sk.thetalisman-第4部分

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　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　Herbert　Tarrytoons…the　blue…and…white　old…fashioned　pack；　the　mouthpieces　that　looked　like　filters　but　which　weren't。　He　could　remember；　vaguely；　his　father　telling　somebody　that　he　smoked　Winstons　and　his　wife　smoked　Black　Lungers。
　　'See　anything　weird；　Jack？'　she　asked　him　now；　her　over…bright　eyes　fixed　on　him；　the　cigarette　held　in　its　old；　slightly　eccentric　position　between　the　second　and　third　fingers　of　the　right　hand。　Daring　him　to　say　something。　Daring　him　to　say；　'Mom；　I　notice　you're　smoking　Herbert　Tarrytoons　again…does　this　mean　you　figure　you　don't　have　anything　left　to　lose？'
　　'No；'　he　said。　That　miserable；　bewildered　homesickness　swept　him　again；　and　he　felt　like　weeping。　'Except　this　place。　It's　a　little　weird。'　
　　She　looked　around　and　grinned。　Two　other　waiters；　one　fat；　one　thin；　both　in　red　jackets　with　golden　lobsters　on　the　back；　stood　by　the　swing　doors　to　the　kitchen；　talking　quietly。　A　velvet　rope　hung　across　the　entrance　to　a　huge　dining　room　beyond　the　alcove　where　Jack　and　his　mother　sat。　Chairs　were　overturned　in　ziggurat　shapes　on　the　tables　in　this　dark　cave。　At　the　far　end；　a　huge　window…wall　looked　out　on　a　gothic　shorescape　that　made　Jack　think　of　Death's　Darling；　a　movie　his　mother　had　been　in。　She　had　played　a　young　woman　with　a　lot　of　money　who　married　a　dark　and　handsome　stranger　against　her　parents'　wishes。　The　dark　and　handsome　stranger　took　her　to　a　big　house　by　the　ocean　and　tried　to　drive　her　crazy。　Death's　Darling　had　been　more　or　less　typical　of　Lily　Cavanaugh's　career…she　had　starred　in　a　lot　of　black…and…white　films　in　which　handsome　but　forgettable　actors　drove　around　in　Ford　convertibles　with　their　hats　on。
　　The　sign　hanging　from　the　velvet　rope　barring　the　entrance　to　this　dark　cavern　was　ludicrously　understated：　THIS　SECTION　CLOSED。
　　'It　is　a　little　grim；　isn't　it？'　she　said。
　　'It's　like　the　Twilight　Zone；'　he　replied；　and　she　barked　her　harsh；　infectious；　somehow　lovely　laugh。
　　'Yeah；　Jacky；　Jacky；　Jacky；'　she　said；　and　leaned　over　to　ruffle　his　too…long　hair；　smiling。
　　He　pushed　her　hand　away；　also　smiling　（but　oh；　her　fingers　felt　like　bones；　didn't　they？　She's　almost　dead；　Jack　。　。　。　）。　'Don't　touch…a　da　moichendise。'
　　'Off　my　case。'
　　'Pretty　hip　for　an　old　bag。'
　　'Oh　boy；　try　to　get　movie　money　out　of　me　this　week。'
　　'Yeah。'　
　　They　smiled　at　each　other；　and　Jack　could　not　ever　remember　a　need　to　cry　so　badly；　or　remember　loving　her　so　much。　There　was　a　kind　of　desperate　toughness　about　her　now　。　。　。　going　back　to　the　Black　Lungers　was　part　of　that。
　　Their　drinks　came。　She　tipped　her　glass　toward　his。　'Us。'
　　'Okay。'　
　　They　drank。　The　waiter　came　with　menus。
　　'Did　I　pull　his　string　a　little　hard　before；　Jacky？'
　　'Maybe　a　little；'　he　said。
　　She　thought　about　it；　then　shrugged　it　away。　'What　are　you　having？'
　　'Sole；　I　guess。'
　　'Make　it　two。'　
　　So　he　ordered　for　both　of　them；　feeling　clumsy　and　embarrassed　but　knowing　it　was　what　she　wanted…and　he　could　see　in　her　eyes　when　the　waiter　left　that　he　hadn't　done　too　bad　a　job。　A　lot　of　that　was　Uncle　Tommy's　doing。　After　a　trip　to　Hardee's　Uncle　Tommy　had　said：　'I　think　there's　hope　for　you；　Jack；　if　we　can　just　cure　this　revolting　obsession　with　processed　yellow　cheese。'
　　
　　The　food　came。　He　wolfed　his　sole；　which　was　hot　and　lemony　and　good。　Lily　only　toyed　with　hers；　ate　a　few　green　beans；　and　then　pushed　things　around　on　her　plate。
　　'School　started　up　here　two　weeks　ago；'　Jack　announced　halfway　through　the　meal。　Seeing　the　big　yellow　buses　with　ARCADIA　DISTRICT　SCHOOLS　written　on　the　sides　had　made　him　feel　guilty…under　the　circumstances　he　thought　that　was　probably　absurd；　but　there　it　was。　He　was　playing　hooky。
　　She　looked　at　him；　enquiring。　She　had　ordered　and　finished　a　second　drink；　now　the　waiter　brought　a　third。
　　Jack　shrugged。　'Just　thought　I'd　mention　it。'
　　'Do　you　want　to　go？'
　　'Huh？　No！　Not　here！'
　　'Good；'　she　said。　'Because　I　don't　have　your　goddam　vaccination　papers。　They　won't　let　you　in　s