pzb.drawingblood-第17章

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　　For　a　few　minutes　he　watched　the　gentle　rise　and　fall　of　Kinsey's　chest；　the　draft　from　the　open　window　that　stirred　Kinsey's　scraggly　hair；　and　he　wondered　if　he　had　ever　slept　so　peacefully。　Even　when　Trevor　wasn't　having　bad　dreams　his　sleep　was　uneasy；　sporadic；　full　of　flickering　pictures　and　half…remembered　faces。
　　But　the　luminous　face　of　the　clock　on　Kinsey's　nightstand　（no　cheap　digital　job；　but　a　molded…plastic　relic　done　in　early　sixties　aqua；　its　corners　rounded　and　streamlined）　told　him　it　was　nearly　noon。　He　had　to　go。　Not　to　the　house　yet；　no；　but　he　had　to　take　the　first　step　toward　the　house。
　　Trevor　slung　his　backpack　over　his　shoulder；　stepped　out　into　the　tranquil　Sunday　morning；　and　locked　Kinsey's　door　behind　him。
　　
　　The　road　that　led　out　to　Missing　Mile's　small　graveyard　was　hot　and　flat　and　muddy。　Trevor　was　accustomed　to　walking　city　streets；　where　the　languid　haze　of　summer　was　shot　through　with　blasts　of　air…conditioning　from　doors　constantly　opening　onto　the　sidewalk；　where　you　could　always　duck　under　an　awning　or　the　overhang　of　a　building；　into　a　little　pocket　of　shade。
　　But　this　road；　Burnt　Church　Road　according　to　the　crooked　signpost　where　it　ran　into　Firehouse　Street；　offered　no　shade　except　the　occasional　leafy　canopy　of　a　tree。　The　houses　out　here　were　few　and　far　apart。　Most　had　been　built　on　farmland；　and　the　road　was　bordered　by　fields　of　leathery　tobacco　and　bristling　corn。　This　was　a　nicer　area　than　Violin　Road；　the　dirt　here　had　not　yet　been　farmed　to　death。　The　houses　were　not　new　or　fancy；　but　their　yards　were　large　grassy　expanses　unmarred　by　scrap　heaps　or　the　rusting　hulks　of　autos。
　　The　sun　beat　mercilessly　on　the　road　and　on　the　coarse　gravel　that　paved　it；　broken　granite　like　the　crushed　leavings　of　a　cemetery；　mired　in　wet　red　clay；　catching　the　light　and　shattering　it　into　a　million　razored　fragments。　Trevor　was　glad　when　clouds　began　to　blow　in；　a　slowbrewing　summer　thunderstorm　on　the　way。　His　brain　felt　baked　in　his　skull；　and　his　skin　already　tingled　with　fresh　sunburn。　His　backpack　was　waterproof；　to　keep　his　sketchbook　dry。　If　the　storm　held　long　enough；　he　would　start　a　new　drawing　at　the　graveyard。　If　not；　he　would　sit　on　the　ground　and　let　the　rain　soak　him。
　　Trevor　could　feel　the　nearly　silent　presence　of　death　up　ahead；　not　precisely　watchful；　not　even　really　aware；　but　somehow　detectable。　It　was　like　a　frequency　on　a　radio；　or　rather　the　empty　space　on　the　band　between　frequencies：　there　were　no　signals　to　pick　up；　but　still　you　heard　a　faint　electric　hum；　not　quite　silence；　not　quite　sound。　It　was　like　being　in　a　room　someone　had　just　left；　a　room　that　still　bore　the　faint　scent　of　breath　and　skin；　the　subtle　displacement　of　air。　An　epileptic　kid　had　died　on　his　hall　at　the　Boys'　Home　once；　pitched　a　grand　mal　fit　in　the　hours　before　dawn；　when　no　one　was　awake　to　help　him。　Trevor　had　woken　in　the　cool；　still　morning　and　known　that　death　was　close　by；　though　he　hadn't　known　who　it　had　e　to；　or　how。
　　But　the　graveyard　gave　off　only　a　quiet　buzz　like　crickets　in　the　sun；　like　the　cogs　of　a　watch　beginning　to　wind　down。　Set　back　at　the　shady　dead　end　of　Burnt　Church　Road；　surrounded　by　woods　on　three　sides；　it　was　a　place　that　felt　like　surcease　from　pain。　Trevor　had　never　seen　the　burial　place　of　his　family。　As　soon　as　it　came　into　view；　he　knew　that　this　was　a　fitting　prelude　to　going　home。
　　Of　course　they　hadn't　let　him　attend　the　funeral。　As　far　as　Trevor　knew；　there　had　been　no　proper　funeral。　Bobby　McGee　had　burned　most　of　his　bridges　when　they　left　Austin；　and　they　had　no　family　but　each　other。　The　town；　he　supposed；　had　paid　for　the　interment　of　three　cheap　pine　coffins。
　　Later；　a　group　of　ics　artists　and　publishers　had　taken　up　money　for　a　stone。　Someone　had　sent　Trevor　a　Polaroid　snapshot　of　it　years　ago。　He　remembered　turning　the　picture　over　and　over　in　his　hands　until　the　oil　from　his　fingers　marred　the　slick　paper；　wondering　who　had　cared　enough　to　visit　and　photograph　the　grave　of　his　family　but　not　enough　to　rescue　him　from　the　hell　that　was　the　Boys'　Home。
　　He　also　remembered　a　drawing　he　had　done　soon　afterward；　a　cutaway　view　of　the　grave。　He　made　the　headstone　look　shiny　and　slick；　as　if　some　thick　dark　substance　coated　the　granite。　The　earth　below　was　loamy；　seeded　here　and　there　with　worms；　nuggets　of　rock；　stray　bones　e　loose　from　their　moorings。　There　were　three　coffins；　two　large　ones　with　long　shrouded　forms　within；　their　folds　suggesting　ruined　faces。　The　shape　in　the　littlest　coffin　was　strange…it　might　have　been　one　form　grossly　misshapen；　or　two　small　forms　mingled。
　　Mr。　Webb；　the　junior　high　art　teacher　who　hid　Listerine　bottles　full　of　rotgut　whiskey　in　his　desk；　had　called　the　drawing　morbid　and　crumpled　it。　When　Trevor　flew　at　him；　skinny　arms　outstretched；　hands　hooked　into　claws　going　unthinkingly　for　Webb's　eyes；　the　teacher　backhanded　him　before　he　knew　what　he　was　doing。　Both　were　disciplined；　Webb　with　a　week's　suspension；　Trevor　with　expulsion　from　art　class　and　confiscation　of　his　sketchbook。　He　covered　the　walls　of　his　room　with　furious　art：　swarming　thousand…legged　bugs；　soaring　skeletal　birds；　beautifully　lettered　curse　words；　screaming　faces　with　black　holes　for　eyes。
　　They　never　let　him　take　an　art　class　again。
　　Now　here　was　the　place　of　his　drawing　and　his　dreams；　the　place　he　had　imagined　so　often　that　it　already　seemed　familiar。　The　graveyard　was　much　as　he　had　pictured　it；　small　and　shady　and　overgrown；　many　of　the　stones　listing；　the　roots　of　large　trees　twining　through　the　graves　and　down　into　the　rich　soil；　mining　the　fertile　deposits　of　the　bodies　buried　there。　Trevor　wondered　whether　he　might　find　Didi's　face　in　a　knothole；　the　many　colors　of　Momma's　hair　in　a　shock　of　sun…bleached　grass；　the　shape　of　his　father's　long…fingered　hands　in　a　gracefully　gnarled　branch。
　　Maybe。　First；　though；　he　had　to　find　their　grave。
　　Trevor　rummaged　in　his　backpack；　found　a　can　of　Jolt　Cola；　popped　the　top；　and　tipped　the　warm　soda　into　his　mouth。　The　sickly…sweet　taste　foamed　over　his　tongue；　trickled　into　the　cracks　between　his　teeth。　It　tasted　horrible；　like　stale　carbonated　saliva。　But　the　caffeine　sent　immediate　electric　tendrils　into　his　brain；　soothed　the　pounding　at　his　temples；　cleared　the　red　cobwebs　from　his　vision。
　　It　was　the　only　drug　he　had　much　use　for。　Once　he'd　started　to　develop　a　taste　for　speed；　but　quit　the　first　time　he　detected　a　tremor　in　his　hand。　Pot　reminded　him　too　much　of　his　parents　in　the　good　days；　back　when　Bobby　was　drawing。　Alcohol　terrified　him；　it　was　nothing　more　than　death；　distilled　and　bottled。　And　junk　held　such　a　morbid　fascination　for　him　that　he　dared　not　try　it；　though　he　had　been　in　plenty　of　low　haunts　and　back　alleys　where　he　could　have　had　some　if　he'd　wanted　to。　He　knew　it　was　supposed　to　be　clear；　yet　he　imagined　it　black　as　ink；　swirling　out　of　the　needle　and　through　his　veins；　lulling　him　into　some　dreadfully　familiar　nightmare　world。
　　He　drank　the　last　vile　swig　of　Jolt；　stuck　the　empty　can　back　in　his　backpack；　and　set　out　on　a　meandering　path　through　the　graveyard。　The　ground　was　uneven；　the　weeds　in　some　places　tall　enough　to　brush　the　tips　of　his　fingers。　He　caught　at　them；　let　them　slip　through　his　hands。
　　This　was　not　Missing　Mile's　only　burying　ground。　Trevor　had　glimpsed　a　few　small　church　cemeteries　on　his　way　into　town；　and　he　remembered　that　the　surrounding　woods　were　seeded　with　old　Civil　War　graves　and　family　plots；　sometimes　just　two　or　three　rough…hewn　stones　in　a　lonely　little　cluster。
　　But　this　was　the　oldest　one　still　in　use。　There　were　recent　stones；　letters　and　dates　chiseled　so　sharply　that　they　seemed　to　float　just　above　the　slick　surface　of　the　granite。　Flecks　of　quartz　and　mica　caught　the　receding　light。　There　were　old　markers；　stone　crosses　and　arched　tablets　of　slate；　their　edges　crumbling；　their　inscriptions　beginning　to　blur。　There　were　the　small　white　stones　of　children；　some　topped　with　lambs　like　smooth　cakes　of　soap　partly　melted　in　the　shower。　Some　graves　were　splashed　with　gaudy　color；　flowers　arranged　in　bright　sprays　or　tortured　into　wreaths。　Some　had　gone　undecorated　for　a　very　long　time。
　　And　some　had　never　been　decorated。
　　Pain　shot　through　his　hands。　Trevor　found　himself　standing　before　a　long；　plain　slab　of　granite。　He　realized　he　had　been　standing　there　for　several　minutes；　working　his　hands　against　each　other；　twisting　his　fingers　together　until　the　joints　screamed。　He　made　himself　flex　them；　one　by　one。
　　Then　he　raised　his　head　and　looked　at　the　gravestone　of　everyone　he　had　ever　loved。
　　
　　McGEE
　　
　　ROBERT　FREDRIC　FREDRIC　DYLAN　ROSENA　PARKS
　　
　　B。　APRIL　20；　B。　SEPT。　6；　B。　OCT。　20；
　　1937　1969　1942
　　
　　DIED　JUNE　14；　1972
　　
　　Trevor　had　forgotten　that　his　brother's　middle　name　was　Dylan。　Momma　had　always　told　people　it　was　for　Dylan　Thomas；　the　poet。　Bobby　pointed　out　that　the　kid　was　born　in　'69；　no　matter　what　anyone　said；　everybody　would　assume　he　was　named　after　Bob　Dylan。　It　would　haunt　him　all　his　life。
　　But　Bobby　had　taken　care　of　that。
　　During　his　walk　out　here　Trevor　had　wondered　if　they　might　all　start　yammering　at　him；　their　voices　worming　up　through　six　feet　of　hard…packed　earth；　through　twenty　years　of　decay　and　dissolution；　over　the　chirrup　and　buzz　of　insects　in　the　tall　grass　and　the　slow　rumble　of　the　storm　ing　in。　But；　though　he　still　sensed　the　soft　hum　of　the　collective　dead；　his　own　dead　were　silent。　Now　that　he　was　here　he　felt　curiously　flat；　almost　disappointed；　no　one　had　spoken　to　him；　no　skeletal　hand　had　thrust　up　to　grab　his　ankle　and　drag　him　down　with　them。　Left　out　again。
　　Trevor　knelt　and　laid　his　palms　briefly　against　the　cool　stone；　then　put　his　backpack　down　and　stretched　out　on　the　ground。　In　the　center　of　the　grave；　over　Didi；　he　supposed。　It　was　hard　to　believe　that　Didi's　body；　the　body　he　had　last　seen　stiff　and　cold　in　bed　with　its　head　smeared　like　overripe　fruit　across　the　pillow；　lay　directly　beneath　him。　He　wondered　if　any　reconstruction　of　the　heads　and　faces　had　been　done；　or　if　Didi's　fragile　skull　had　been　left　to　fall　to　pieces　like　a　broken　Easter　egg。　The　ground　was　warm　under　his　back；　the　sky　overhead　pregnant　with　clouds；　nearly　black。　If　he　was　going　to　do　any　drawing　here；　he'd　better　get　started。
　　He　unzipped　his　bag　and　took　out　his　sketchbook。　A　pencil　was　wedged　into　the　coiled　wire　binding。　Trevor　fingered　it　but　did　not　pull　it　out　just　yet。　Instead　he　turned　to　the　drawing　he　had　finished　on　the　bus。　Rosena　Black：　the　dead　version　of　Rosena　McGee；　with　none　of　her　wit　or　warmth；　with　nothing　but　a　cold　ruined　shell　of　a　body。　Seven　fingers　broken　as　she　tried　to　fight　Bobby　off　in　the　doorway　to　the　hall；　beyond　which　lay　her　sleeping　sons。　Had　she　been　trying　to　grab　the　hammer；　and　if　she　got　it；　would　she　have　killed　her　husband　with　it？　Trevor　thought　so。
　　That　would　have　changed　every　part　of　the　equation　but　one：　Bobby　would　still　be　dead；　and　Trevor　would　still　be　alive。　Only　if　it　had　gone　down　that　way；　at　least　Trevor　would　know　why　he　was　alive。
　　He　reached　into　his　backpack　again；　felt　way　down　deep　in　the　bottom；　found