sk.thetalisman-第47部分

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the　already　nearly　tolerable　air。
　　
　　And　Rand　McNally；　that　invaluable　panion；　told　him　that　the　acres　of　water　way　down　there　were　Lake　Erie…instead　of　losing　days　of　travel　time；　he　had　gained　them。
　　But　before　the　boy　could　decide　that　he'd　be　smarter　after　all　if　he　jumped　back　into　the　Territories　as　soon　as　he　thought　it　might　be　safe…which　is　to　say；　as　soon　as　Morgan's　diligence　had　roared　long　past　the　place　he　had　been…before　he　could　do　that；　before　he　could　even　begin　to　think　about　doing　that；　he　had　to　go　down　into　the　smokey　little　city　of　Angola　and　see　if　this　time　Jack　Sawyer；　Jack…O；　had　played　any　of　those　changes；　Daddy。　He　began　to　make　his　way　down　the　slope；　a　twelve…year…old　boy　in　jeans　and　a　plaid　shirt；　tall　for　his　age；　already　beginning　to　look　uncared…for；　with　suddenly　too　much　worry　in　his　face。
　　Halfway　down　the　long　slope；　he　realized　that　he　was　thinking　in　English　again。
　　　
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　　Many　days　later；　and　a　long　way　west：　the　man；　Buddy　Parkins　by　name；　who；　just　out　of　Cambridge；　Ohio；　on　U。S。　40；　had　picked　up　a　tall　boy　calling　himself　Lewis　Farren；　would　have　recognized　that　look　of　worry…this　kid　Lewis　looked　like　worry　was　about　to　sink　into　his　face　for　good。　Lighten　up；　son；　for　your　own　sake　if　no　one　else's；　Buddy　wanted　to　tell　the　boy。　But　the　boy　had　troubles　enough　for　ten；　according　to　his　story。　Mother　sick；　father　dead；　sent　off　to　some　schoolteacher　aunt　in　Buckeye　Lake　。　。　。　Lewis　Farren　had　plenty　to　trouble　him。　He　looked　as　though　he　had　not　seen　as　much　as　five　dollars　all　together　since　the　previous　Christmas。　Still　。　。　。　Buddy　thought　that　somewhere　along　the　line　this　Farren　kid　was　jiving　him。
　　For　one　thing；　he　smelled　like　farm；　not　town。　Buddy　Parkins　and　his　brothers　ran　three　hundred　acres　not　far　from　Amanda；　about　thirty　miles　southeast　of　Columbus；　and　Buddy　knew　that　he　could　not　be　wrong　about　this。　This　boy　smelled　like　Cambridge；　and　Cambridge　was　country。　Buddy　had　grown　up　with　the　smell　of　farmland　and　barnyard；　of　manure　and　growing　corn　and　pea　vineries；　and　the　unwashed　clothes　of　this　boy　beside　him　had　absorbed　all　these　familiar　odors。
　　And　there　were　the　clothes　themselves。　Mrs。　Farren　must　have　been　awful　sick；　Buddy　thought；　if　she　sent　her　boy　off　down　the　road　in　ripped　jeans　so　stiff　with　dirt　the　wrinkles　seemed　bronzed。　And　the　shoes！　Lewis　Farren's　sneakers　were　about　to　fall　off　his　feet；　the　laces　all　spliced　together　and　the　fabric　split　or　worn　through　in　a　couple　of　places　on　each　shoe。
　　'So　they　got　yore　daddy's　car；　did　they；　Lewis？'　Buddy　asked。
　　'Just　like　I　said；　that's　right…the　lousy　cowards　came　out　after　midnight　and　just　stole　it　right　out　of　the　garage。　I　don't　think　they　should　be　allowed　to　do　that。　Not　from　people　who　work　hard　and　really　are　going　to　start　making　their　payments　as　soon　as　they　can。　I　mean；　do　you？　You　don't；　do　you？'　
　　The　boy's　honest；　sunburned　face　was　turned　toward　him　as　if　this　were　the　most　serious　question　since　the　Nixon　Pardon　or　maybe　the　Bay　of　Pigs；　and　all　Buddy's　instincts　were　to　agree…he　would　be　inclined　to　agree　with　any　generally　good…hearted　opinion　uttered　by　a　boy　so　redolent　of　farm　work。　'I　guess　there's　two　sides　to　everything　when　you　e　down　to　it；'　Buddy　Parkins　said；　not　very　happily。　The　boy　blinked；　and　then　turned　away　to　face　forward　again。　Again　Buddy　felt　his　anxiety；　the　cloud　of　worry　that　seemed　to　hang　over　the　boy；　and　was　almost　sorry　he　had　not　given　Lewis　Farren　the　agreement　he　seemed　to　need。
　　'I　suppose　yore　aunt's　in　the　grade　school　there　in　Buckeye　Lake；'　Buddy　said；　at　least　in　part　hoping　to　lighten　the　boy's　misery。　Point　to　the　future；　not　the　past。
　　'Yes；　sir；　that's　right。　She　teaches　in　the　grade　school。　Helen　Vaughan。'　His　expression　did　not　change。
　　But　Buddy　had　heard　it　again…he　didn't　consider　himself　any　Henry　Higgins；　the　professor　guy　in　that　musical；　but　he　knew　for　certain　sure　that　young　Lewis　Farren　didn't　talk　like　anyone　who　had　been　raised　in　Ohio。　The　kid's　voice　was　all　wrong；　too　pushed…together　and　full　of　the　wrong　ups　and　downs。　It　wasn't　an　Ohio　voice　at　all。　It　especially　was　not　a　rural　Ohioan's　voice。　It　was　an　accent。
　　Or　was　it　possible　that　some　boy　from　Cambridge；　Ohio；　could　learn　to　talk　like　that？　Whatever　his　crazy　reason　might　be？　Buddy　supposed　it　was。
　　On　the　other　hand；　the　newspaper　this　Lewis　Farren　had　never　once　unclamped　from　beneath　his　left　elbow　seemed　to　validate　Buddy　Parkins's　deepest　and　worst　suspicion；　that　his　fragrant　young　panion　was　a　runaway　and　his　every　word　a　lie。　The　name　of　the　paper；　visible　to　Buddy　with　only　the　slightest　tilt　of　his　head；　was　The　Angola　Herald。　There　was　that　Angola　in　Africa　that　a　lot　of　Englishmen　had　rushed　off　to　as　mercenaries；　and　there　was　Angola；　New　York…right　up　there　on　Lake　Erie。　He'd　seen　pictures　of　it　on　the　news　not　long　ago；　but　could　not　quite　remember　why。
　　'I'd　like　to　ask　you　a　question；　Lewis；'　he　said；　and　cleared　his　throat。
　　'Yes？'　the　boy　said。
　　'How　e　a　boy　from　a　nice　little　burg　on　U。S。　Forty　is　carrying　around　a　paper　from　Angola；　New　York？　Which　is　one　hell　of　a　long　way　away。　I'm　just　curious；　son。'　The　boy　looked　down　at　the　paper　flattened　under　his　arm　and　hugged　it　even　closer　to　him；　as　if　he　were　afraid　it　might　squirm　away。　'Oh；'　he　said。　'I　found　it。'
　　'Oh；　hell；'　Buddy　said。
　　'Yes；　sir。　It　was　on　a　bench　at　the　bus　station　back　home。'
　　'You　went　to　the　bus　station　this　morning？'
　　'Right　before　I　decided　to　save　the　money　and　hitch。　Mr。
　　Parkins；　if　you　can　get　me　to　the　turnoff　at　Zanesville；　I'll　only　have　a　short　ride　left。　Could　probably　get　to　my　aunt's　house　before　dinner。'
　　'Could　be；'　Buddy　said；　and　drove　in　an　unfortable　silence　for　several　miles。　Finally　he　could　bear　it　no　longer；　and　he　said；　very　quietly　and　while　looking　straight　ahead；　'Son；　are　you　running　away　from　home？'　
　　Lewis　Farren　astonished　him　by　smiling…not　grinning　and　not　faking　it；　but　actually　smiling。　He　thought　the　whole　notion　of　running　away　from　home　was　funny。　It　tickled　him。　The　boy　glanced　at　him　a　fraction　of　a　second　after　Buddy　had　looked　sideways；　and　their　eyes　met。
　　For　a　second；　for　two　seconds；　three　。　。　。　for　however　long　that　moment　lasted；　Buddy　Parkins　saw　that　this　unwashed　boy　sitting　beside　him　was　beautiful。　He　would　have　thought　himself　incapable　of　using　that　word　to　describe　any　male　human　being　above　the　age　of　nine　months；　but　underneath　the　road…grime　this　Lewis　Farren　was　beautiful。　His　sense　of　humor　had　momentarily　murdered　his　worries；　and　what　shone　out　of　him　at　Buddy…who　was　fifty…two　years　old　and　had　three　teenage　sons…was　a　kind　of　straightforward　goodness　that　had　only　been　dented　by　a　host　of　unusual　experiences。　This　Lewis　Farren；　twelve　years　old　by　his　own　account；　had　somehow　gone　farther　and　seen　more　than　Buddy　Parkins；　and　what　he　had　seen　and　done　had　made　him　beautiful。
　　'No；　I'm　not　a　runaway；　Mr。　Parkins；'　the　boy　said。　
　　Then　he　blinked；　and　his　eyes　went　inward　again　and　lost　their　brightness；　their　light；　and　the　boy　slumped　back　again　against　his　seat。　He　pulled　up　a　knee；　rested　it　on　the　dashboard；　and　snugged　the　newspaper　up　under　his　bicep。
　　'No；　I　guess　not；'　Buddy　Parkins　said；　snapping　his　eyes　back　to　the　highway。　He　felt　relieved；　though　he　was　not　quite　sure　why。　'I　guess　yore　not　a　runaway；　Lewis。　Yore　something；　though。'　
　　The　boy　did　not　respond。
　　'Been　workin　on　a　farm；　haven't　you？'
　　Lewis　looked　up　at　him；　surprised。　'I　did；　yeah。　The　past　three　days。　Two　dollars　an　hour。'
　　And　yore　mommy　didn't　even　take　the　time　out　from　bein　sick　to　wash　yore　clothes　before　she　sent　you　to　her　sister；　is　that　right？　Buddy　thought。　But　what　he　said　was　'Lewis；　I'd　like　you　to　think　about　ing　home　with　me。　I'm　not　saying　yore　on　the　run　or　anything；　but　if　yore　from　anywhere　around　Cambridge　I'll　eat　this　beat…up　old　car；　tires　and　all；　and　I　got　three　boys　myself　and　the　youngest　one；　Billy；　he's　only　about　three　years　older'n　you；　and　we　know　how　to　feed　boys　around　my　house。　You　can　stay　about　as　long　as　you　like；　depending　on　how　many　questions　you　want　to　answer。　'Cuz　I'll　be　asking　em；　at　least　after　the　first　time　we　break　bread　together。'　
　　He　rubbed　one　palm　over　his　gray　crewcut　and　glanced　across　the　seat。　Lewis　Farren　was　looking　more　like　a　boy　and　less　like　a　revelation。　'You'll　be　wele；　son。'　
　　Smiling；　the　boy　said；　'That's　really　nice　of　you；　Mr。　Parkins；　but　I　can't。　I　have　to　go　see　my；　ah；　aunt　in　。　。　。　'
　　'Buckeye　Lake；'　Buddy　supplied。
　　The　boy　swallowed　and　looked　forward　again。　
　　'I'll　give　you　help；　if　you　want　help；'　Buddy　repeated。　
　　Lewis　patted　his　forearm；　sunburned　and　thick。　'This　ride　is　a　big　help；　honest。'　
　　Ten　nearly　silent　minutes　later　he　was　watching　the　boy's　forlorn　figure　trudge　down　the　exit　ramp　outside　Zanesville。　Emmie　would　probably　have　brained　him　if　he'd　e　home　with　a　strange　dirty　boy　to　feed；　but　once　she'd　seen　him　and　talked　to　him；　Emmie　would　have　brought　out　the　good　glasses　and　the　plates　her　mother　had　given　her。　Buddy　Parkins　didn't　believe　that　there　was　any　woman　named　Helen　Vaughan　in　Buckeye　Lake；　and　he　wasn't　so　sure　this　mysterious　Lewis　Farren　even　had　a　mother…the　boy　seemed　such　an　orphan；　off　on　a　vast　errand。　Buddy　watched　until　the　boy　was　taken　by　the　curve　of　the　off…ramp；　and　he　was　staring　out　at　space　and　the　enormous　yellow…and…purple　sign　of　a　shopping　mall。
　　For　a　second　he　thought　of　jumping　out　of　the　car　and　running　after　the　kid；　trying　to　get　him　back　。　。　。　and　then　he　had　a　moment　of　recall　of　a　crowded；　smokey　scene　on　the　six…o'clock　news。　Angola；　New　York。　Some　disaster　too　small　to　be　reported　more　than　once；　that　was　what　had　happened　in　Angola；　one　of　those　little　tragedies　the　world　shovels　under　a　mountain　of　newsprint。　All　Buddy　could　catch；　in　this　short；　probably　flawed　moment　of　memory；　was　a　picture　of　girders　strewn　like　giant　straws　over　battered　cars；　jutting　up　out　of　a　fuming　hole　in　the　ground…a　hole　that　might　lead　down　into　hell。　Buddy　Parkins　looked　once　more　at　the　empty　place　on　the　road　where　the　boy　had　been；　and　then　stampe