sk.dreamcatcher-第14节

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eeing　it。　Although　McCarthy's　plexion　was　still　leaden；　he　had　begun　to　break　a　sweat　…　great　big　beads　that　formed　on　his　brow　and　temples；　and　then　ran　down　his　cheeks　like　clear　oil。　This　in　spite　of　the　cold　air　now　circulating　in　the　room。
　　　　'You　know；'　he　said；　'I　bet　you're　right。　I'm　tired；　that's　all　it　is。　My　stomach　hurts；　but　that　part's　just　stress。　And　I　was　eating　all　sorts　of　things；　bushes　and　just　。　。　。　gosh；　oh　dear；　I　don't　know　。　。　。　all　sorts　of　things。'　He　scratched　his　cheek。　'Is　this　darn　thing　on　my　face　bad？　Is　it　bleeding？'
　　　　'No；'　Jonesy　said。　'Just　red。'
　　　　'It's　a　reaction；'　McCarthy　said　dolefully。　'I　get　the　same　thing　from　peanuts。　I'll　lie　down。　That's　the　ticket；　all　right。'
　　　　He　got　to　his　feet；　then　tottered。　Beaver　and　Jonesy　both　reached　for　him；　but　McCarthy　steadied　on　his　feet　before　either　of　them　could　take　hold。　Jonesy　could　have　sworn　that　what　he　had　taken　for　a　middle…aged　potbelly　was　almost　gone。　Was　it　possible？　Could　the　man　have　passed　that　much　gas？　He　didn't　know。　All　he　knew　for　sure　was　that　it　had　been　a　mighty　fart　and　an　even　mightier　belch；　the　sort　of　thing　you　could　yarn　on　for　twenty　years　or　more；　starting　off　We　used　to　go　up　to　Beaver　Clarendon's　camp　the　first　week　of　hunting　season　every　year；　and　one　November　…　it　was　'01；　the　year　of　the　big　fall　storm　…　this　fella　wandered　into　camp　。　。　。　Yes；　it　would　make　a　good　story；　people　would　laugh　about　the　big　fart　and　the　big　burp；　people　always　laughed　at　stories　about　farts　and　burps。　He　wouldn't　tell　the　part　about　how　he　had　e　within　eight　ounces　of　press　on　a　Garand's　trigger　of　taking　McCarthy's　life；　though。　No；　he　wouldn't　want　to　tell　that　part。　Would　he？
　　　　Pete　and　Henry　were　doubling；　and　so　Beaver　led　McCarthy　to　the　other　downstairs　bedroom；　the　one　Jonesy　had　been　using。　The　Beav　shot　him　a　little　apologetic　look；　and　Jonesy　shrugged。　It　was　the　logical　place；　after　all。　Jonesy　could　double　in　with　Beav　tonight　…　Christ　knew　they'd　done　it　enough　as　kids　…　and　in　truth；　he　wasn't　sure　McCarthy　could　have　managed　the　stairs；　anyway。　He　liked　the　man's　sweaty；　leaden　look　less　and　less。
　　　　Jonesy　was　the　sort　of　man　who　made　his　bed　and　then　buried　it　…　books；　papers；　clothes；　bags；　assorted　toiletries。　He　swept　all　this　off　as　quick　as　he　could；　then　turned　back　the　coverlet。
　　　　'You　need　to　take　a　squirt；　partner？'　the　Beav　asked。
　　　　McCarthy　shook　his　head。　He　seemed　almost　hypnotized　by　the　clean　blue　sheet　Jonesy　had　uncovered。　Jonesy　was　once　again　struck　by　how　glassy　the　man's　eyes　were。　Like　the　eyes　of　a　stuffed　trophy　head。　Suddenly　and　unbidden；　he　saw　his　living　room　back　in　Brookline；　that　upscale　municipality　next　door　to　Boston。　Braided　rugs；　early　American　furniture　。　。　。　and　McCarthy's　head　mounted　over　the　fireplace。　Bagged　that　one　up　in　Maine；　he　would　tell　his　guests　at　cocktail　parties。　Big　bastard；　dressed　out　at　one…seventy。
　　　　He　closed　his　eyes；　and　when　he　opened　them；　the　Beav　was　looking　at　him　with　something　like　alarm。
　　　　'Twinge　in　the　hip；'　he　said。　'Sorry。　Mr　McCarthy　…　Rick　…　you'll　want　to　take　off　your　sweater　and　pants。　Boots　too；　of　course。
　　　　McCarthy　looked　around　at　him　like　a　man　roused　from　a　dream。　'Sure；'　he　said。　'You　bet。'
　　　　'Need　help？'　Beaver　asked。
　　　　'No；　gosh　no。'　McCarthy　looked　alarmed　or　amused　or　both。　'I'm　not　that　far　gone。'
　　　　'Then　I'll　leave　Jonesy　to　supervise。'
　　　　Beaver　slipped　out　and　McCarthy　began　to　undress；　starting　by　pulling　his　sweater　off　over　his　head。　Beneath　it　he　wore　a　red…and…black　hunter's　shirt；　and　beneath　that　a　thermal　undershirt。　And　yes；　there　was　less　gut　poking　out　the　front　of　that　shirt；　Jonesy　was　sure　of　it。
　　　　Well　。　。　。　almost　sure。　Only　an　hour　ago；　he　reminded　himself；　he　had　been　sure　McCarthy's　coat　was　the　head　of　a　deer。
　　　　McCarthy　sat　down　in　the　chair　beside　the　window　to　take　off　his　shoes；　and　when　he　did　there　was　another　fart　…　not　as　long　as　the　first　one；　but　just　as　loud　and　hoarse。　Neither　of　them　mented　on　it；　or　the　resulting　smell；　which　was　strong　enough　in　the　little　room　to　make　Jonesy's　eyes　feel　like　watering。
　　　　McCarthy　kicked　his　boots　off　…　they　made　clunking　sounds　on　the　wooden　floor　…　then　stood　up　and　unbuckled　his　belt。　As　he　pushed　his　blue　jeans　down；　revealing　the　lower　half　of　his　thermal　underwear；　the　Beav　came　back　in　with　a　ceramic　pot　from　upstairs。　He　put　it　down　by　the　head　of　the　bed。　'Just　in　case　you　have　to；　you　know；　urk。　Or　if　you　get　one　of　those　collect　calls　you　just　have　to　take　right　away。'
　　　　McCarthy　looked　at　him　with　a　dullness　Jonesy　found　alarming　…　a　stranger　in　what　had　been　his　bedroom；　somehow　ghostly　in　his　baggy　long　underwear。　An　ill　stranger。　The　question　was　just　how　ill。
　　　　'In　case　you　can't　make　the　bathroom；'　the　Beav　explained。　'Which；　by　the　way；　is　close　by。　Just　bang　a　left　outside　the　bedroom　door；　but　remember　it's　the　second　door　as　you　go　along　the　wall；　okay？　If　you　forget　and　go　in　the　first　one；　you'll　be　taking　a　shit　in　the　linen　closet。'
　　　　Jonesy　was　surprised　into　a　laugh　and　didn't　care　for　the　sound　of　it　in　the　slightest　…　high　and　slightly　hysterical。
　　　　'I　feel　better　now；'　McCarthy　said；　but　Jonesy　detected　absolutely　zero　sincerity　in　the　man's　voice。　And　the　guy　just　stood　there　in　his　underwear；　like　an　android　whose　memory　circuits　have　been　about　three…quarters　erased。　Before；　he　had　shown　some　life；　if　not　exactly　vivacity；　now　that　was　gone；　like　the　color　in　his　cheeks。
　　　　'Go　on；　Rick；'　Beaver　said　quietly。　'Lie　down　and　catch　some　winks。　Work　on　getting　your　strength　back。'
　　　　'Yes；　okay。'　He　sat　down　on　the　freshly　opened　bed　and　looked　out　the　window。　His　eyes　were　wide　and　blank。　Jonesy　thought　the　smell　in　the　room　was　dissipating；　but　perhaps　he　was　just　getting　used　to　it；　the　way　you　got　used　to　the　smell　of　the　monkeyhouse　at　the　zoo　if　you　stayed　in　there　long　enough。　'Gosh；　look　at　it　snow。'
　　　　'Yeah；'　Jonesy　said。　'How's　your　stomach　now？'
　　　　'Better。'　McCarthy's　eyes　moved　to　Jonesy's　face。　They　were　the　solemn　eyes　of　a　frightened　child。　'I'm　sorry　about　passing　gas　that　way　…　I　never　did　anything　like　that　before；　not　even　in　the　Army　when　it　seemed　like　we　ate　beans　every　day　…　but　I　feel　better。'
　　　　'Sure　you　don't　need　to　take　a　leak　before　you　turn　in？'　Jonesy　had　four　children；　and　this　question　came　almost　automatically。　　　　
　　　　'No。　I　went　in　the　woods　just　before　you　found　me。　Thank　you　for　taking　me　in。　Thank　you　both。'
　　　　'Ah；　hell；'　Beaver　said；　and　shuffled　his　feet　unfortably。　'Anybody　woulda。'
　　　　'Maybe；'　McCarthy　said。　'And　maybe　not。　In　the　Bible　it　says；　〃Behold；　I　stand　at　the　door　and　knock。〃'　Outside；　the　wind　gusted　more　fiercely　yet；　making　Hole　in　the　Wall　shake。　Jonesy　waited　for　McCarthy　to　finish　…　it　sounded　as　if　he　had　more　to　say　…　but　the　man　just　swung　his　feet　into　bed　and　pulled　the　covers　up。
　　　　From　somewhere　deep　in　Jonesy's　bed　there　came　another　of　those　long；　rasping　farts；　and　Jonesy　decided　that　was　enough　for　him。　It　was　one　thing　to　let　in　a　wayfaring　stranger　when　he　came　to　your　door　just　ahead　of　a　storm；　it　was　another　to　stand　around　while　he　laid　a　series　of　gas…bombs。
　　　　The　Beaver　followed　him　out　and　closed　the　door　gently　behind　him。


5

When　Jonesy　started　to　talk；　the　Beav　shook　his　head；　raised　his　finger　to　his　lips；　and　led　Jonesy　across　the　big　room　to　the　kitchen；　which　was　as　far　as　they　could　get　from　McCarthy　without　going　into　the　shed　out　back。
　　　　'Man；　that　guy's　in　a　world　of　hurt；'　Beaver　said；　and　in　the　harsh　glow　of　the　kitchen's　fluorescent　strips；　Jonesy　could　see　just　how　worried　his　old　friend　was。　The　Beav　rummaged　into　the　wide　front　pocket　of　his　overalls；　found　a　toothpick；　and　began　to　nibble　on　it。　In　three　minutes　…　the　length　of　time　it　took　a　dedicated　smoker　to　finish　a　cigarette　…　he　would　reduce　it　to　a　palmful　of　flax…fine　splinters。　Jonesy　didn't　know　how　the　Beav's　teeth　stood　up　to　it　（or　his　stomach）；　but　he　had　been　doing　it　his　whole　life。
　　　　'I　hope　you're　wrong；　but　。　。　。'　Jonesy　shook　his　head。　'Did　you　ever　smell　anything　like　those　farts？'
　　　　'Nope；'　Beaver　said。　'But　there's　a　lot　more　going　on　with　that　guy　than　just　a　bad　stomach。'
　　　　'What　do　you　mean？'
　　　　'Well；　he　thinks　it's　November　eleventh；　for　one　thing。'
　　　　Jonesy　had　no　idea　what　the　Beav　was　talking　about。　November　eleventh　was　the　day　their　own　hunting　party　had　arrived；　bundled　into　Henry's　Scout；　as　always。
　　　　'Beav；　it's　Wednesday。　It's　the　fourteenth。'
　　　　Beaver　nodded；　smiling　a　little　in　spite　of　himself。　The　toothpick；　which　had　already　picked　up　an　appreciable　warp；　rolled　from　one　side　of　his　mouth　to　the　other。　'I　know　that。　You　know　that。　Rick；　he　don't　know　that。　Rick　thinks　it's　the　Lord's　Day。'
　　　　'Beav；　what　exactly　did　he　say　to　you？'　Whatever　it　was；　it　couldn't　have　been　much　…　it　just　didn't　take　that　long　to　scramble　a　couple　of　eggs　and　heat　a　can　of　soup。　That　started　a　train　of　thought；　and　as　Beaver　talked；　Jonesy　ran　water　to　do　up　the　few　dishes。　He　didn't　mind　camping　out；　but　he　was　damned　if　he　was　going　to　live　in　squalor；　as　so　many　men　seemed　willing　to　do　when　they　left　their　homes　and　went　into　the　woods。
　　　　'