke　and　Momma　said　all　politicians　were　crooks　and　sinners　and　would　eventually　give　the　country　over　to　the　Godless　Reds　who　would　put　all　the　believers　of　Jesus　…　even　the　Catholics　…　up　against　the　wall）；　and　the　ivy　was　picturesque；　she　knew　it　was；　but　sometimes　she　hated　it。　Sometimes；　like　now；　the　ivy　looked　like　a　grotesque　giant　hand　ridged　with　great　veins　which　had　sprung　up　out　of　the　ground　to　grip　the　building。　She　approached　it　with　dragging　feet。
Of　course；　there　had　been　the　stones。
She　stopped　again；　blinking　vapidly　at　the　day。　The　stones。　Momma　never　talked　about　that；　Carrie　didn't　even　know　if　her　momma　still　remembered　the　day　of　the　stones。　It　was　surprising　that　she　herself　still　remembered　it。　She　had　been　a　very　little　girl　then。　How　old？　Three？　Four？　There　had　been　the　girl　in　the　white　bathing　suit；　and　then　the　stones　came。　And　things　had　flown　in　the　house。　Here　the　memory　was；　suddenly　bright　and　clear。　As　if　it　had　been　here　all　along；　just　below　the　surface；　waiting　for　a　kind　of　mental　puberty。
Waiting；　maybe；　for　today。
From　Carrie：　The　Black　Dawn　of　T。K。　（Esquire　Magazine；　September　12；　1980）　by　Jack　Gaver：
Estelle　Horan　had　lived　in　the　neat　San　Diego　suburb　of　Parrish　for　twelve　years；　and　outwardly　she　is　typical　Mrs　California：　She　wears　bright　print　shifts　and　smoked　amber　sunglasses；　her　hair　is　black…streaked　blonde；　she　drives　a　neat　maroon　Volkswagen　Formula　Vee　with　a　smile　decal　on　the　petrol　cap　and　a　green…flag　ecology　sticker　on　the　back　window。　Her　husband　is　an　executive　at　the　Parrish　branch　of　the　Bank　of　America；　her　son　and　daughter　are　certified　members　of　the　Southern　California　Sun　'n　Fun　Crowd；　burnished…brown　beach　creatures。　There　is　a　hibachi　in　the　small；　beautifully　kept　back　yard；　and　the　door　chimes　play　a　tinkly　phrase　from　the　refrain　of　'Hey；　Jude。'
But　Mrs　Horan　still　carries　the　thin；　difficult　soil　of　New　England　somewhere　inside　her；　and　when　she　talks　of　Carrie　White　her　face　takes　on　an　odd；　pinched　look　that　is　more　like　Lovecraft　out　of　Arkham　than　Kerouac　out　of　Southern　Cat。
'Of　course　she　was　strange；'　Estelle　Horan　tells　me。　lighting　a　second　Virginia　Slim　a　moment　after　stubbing　out　her　first。　'The　whole　family　was　strange。　Ralph　was　a　construction　worker；　and　people　on　the　street　said　he　carried　a　Bible　and　a　。38　revolver　to　work　with　him　every　day。　The　Bible　was　for　his　coffee　break　and　lunch。　The　。38　was　in　case　he　met　Antichrist　on　the　job；　I　can　remember　the　Bible　myself。　The　revolver　。。。　who　knows？　He　was　a　big　olive…skinned　man　with　his　hair　always　shaved　into　a　flattop　crewcut。　He　always　looked　mean。　And　you　didn't　meet　his　eyes；　not　ever。　They　were　so　intense　they　actually　seemed　to　glow。　When　you　saw　him　ing　you　crossed　the　street　and　you　never　stuck　out　your　tongue　at　his　back；　not　ever。　That's　how　spooky　he　was。'
She　pauses；　puffing　clouds　of　cigarette　smoke　toward　the　pseudo…redwood　beams　that　cross　the　ceiling。　Stella　Horan　lived　on　Carlin　Street　until　she　was　twenty；　muting　to　day　classes　at　Lewin　Business　College　in　Motton。　But　she　remembers　the　incidents　of　the　stones　very　clearly。
'There　are　times；'　she　says；　'when　I　wonder　if　I　might　have　caused　it。　Their　back　yard　was　next　to　ours；　and　Mrs　White　had　put　in　a　hedge　but　it　hadn't　grown　out　yet。　She'd　called　my　mother　dozens　of　times　about　〃the　show〃　I　was　putting　on　in　my　back　yard。　Well；　my　bathing　suit　was　perfectly　decent　…　prudish　by　today's　standards　…　nothing　but　a　plain　old　one…piece　Jantzen。　Mrs　White　used　to　go　on　and　on　about　what　a　scandal　it　was　for　〃her　baby。〃　My　mother。。…。　well；　she　tries　to　be　polite；　but　her　temper　is　so　quick。　I　don't　know　what　Margaret　White　did　to　finally　push　her　over　the　edge　…　called　me　the　Whore　of　Babylon；　I　suppose　…　but　my　mother　told　her　our　yard　was　our　yard　and　I'd　go　out　and　dance　the　hootchie…kootchie　buck　naked　if　that　was　her　pleasure　and　mine。　She　also　told　her　that　she　was　a