sk.dreamcatcher-第29部分

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　from　the　crying；　which　was　like　no　crying　Henry　had　ever　heard　before；　why　would　you　want　to　be　so　mean？
　　　　'Let　me　fix　that；　man；'　Beaver　says。
　　　　'Fit　wha？'　the　kid　asks；　so　ically　perplexed　that　Henry；　Jonesy；　and　Pete　all　burst　out　laughing　again。　Henry　knows　you're　not　supposed　to　laugh　at　retards；　but　he　can't　help　it。　The　kid　just　has　a　naturally　funny　face；　like　a　cartoon　character。
　　　　Beaver　only　smiles。　'Your　sneaker；　man。'
　　　　'Fit　neek？'
　　　　'Yeah；　you　can't　put　it　on　that　way；　fuckin　imposseeblo；　se？or。'　Beaver　takes　the　sneaker　from　him　and　the　kid　watches　with　close　interest　as　the　Beav　slips　his　foot　into　it；　draws　the　laces　firmly　against　the　tongue；　and　then　ties　the　ends　in　a　bow。　When　he's　done；　the　kid　looks　at　the　bow　for　a　moment　longer；　then　at　Beaver。　Then　he　puts　his　arms　around　Beaver's　neck　and　plants　a　big　loud　smack　on　Beaver's　cheek。
　　　　'If　you　guys　tell　anybody　he　did　that…'　Beaver　begins；　but　he's　smiling；　clearly　pleased。　　　　
　　　　'Yeah；　yeah；　you'll　never　chum　with　us　again；　ya　fuckin　wank；'　Jonesy　says；　grinning。　He　has　held　onto　the　lunchbox　and　now　squats　in　front　of　the　kid；　holding　it　out。　'This　yours；　guy？'
　　　　The　kid　grins　with　the　delight　of　someone　encountering　an　old　friend　and　snatches　it。　'Ooby…Ooby…Doo；　where…are…oo？'　he　sings。　'We　gah…sum　urk　oo…do…now！'
　　　　'That's　right；'　Jonesy　agrees。　'Got　some　work　to　do　now。　Gotta　get　you　the　fuck　home　is　what　we　got　to　do。　Douglas　Cavell；　that's　your　name；　right？'
　　　　The　boy　is　holding　his　lunchbox　to　his　chest　in　both　of　his　dirty　hands。　Now　he　gives　it　a　loud　smack；　just　like　the　one　he　put　on　Beaver's　check。　'I　Duddits！'　he　cries。
　　　　'Good；'　Henry　says。　He　takes　one　of　the　boy's　hands；　Jonesy　takes　the　other；　and　they　help　him　to　his　feet。　Maple　Lane　is　only　three　blocks　away　and　they　can　be　there　in　ten　minutes；　always　assuming　that　Richie　and　his　friends　aren't　hanging　around　and　hoping　to　ambush　them。　'Let's　get　you　home；　Duddits。　Bet　your　Mom's　worried　about　you。'
　　　　But　first　Henry　sends　Pete　to　the　corner　of　the　building　to　look　up　the　driveway。　When　Pete　es　back　and　reports　the　coast　clear；　Henry　lets　them　go　that　far。　Once　they　are　on　the　sidewalk；　where　people　can　see　them；　they'll　be　safe。　Until　then；　he　will　take　no　chances。　He　sends　Pete　out　a　second　time；　tells　him　to　scout　all　the　way　to　the　street；　then　whistle　if　everything　is　cool。
　　　　'Dey　gone；'　Duddits　says。
　　　　'Maybe；'　Henry　says；　'but　I'll　feel　better　if　Pete　takes　a　look。'　Duddits　stands　serenely　among　them；　looking　at　the　pictures　on　his　lunchbox；　while　Pete　goes　out　to　look　around。　Henry　feels　okay　about　sending　him。　He　hasn't　exaggerated　Pete's　speed；　if　Richie　and　his　friends　try　to　jump　him；　Pete　will　turn　on　the　jets　and　leave　them　in　the　dust。
　　　　'You　like　this　show；　man？'　Beaver　says；　taking　the　lunchbox。　He　speaks　quietly。　Henry　watches　with　some　interest；　curious　to　see　if　the　retarded　boy　will　cry　for　his　lunchbox。　He　doesn't。
　　　　'Ey　Ooby…Doos！'　the　retarded　kid　says。　His　hair　is　golden；　curly。　Henry　still　can't　tell　what　age　he　is。
　　　　'I　know　they're　Scooby…Doos；'　the　Beav　says　patiently；　'but　they　never　change　their　clothes。　Pete's　right　about　that。　I　mean；　fuck　me　Freddy；　right？'
　　　　'Ite！'　He　holds　out　his　hands　for　the　lunchbox　and　Beaver　gives　it　back。　The　retarded　boy　hugs　it；　then　smiles　at　them。　It　is　a　beautiful　smile；　Henry　thinks；　smiling　himself。　It　makes　him　think　of　how　you　are　cold　when　you　have　been　swimming　in　the　ocean　for　awhile；　but　when　you　e　out；　you　wrap　a　towel　around　your　bony　shoulders　and　goosepimply　back　and　you're　warm　again。
　　　　Jonesy　is　also　smiling。　'Duddits；'　he　says；　'which　one　is　the　dog？'
　　　　The　retarded　boy　looks　at　him；　still　smiling；　but　puzzled　now；　too。
　　　　'The　dog；'　Henry　says。　'Which　one's　the　dog？'
　　　　Now　the　boy　looks　at　Henry；　his　puzzlement　deepening。
　　　　'Which　one's　Scooby；　Duddits？'　Beaver　asks；　and　Duddits's　face　clears。　He　points。
　　　　'Ooby！　Ooby…Ooby…Doo！　Eee　a　dog！'
　　　　They　all　burst　out　laughing；　Duddits　is　laughing　too；　and　then　Pete　whistles。　They　start　moving　and　have　gone　about　a　quarter　of　the　way　up　the　driveway　when　Jonesy　says；　'Wait！　Wait！'
　　　　He　runs　to　one　of　the　dirty　office　windows　and　peers　in；　cupping　his　hands　to　the　sides　of　his　face　to　cut　the　glare；　and　Henry　suddenly　remembers　why　they　came。　Tina　Jean　What's…Her…Face's　pussy。　All　that　seems　about　a　thousand　years　ago。
　　　　After　about　ten　seconds；　Jonesy　calls；　'Henry！　Beav！　e　here！　Leave　the　kid　there！'
　　　　Beaver　runs　to　Jonesy's　side。　Henry　turns　to　the　retarded　boy　and　says；　'Stand　right　there；　Duddits。　Right　there　with　your　lunchbox；　okay？'
　　　　Duddits　looks　up　at　him；　green　eyes　shining；　lunchbox　held　to　his　chest。　After　a　moment　he　nods；　and　Henry　runs　to　join　his　friends　at　the　window。　They　have　to　squeeze　together；　and　Beaver　grumbles　that　someone　is　steppin　on　his　fuckin　feet；　but　they　manage。　After　a　minute　or　so；　puzzled　by　their　failure　to　show　up　on　the　sidewalk；　Pete　joins　them；　poking　his　face　in　between　Henry's　and　Jonesy's　shoulders。　Here　are　four　boys　at　a　dirty　office　window；　three　with　their　hands　cupped　to　the　sides　of　their　faces　to　cut　the　glare；　and　a　fifth　boy　standing　behind　them　in　the　weedy　driveway；　holding　his　lunchbox　against　his　narrow　chest　and　looking　up　at　the　white　sky；　where　the　sun　is　trying　to　break　through。　Beyond　the　dirty　glass　（where　they　will　leave　clean　crescents　to　mark　the　places　where　their　foreheads　rested）　is　an　empty　room。　Scattered　across　the　dusty　floor　are　a　number　of　deflated　white　tadpoles　that　Henry　recognizes　as　jizzbags。　On　one　wall；　the　one　directly　across　from　the　window；　is　a　bulletin　board。　Tacked　to　it　is　a　map　of　northern　New　England　and　a　Polaroid　photograph　of　a　woman　holding　her　skirt　up。　You　can't　see　her　pussy；　though；　just　some　white　panties。　And　she's　no　high…school　girl。　She's　old。　She　must　be　at　least　thirty。
　　　　'Holy　God；'　Pete　says　at　last；　giving　Jonesy　a　disgusted　look。　'We　came　all　the　way　down　here　for　that？'
　　　　For　a　moment　Jonesy　looks　defensive；　then　grins　and　jerks　his　thumb　back　over　his　shoulder。　'No；'　he　says。　'We　came　for　him。'


6

Henry　was　pulled　from　recall　by　an　amazing　and　totally　unexpected　realization：　he　was　terrified；　had　been　terrified　for　some　time。　Some　new　thing　had　been　hovering　just　below　the　threshold　of　his　consciousness；　held　down　by　the　vivid　memory　of　meeting　Duddits。　Now　it　had　burst　forward　with　a　frightened　yell；　insisting　on　recognition。
　　　　He　skidded　to　a　stop　in　the　middle　of　the　road；　flailing　his　arms　to　keep　from　falling　down　in　the　snow　again；　and　then　simply　stood　there　panting；　eyes　wide。　What　now？　He　was　only　two　and　a　half　miles　from　Hole　in　the　Wall；　almost　there；　so　what　the　Christ　now？
　　　　There's　a　cloud；　he　thought。　Some　kind　of　cloud；　that's　what。　I　can't　tell　what　it　is　but　I　can't　tell　it　…　I　never　felt　anything　so　clearly　in　my　life。　My　adult　life；　anyway。　I　have　to　get　off　the　road。　I　have　to　get　away　from　it。　Get　away　from　the　movie。　There's　a　movie　in　the　cloud。　The　kind　Jonesy　likes。　A　scary　one。
　　　　'That's　stupid；'　he　muttered；　knowing　it　wasn't。
　　　　He　could　hear　the　approaching　wasp…whine　of　an　engine。　It　was　ing　from　the　direction　of　Hole　in　the　Wall　and　ing　fast；　a　snowmobile　engine；　almost　certainly　the　Arctic　Cat　stored　at　camp　。　。　。　but　it　was　also　the　redblack　cloud　with　the　movie　going　on　inside　it；　some　terrible　black　energy　rushing　toward　him。
　　　　For　a　moment　Henry　was　frozen　with　a　hundred　childish　horrors；　things　under　beds　and　things　in　coffins；　squirming　bugs　beneath　overturned　rocks　and　the　furry　jelly　that　was　the　remains　of　a　long…dead　baked　rat　the　time　Dad　had　moved　the　stove　out　from　the　wall　to　check　the　plug。　And　horrors　that　weren't　childish　at　all：　his　father；　lost　in　his　own　bedroom　and　bawling　with　fear；　Barry　Newman；　running　from　Henry's　office　with　that　vast　look　of　terror　on　his　face；　terror　because　he　had　been　asked　to　look　at　something　he　wouldn't；　perhaps　couldn't；　acknowledge；　sitting　awake　at　four　in　the　morning　with　a　glass　of　Scotch；　all　the　world　a　dead　socket；　his　own　mind　a　dead　socket　and　oh　baby　it　was　a　thousand　years　till　dawn　and　all　lullabys　had　been　cancelled。　Those　things　were　in　the　redblack　cloud　rushing　down　on　him　like　that　pale　horse　in　the　Bible；　those　things　and　more。　Every　bad　thing　he　had　ever　suspected　was　now　ing　toward　him；　not　on　a　pale　horse　but　on　an　old　snowmobile　with　a　rusty　cowling。　Not　death　but　worse　than　death。　It　was　Mr　Gray。
　　　　Get　off　the　road！　his　mind　screamed。　Get　off　the　road　now！　Hide！
　　　　For　a　moment　he　couldn't　move　…　his　feet　seemed　to　grow　heavy。　The　gash　on　his　thigh；　the　one　the　turnsignal　had　made；　burned　like　a　brand。　Now　he　understood　how　a　deer　caught　in　the　headlights　felt；　or　a　chipmunk　hopping　stupidly　back　and　forth　in　front　of　an　oning　lawnmower。　The　cloud　had　robbed　him　of　his　ability　to　help　himself　He　was　frozen　in　its　rushing　path。
　　　　What　got　him　going；　oddly　enough；　was　all　those　thoughts　of　suicide。　Had　he　agonized　his　way　to　that　decision　on　five　hundred　sleepless　nights　only　to　be　robbed　of　his　option　by　a　kind　of　buck…fever？　No；　by　God；　no；　it　wouldn't　be；　Suffering　was　bad　enough；　allowing　his　own　terrified　body　to　mock　that　suffering　by　locking　up　and　just　standing　here　while　a　demon　ran　him　down　。　。　。　no；　he　would　not　allow　that　to　happen。
　　　　And　so　he　moved；　but　it　was　like　moving　in　a　nightmare；　fighting　his　way　through　air　which　seemed　to　have　grown　as　thick　as　taffy。　His　legs　rose　and　fell　with　the　slowness　of　an　underwater　ballet。　Had　he　been　running　down　this　road？　Actually　running？　The　idea　now　seemed　impossible；　no　matter　how　strong　the　memory。
　　　　Still；　he　kept　moving　while　the　whine　of　the　approaching　engine　grew　closer；　deepening　to　a　stuttery　roar。　And　at　last　he　was　able　to　get　into　the　trees　on　the　south　side　of　the　road。　He　managed　perhaps　fifteen　feet；　far　enough　so　there　was　no　snow　cover；　only　a　dust　of　white　on　the　aromatic　orange…brown　needles。　There　Henry　fell　on　his　knees；　sobbing　with　terror　and　putting　his　gloved　hands　to　his　mouth　to　stifle　the　sound；　because　what　if　it　heard？　It　was　Mr　Gray；　the　cloud　was　Mr　Gray；　and　what　if　it　heard？
　　　　He　crawled　behind　the　moss…girdled　trunk　of　a　spruce　tree；　clutched