sk.dreamcatcher-第4节

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　　　　'Yes；　fine；　but…'
　　　　'Okay。'　Pete　feels　happy。　That's　good；　happy　is　good。　A　lot　of　days　these　last　couple　of　years　he　hasn't　felt　within　a　holler　of　happy；　and　he　doesn't　know　why。　Too　many　late　and　soggy　nights　cruising　the　bars　along　302　between　here　and　North　Conway？　Okay；　but　is　that　all？　Maybe　not；　but　this　isn't　the　time　to　think　about　it。　The　lady　has　an　appointment　to　keep。　If　she　keeps　it　and　sells　the　house；　who　knows　how　lucky　Pete　Moore　might　get？　And　even　if　he　doesn't　get　lucky；　he's　going　to　be　able　to　help　her。　He　feels　it。
　　　　'I'm　going　to　do　something　a　little　weird　now；'　he　says；　'but　don't　let　it　worry　you；　okay？　It's　just　a　little　trick；　like　putting　your　finger　under　your　nose　to　stop　a　sneeze　or　thumping　your　forehead　when　you're　trying　to　remember　someone's　name。　Okay？'
　　　　'Sure；　I　guess；'　she　says；　totally　mystified。
　　　　Pete　closes　his　eyes；　raises　one　loosely　fisted　hand　in　front　of　his　face；　then　pops　up　his　index　finger。　He　begins　to　tick　it　back　and　forth　in　front　of　him。
　　　　Trish　looks　at　Cathy；　the　counter…girl。　Cathy　shrugs　as　if　to　say　Who　knows？
　　　　'Mr　Moore？'　Trish　sounds　uneasy　now。　'Mr　Moore；　maybe　I　just　ought　to…'
　　　　Pete　opens　his　eyes；　takes　a　deep　breath；　and　drops　his　hand。　He　looks　past　her；　to　the　door。
　　　　'Okay；'　he　says。　'So　you　came　in　His　eyes　move　as　if　watching　her　e　in。　'And　you　went　to　the　counter　。　。　。'　His　eyes　go　there。　'You　asked；　probably；　〃Which　aisle's　the　aspirin　in？〃　Something　like　that。'
　　　　'Yes；　I…'
　　　　'Only　you　got　something；　too。'　He　can　see　it　on　the　candy…rack；　a　bright　yellow　mark　something　like　a　handprint。　'Snickers　bar？'
　　　　'Mounds。'　Her　brown　eyes　are　wide。　'How　did　you　know　that？'
　　　　'You　got　the　candy；　then　you　went　up　to　get　the　aspirin。　He's　looking　up　Aisle　2　now。　'After　that　you　paid　and　went　out　。　。　。　let's　go　outside　a　minute。　Seeya；　Cathy。'
　　　　Cathy　only　nods；　looking　at　him　with　wide　eyes。
　　　　Pete　walks　outside；　ignoring　the　tinkle　of　the　bell；　ignoring　the　rain；　which　now　really　is　rain。　The　yellow　is　on　the　sidewalk；　but　fading。　The　rain's　washing　it　away。　Still；　he　can　see　it　and　it　Pleases　him　to　see　it。　That　feeling　of　click。　Sweet。　It's　the　line。　It　has　been　a　long　time　since　he's　seen　it　so　clearly。
　　　　'Back　to　your　car；'　he　says；　talking　to　himself　now。　'Back　to　take　a　couple　of　your　aspirin　with　your　water　。　。　。'
　　　　He　crosses　the　sidewalk；　slowly；　to　the　Taurus。　The　woman　walks　behind　him；　eyes　more　worried　than　ever　now。　Almost　frightened。
　　　　'You　opened　the　door。　You've　got　your　purse　。　。　。　your　keys　。　。　。　your　aspirin　。　。　。　your　candy　。　。　。　all　this　stuff　。　。　。　juggling　it　around　from　hand　to　hand　。　。　。　and　that's　when　。　。　。'
　　　　He　bends；　fishes　in　the　water　flowing　along　the　gutter；　hand　in　it　all　the　way　up　to　the　wrist；　and　brings　something　up。　He　gives　it　a　magician's　flourish。　Keys　flash　silver　in　the　dull　day。
　　　　'　。　。　。　you　dropped　your　keys。'　　　　
　　　　She　doesn't　take　them　at　first。　She　only　gapes　at　him；　as　if　he　has　performed　an　act　of　witchcraft　（warlock…craft；　in　his　case；　maybe）　before　her　eyes。
　　　　'Go　on；'　he　says；　smile　fading　a　little。　'Take　them。　It　wasn't　anything　too　spooky；　you　know。　Mostly　just　deduction。　I'm　good　at　stuff　like　that。　Hey；　you　should　have　me　in　the　car　sometime　when　you're　lost。　I'm　great　at　getting　unlost。'
　　　　She　takes　the　keys；　then。　Quickly；　being　careful　not　to　touch　his　fingers；　and　he　knows　right　then　that　she　isn't　going　to　meet　him　later。　It　doesn't　take　any　special　gift　to　figure　that；　he　only　has　to　look　in　her　eyes；　which　are　more　frightened　than　grateful。
　　　　'Thank。　。　。　thank　you；'　she　says。　All　at　once　she's　measuring　the　space　between　them；　not　wanting　him　to　use　too　much　of　it　up。
　　　　'Not　a　problem。　Now　don't　forget。　The　West　Wharf；　at　five…thirty。　Best　fried　clams　in　this　part　of　the　state。'　Keeping　up　the　fiction。　You　have　to　keep　it　up；　sometimes；　no　matter　how　you　feel。　And　although　some　of　the　joy　has　gone　out　of　the　afternoon；　some　is　still　there；　he　has　seen　the　line；　and　that　always　makes　him　feel　good。　It's　a　minor　trick；　but　it's　nice　to　know　it's　still　there。
　　　　'Five…thirty；'　she　echoes；　but　as　she　opens　her　car　door；　the　glance　she　throws　back　over　her　shoulder　is　the　kind　you'd　give　to　a　dog　that　might　bite　if　it　got　off　its　leash。　She　is　very　glad　she　won't　be　riding　up　to　Fryeburg　with　him。　Pete　doesn't　need　to　be　a　mind…reader　to　know　that；　either。
　　　　He　stands　there　in　the　rain；　watching　her　back　out　of　the　slant　parking　space；　and　when　she　drives　away　he　tosses　her　a　cheerful　car…salesman's　wave。　She　gives　him　a　distracted　little　flip　of　the　fingers　in　return；　and　of　course　when　he　shows　up　at　The　West　Wharf　（at　five…fifteen；　just　to　be　Johnny　on　the　spot；　Just　in　case）　she　isn't　there　and　an　hour　later　she's　still　not　there。　He　stays　for　quite　awhile　just　the　same；　sitting　at　the　bar　and　drinking　beer；　watching　the　traffic　out　on　302。　He　thinks　he　sees　her　go　by　without　slowing　at　about　five…forty；　a　green　Taurus　busting　past　in　a　rain　which　has　now　bee　heavy；　a　green　Taurus　that　might　or　might　not　be　pulling　a　light　yellow　nimbus　behind　it　that　fades　at　once　in　the　graying　air。
　　　　Same　shit；　different　day；　he　thinks；　but　now　the　joy　is　gone　and　the　sadness　is　back；　the　sadness　that　feels　like　something　deserved；　the　price　of　some　not…quite…forgotten　betrayal。　He　lights　a　cigarette　…　in　the　old　days；　as　a　kid；　he　used　to　pretend　to　smoke　but　now　he　doesn't　have　to　pretend　anymore　…　and　orders　another　beer。
　　　　Milt　brings　it；　but　says；　'You　ought　to　lay　some　food　on　top　of　that；　Peter。'
　　　　So　Pete　orders　a　plate　of　fried　clams　and　even　eats　a　few　dipped　in　tartar　sauce　while　he　drinks　another　couple　of　beers；　and　at　some　point；　before　moving　on　up　the　line　to　some　other　joint　where　he　isn't　so　well…known；　he　tries　to　call　Jonesy；　down　there　in　Massachusetts。　But　Jonesy　and　Carla　are　enjoying　the　rare　night　out；　he　only　gets　the　baby…sitter；　who　asks　him　if　he　wants　to　leave　a　message。　　　　
　　　　Pete　almost　says　no；　then　reconsiders。　'Just　tell　him　Pete　called。　Tell　him　Pete　said　SSDD。'
　　　　　'S　。　。　。　S　。　。　。　D　。　。　。　D。'　She　is　writing　it　down。　'Will　he　know　what…'
　　　　'Oh　yeah；'　Pete　says；　'he'll　know。'
　　　　By　midnight　he's　drunk　in　some　New　Hampshire　dive；　the　Muddy　Rudder　or　maybe　it's　the　Ruddy　Mother；　he's　trying　to　tell　some　chick　who's　as　drunk　as　he　is　that　once　he　really　believed　he　was　going　to　be　the　first　man　to　set　foot　on　Mars；　and　although　she's　nodding　and　saying　yeah…yeah…yeah；　he　has　an　idea　that　all　she　understands　is　that　she'd　like　to　get　outside　of　one　more　coffee　brandy　before　closing。　And　that's　okay。　It　doesn't　matter。　Tomorrow　he'll　wake　up　with　a　headache　but　he'll　go　in　to　work　just　the　same　and　maybe　he'll　sell　a　car　and　maybe　he　won't　but　either　way　things　will　go　on。　Maybe　he'll　sell　the　burgundy　Thunderbird；　goodbye；　sweetheart。　Once　things　were　different；　but　now　they're　the　same。　He　reckons　he　can　live　with　that；　for　a　guy　like　him；　the　rule　of　thumb　is　just　SSDD；　and　so　fucking　what。　You　grew　up；　became　a　man；　had　to　adjust　to　taking　less　than　you　hoped　for；　you　discovered　the　dream…machine　had　a　big　OUT　OF　ORDER；　sign　on　it。
　　　　In　November　he'll　go　hunting　with　his　friends；　and　that's　enough　to　took　forward　to　。　。　。　that；　and　maybe　a　big　old　sloppy…lipstick　blowjob　from　this　drunk　chick　out　in　his　car。　Wanting　more　is　just　a　recipe　for　heartache。
　　　　Dreams　are　for　kids。

1998：　Henry　Treats　a　Couch　Man

The　room　is　dim。　Henry　always　keeps　it　that　way　when　he's　seeing　patients。　It's　interesting　to　him　how　few　seem　to　notice　it。　He　thinks　it's　because　their　states　of　mind　are　so　often　dim　to　start　with。　Mostly　he　sees　neurotics　（The　wood's　are　full　of　em；　as　he　once　told　Jonesy　while　they　were　in；　ha…ha；　the　woods）　and　it　is　his　assessment　…　pletely　unscientific　…　that　their　problems　act　as　a　kind　of　polarizing　shield　between　them　and　the　rest　of　the　world。　As　the　neurosis　deepens；　so　does　the　interior　darkness。　Mostly　what　he　feels　for　his　patients　is　a　kind　of　distanced　sympathy。　Sometimes　pity。　A　very　few　of　them　make　him　impatient。　Barry　Newman　is　one　of　those。
　　　　Patients　who　enter　Henry's　office　for　the　first　time　are　presented　with　a　choice　they　usually　don't　register　as　a　choice。　When　they　e　in　they　see　a　pleasant　（if　rather　dim）　room；　with　a　fireplace　to　the　left。　It's　equipped　with　one　of　those　everlasting　logs；　steel　disguised　as　birch　with　four　cunningly　placed　gas　jets　beneath。　Beside　the　fireplace　is　a　wing　chair；　where　Henry　always　sits　beneath　an　excellent　reproduction　of　Van　Gogh's　'Marigolds'。　（Henry　sometimes　tells　colleagues　that　every　psychiatrist　should　have　at　least　one　Van　Gogh　in　his　or　her　consulting　space。）　Across　the　room　is　an　easy　chair　and　a　couch。　Henry　is　always　interested　to　see　which　one　a　new　patient　will　choose。　Certainly　he　has　been　plying　the　trade　long　enough　to　know　that　what　a　patient　chooses　the　first　time　is　what　he　or　she　will　choose　almost　every　time。　There　is　a　paper　in　this。　Henry　knows　there　is；　but　he　cannot　isolate　the　thesis。　And　in　any　case；　he　finds　he　has　less　interest　these　days　in　such　things　as　papers　and　journals　and　conventions　and　colloquia。　They　used　to　matter；　but　now　things　have　changed。　He　is　sleeping　less；