pzb.lostsouls-第21部分

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s　to　start　tearing　them　apart。　They　both　pretended　to　be　so　tough　and　cynical　that　there　was　no　room　left　to　give　each　other　the　gentleness　they　both　really　needed。　Steve　had　always　been　like　that；　and　Ghost　knew　his　way　around　it；　there　was　an　honesty　between　them　that　surpassed　any　facade　Steve　could　put　up。　But　Ann　wouldn't　play　that　game。
　　Ghost　took　a　sip　of　his　coffee。　It　was　cold　and　too　sweet　even　for　him。　He　drank　more　of　it　anyway；　because　he　didn't　want　to　ask　the　question　that　had　e　into　his　head。　But　it　wouldn't　go　away；　it　had　worried　him　ever　since　Steve　had　e　home　that　night；　his　shirt　untucked　and　his　eyes　wild　and　a　bite　mark　on　his　hand。　So　finally　he　spoke　again。　〃That　was　a　shitty　thing　Steve　did　to　you。　You　could　have　called　the　cops　on　him…or　told　your　father。　What　stopped　you？〃
　　Ann　laughed。　It　was　a　humorless　sound。　〃Right；　Ghost。　The　cops。　'Officer；　my　boyfriend…the　one　I've　been　sleeping　with　for　four　years…he　raped　me。〃　She　made　her　voice　deeper　and　spoke　in　an　exaggerated　redneck　drawl。　〃'Sure；　little　lady；　we　understand。　You　been　givin'　it　away；　and　now　you　want　to　take　it　back。　Why　don't　you　e　on　down　to　the　station　and　maybe　you　can　show　us　exactly　what　he　did　to　you。〃　I　don't　think　they　would　have　been　too　sympathetic。　And　Simon…well　〃　The　bitter　smoke　from　her　cigarette　swirled　around　her　head；　obscuring　her　eyes。　〃Simon　would　have　killed　him。〃
　　Ghost　believed　her。　But　she　still　hadn't　told　him　what　he　really　wanted　to　know。　〃How　e　you　did　it；　Ann？　You　loved　Steve。　Maybe　you　still　do。　How　e　you　wanted　to　go　running　to　that　guy　over　in　Corinth？〃
　　For　a　moment　Ann　only　looked　at　him　with　something　flickering　far　back　in　her　eyes；　and　Ghost　thought　she　might　throw　her　cup　at　his　head。　But　then　she　looked　at　her　burning　cigarette　as　if　she　had　just　realized　it　was　there　in　her　hand；　and　she　sucked　smoke　deep　into　her　lungs；　coughed　a　little；　and　answered　him。　Her　voice　was　hoarser　than　usual。　〃I　believe　in　whatever　gets　you　through　the　night；〃　she　said。　〃Night　is　the　hardest　time　to　be　alive。　For　me；　anyway。　It　lasts　so　long；　and　four　A。M。　knows　all　my　secrets。　And　when　I　was　lying　in　bed　next　to　Steve　feeling　like　I　was　about　to　fly　apart　and　he　wouldn't　hold　me　because　we'd　been　arguing　about　some　damn　stupid　thing…well；　I　went　looking　for　something　to　get　me　through　the　night　a　little　bit　better。〃
　　Ghost　couldn't　say　much　to　that。　Her　point　of　view　still　bothered　him；　but　he　knew　that　was　just　because　no　matter　how　much　he　cared　for　Ann；　he　would　always　love　Steve　more。　So　he　talked　about　mutual　friends　Ann　hadn't　seen　for　a　while…she　had　been　afraid　of　running　into　Steve；　and　Eliot　was　apparently　a　virtual　hermit　with　no　close　friends　of　his　own　and　no　interest　in　meeting　hers。　Ann　hadn't　been　getting　out　much。
　　Ghost　gave　her　the　news；　such　as　it　was。　R。J。　Miller's　supposedly　male　cat　had　a　litter　of　seven　kittens；　six　solid　black　and　one　a　sort　of　green。　Terry；　who　owned　the　Whirling　Disc　record　store　in　town；　had　gone　on　vacation　and　left　the　assistant　manager　in　charge。　The　guy　had　filled　out　the　form　wrong　when　making　an　order；　and　they　received　a　huge　shipment　of　Ray　Stevens　albums。　When　he　got　back；　Terry　started　playing　the　records　all　the　time　as　punishment。　Twenty　times　a　day　or　more　they　were　treated　to　the　annoying　country　singer　performing　classic　numbers　like　〃The　Mississippi　Squirrel　Revival〃　or　〃Everything　Is　Beautiful　（In　Its　Own　Way）。〃
　　He　told　Ann　these　things　and　made　her　laugh　a　little。　He　didn't　tell　her　how　much　Steve　was　drinking；　or　that　he　had　started　robbing　Coke　machines　again。　She　didn't　ask　how　Steve　was　either。　But　when　he　hugged　her　goodbye　on　the　porch　and　rode　his　bike　away；　he　thought　she　looked　a　little　happier；　a　little　less　pale　and　drawn。　Not　much；　but　a　little。
　　A　little　worm　of　worry　for　her　had　already　begun　to　gnaw　in　Ghost's　heart。　He　didn't　count　it　as　a　premonition。　Sometimes　it　was　hard　to　tell　the　difference　between　them　and　his　ordinary　feelings。　But　any　friend　of　Ann's　would　be　worried　about　her；　seeing　how　she　was　now。　If　the　worm　kept　gnawing；　he　would　pay　more　attention　to　it。
　　He　pointed　his　bike　toward　home。　By　the　time　he　got　there；　the　ugliest　image　he　had　picked　up　from　Ann…Steve　on　top　of　her；　shoving　her　down　into　the　mattress…had　almost　faded　from　his　mind。
　　
　　　Chapter　13
　　
　　Nothing　fingered　the　colored　glass　bubbles　in　the　partition　between　diner　booths　of　torn　maroon　vinyl。　The　Greyhound　had　taken　him　down　through　Maryland　and　northern　Virginia　suburbs；　down　along　anonymous　highways　flanked　by　chemical　processing　plants；　cigarette　mills；　housing　developments　and　the　dull　blue　and　green　aluminum　walls　meant　to　protect　them　from　the　noise　and　smell　of　the　highway。
　　The　scenery　was　boring　and　oppressive　at　first。　It　made　Nothing　wonder　whether　be　might　be　travelling　deeper　and　deeper　into　the　dead　world　populated　by　his　parents　and　teachers　and　the　sad；　desperate　friends　he　had　left　behind。　Surely　these　couldn't　be　the　roads　that　led　to　home。
　　But　now；　deep　in　Virginia；　the　roadsides　were　lush　and　green；　even　in　the　middle　of　September。　He　was　sitting　in　a　truck…stop　diner　somewhere　south　of　nowhere；　watching　the　afternoon　light　fade；　staring　at　the　ripped　vinyl　and　the　greasy　tables　and　the　flashy　jukebox　that　didn't　have　the　decency　to　play　green　and　mournful　country　music；　but　played　the　pop　top　twenty　over　and　over　by　the　hour。　Nothing　held　his　backpack　close　to　him。　The　place　reeked　of　hamburger　grease　and　cardboard…flavored　coffee。　But　the　colored　glass　bubbles　in　the　divider　were　as　beautiful　as　anything　back　home　in　his　room。　He　wished　he　could　somehow　steal　just　one　of　them。　By　this　time　he　wished　he　could　have　put　his　whole　room　in　his　backpack　and　carried　it　away　with　him。
　　He　glanced　through　the　window　at　the　bus　station　across　the　parking　lot；　lit　a　Lucky；　tapped　it；　and　rubbed　ash　absently　into　the　thin　torn　cloth　of　his　jeans。　The　jeans　were　soft　and　forting；　decorated　with　black　ballpoint　swirls；　a　chain　of　safety　pins；　artistic　rips。　His　hightop　sneakers　chafed　each　other；　tapped　together　impatiently；　wanting　to　get　back　out　on　the　road。　There　was　a　hole　in　one　sneaker；　over　his　little　toe。
　　He　found　the　Lost　Souls？　cassette　in　the　pocket　of　his　raincoat；　opened　the　plastic　case；　and　took　out　the　paper　liner。　The　liner　was　a　grainy　photocopy；　a　picture　of　an　old　gravestone　dappled　with　shadow　and　sunlight；　surrounded　by　pine　needles　and　twining　kudzu　vines。　Across　the　gravestone　the　words　LOST　SOULS？　were　printed　in　rainbow　crayon。　All　five　hundred　copies　were　supposed　to　have　been　lettered　by　the　band。　He　pictured　the　guitarist；　hunched　tall　and　awkward　on　the　floor；　pressing　down　too　hard　with　the　crayons　and　breaking　them；　cussing　and　turning　the　whole　project　over　to　the　singer。　The　singer　was　surely　in　charge　of　the　color　yellow　and　with　his　fingers　would　have　touched　this　paper；　would　have　swirled　in　the　question　mark　that　kept　the　name　from　being　stupid。
　　Nothing　looked　at　the　other　side　of　the　paper　liner；　at　the　photo　of　the　two　musicians。　Steve　Finn；　sitting　with　his　guitar　between　his　knees；　grinning　with　a　certain　easy　cynicism；　his　messy　dark　hair　shoved　behind　his　ears　and　a　can　of　Budweiser　not　quite　concealed　behind　the　pointy　toe　of　his　left　boot。　And　the　other　one；　the　one　who　slid　his　eyes　away　from　the　camera；　whose　knobby　wrists　lay　crossed　in　his　lap。　Whose　patchwork　clothes　were　too　big　and　whose　hair　fell　from　under　his　straw　hat　as　pale　as　tangled　rain；　half…hiding　his　face；　obscuring　him。
　　All　Nothing　knew　about　the　duo　came　from　this　picture　and　the　cryptic　liner　notes　（〃I　like　to　drink　my　watercolor　water〃）；　those　things　and　the　long　train　whistle　music　and　the　spooky；　wistful　words　of　the　songs。　But　he　imagined　personalities　for　them；　felt　as　if　he　knew　them。　Lost　Souls？　belonged　to　the　crowd　of　spirits　inside　his　head；　the　ones　he　used　to　wish　he　was　squeezed　against　on　Saturday　nights　when　Jack's　car　went　too　fast　around　a　curve　and　the　others　screamed　for　another　hardcore　tape。　Those；　his　old　friends…with　their　leather　jackets　and　their　skull　bongs；　their　Marlboro　hard　packs　and　their　thwarted　dreams…those　were　teenagers。　Nothing　knew　he　was　either　a　child　or　an　ancient　soul；　he　had　never　been　sure　which。
　　He　tugged　at　the　drop　of　onyx　and　the　tiny　silver　razor　blade　that　dangled　from　his　earlobe。　He　fingered　a　ballpoint　pen　in　his　pocket。　Then　he　unzipped　his　backpack；　dug　for　his　notebook；　and　pulled　a　postcard　from　between　the　scribbled；　singed；　softly　ragged　pages。　It　was　the　postcard　he　had　written　while　drinking　his　parents'　whiskey；　but　he　had　not　yet　mailed　it。　The　gold　leaf　caught　the　light　as　he　laid　the　card　on　the　table。
　　GHOST；　he　had　addressed　it；　c/o　LOST　SOULS？　14　BURNT　CHURCH　ROAD；　MISSING　MILE；　NORTH　CAROLINA。　He　wrote　no　zip　code…they　hadn't　included　one　on　the　tape　case。　Maybe　Missing　Mile　was　too　small　to　have　a　zip　code。　But；　thank　whatever　gods　watched　over　him；　he　had　remembered　to　put　a　stamp　on　it。　He　could　hardly　afford　to　buy　one　now。
　　He　finished　his　cigarette；　lit　another；　tried　to　make　out　the　time　through　the　layer　of　grease　on　the　wall　clock；　glanced　over　at　the　bus　station　again。　But　it　was　no　good。　He　couldn't　get　back　on　a　bus　even　if　he　wanted　to。　The　money　from　his　mother's　jewelry　box　had　run　out　two　towns　ago。　His　stomach　hurt；　and　he　had　thought　of　spending　his　one　remaining　dollar　on　a　burger　or　some　pancakes。　But　what　if　it　was　the　last　dollar　he　ever　got？　He　had　to　save　it　for　something　he　really　wanted：　a　new　notebook；　a　cup　of　expensive　coffee；　a　black　slouch　hat　in　a　thrift　shop　somewhere。　He　could　always　steal　cigarettes。　You　had　to　spend　your　last　dollar　on　something　important。
　　He　was　going　to　have　to　start　hitching。　He'd　never　done　it　before…he'd　tried　to　catch　rides　to　Skittle's　or　the　record　store　back　home；　but　the　young　townie　matrons　only　eyed　his　long　raincoat；　his　lank　black　hair；　and　stepped　on　the　gas。　And　hitching　out　on　the　highway；　with　the　wide　flat　sky　stretching　away　overhead　and　the　great　trucks　like　dragons　screaming　by…well；　that　was　a　different　affair。　Anyone　might　stop。　Anything　might　happen。
　　He　kissed　the　postcard　and　dropped　it　into　a　ma