pzb.drawingblood-第18章

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　　He　reached　into　his　backpack　again；　felt　way　down　deep　in　the　bottom；　found　a　battered　manila　envelope　and　took　out　three　folded　sheets　of　paper。　The　folds　had　worn　through　many　times　over；　had　been　taped　back　together　and　refolded　until　some　of　the　photocopied　words　on　the　paper　were　nearly　illegible。　It　didn't　matter；　Trevor　knew　them　by　heart。
　　They　all　followed　the　same　format。　Robert　F。　McGee；　Rural　Box　17；　Violin　Road；　male　Caucasian；　35　yrs；　5…9；　130　pounds；　blond　hair；　blue　eyes。　Occupation：　Artist。　Cause　of　death：　Strangulation　by　hanging。　Manner　of　death：　Suicide。　Other　marks：　Scratches　on　face；　arms；　chest　area　。　。　。
　　He　knew　Momma　had　made　those　scratches。　But　they　hadn't　been　enough；　not　nearly　enough。　Fingernails　weren't　much　use　once　the　fingers　were　broken。
　　He　folded　the　autopsy　reports　and　slid　them　back　into　the　envelope。　He　had　stolen　them　from　his　file　at　the　Home　and　carried　them　with　him　since　then。　The　paper　was　worn　soft　and　thin；　read　a　thousand　times。　The　ink　was　smudged　with　the　whorls　of　his　fingerprints。
　　The　storm　was　very　close　now。　The　hum　of　insects　in　the　grass；　the　trill　and　call　of　birds　in　the　surrounding　woods　seemed　very　loud。　The　afternoon　light　had　taken　on　a　lurid　greenish　cast。　The　air　was　full　of　electricity。　Trevor　felt　the　fine　hairs　on　his　arms　standing　up；　the　nape　of　his　neck　prickling。
　　He　flipped　to　a　clean　page　in　his　book；　freed　his　pencil；　and　began　sketching　rapidly。　In　a　few　minutes　he　had　roughed　out　the　first　half　of　his　idea　for　a　strip。
　　It　stemmed　from　an　incident　in　a　biography　of　Charlie　Parker　he　had　read　at　the　Home。　In　his　thirteen　years　there；　Trevor　had　read　just　about　everything　in　the　meager　library。　Most　of　the　other　kids　wondered　why　he　wanted　to　read　anything　at　all；　let　alone　a　book　about　some　dead　musician　who　had　played　a　kind　of　music　that　nobody　listened　to　anymore。
　　The　incident　had　happened　when　Bird　was　touring　the　South　with　the　Jay　McShann　Orchestra。　Jackson；　Mississippi；　was　a　bad　place　for　black　people　in　1941。　（Trevor　doubted　it　was　any　great　shakes　for　them　now。）　There　was　a　curfew　requiring　them　to　be　off　the　street　by　eleven　P。M。；　so　unless　they　wanted　to　risk　arrest　or　worse；　the　band　had　to　be　finished　and　packed　up　by　ten…thirty。　There　was　no　hotel　in　Jackson　that　would　admit　them；　so　the　musicians　were　farmed　out　to　various　shabby　boardinghouses　and　private　homes。
　　Bird　and　the　singer；　honky…tonk　bluesman　Walter　Brown；　drew　cots　on　the　screened　porch　of　someone's　house。　They　were　out　of　the　converted　barn　where　they　had　played　and　back　at　the　house　by　eleven；　but　since　their　usual　lifestyle　kept　them　up　until　the　small　hours；　the　musicians　were　far　from　sleepy。　They　lay　on　their　cots　under　the　meager　yellow　glow　of　the　porch　light；　passing　a　flask　and　sweating　the　liquor　from　their　pores　as　fast　as　they　swallowed　it　in　the　sodden　Mississippi　heat；　slapping　at　the　mosquitoes　that　slipped　through　holes　in　the　screen；　shooting　the　shit；　talking　of　music　or　beautiful　women　or　perhaps　just　how　far　they　were　from　Kansas　City。
　　At　midnight　the　police　showed　up；　four　beefy　good　old　boys　with　guns　and　nightsticks　and　necks　as　red　as　the　blood　they　were　itching　to　spill。　The　burning　porch　light　was　a　violation　of　the　〃nigger　curfew；〃　they　said；　and　Bird　and　Brown　could　e　along　to　the　station　with　them；　and　if　they　didn't　care　to　e　peacefully　like　good　boys；　why　then；　they　were　wele　to　a　few　lumps　on　the　head　and　a　pair　of　steel　bracelets。
　　Charlie　Parker　and　Walter　Brown　spent　three　days　in　Jackson　jail　for　sitting　up　talking　with　the　porch　light　on。　Charlie　had　the　sharpest　tongue；　and　so　came　out　of　it　the　worst；　when　McShann　was　finally　able　to　bail　them　out；　Bird's　close…cropped　hair　was　still　stiff　with　dried　blood　where　the　nightsticks　had　split　the　skin　over　his　skull。　He　had　not　been　allowed　enough　water　to　wash　the　crust　of　blood　away。　Brown　claimed　to　have　kept　his　mouth　shut；　but　sported　some　lumps　and　bruises　of　his　own。
　　Bird　had　posed　a　tune　to　memorate　the　incident；　first　called　〃What　Price　Love？〃　but　later　retitled　〃Yardbird　Suite。〃　His　fury　and　wounded　pride　wound　through　the　song　like　a　crimson　thread；　a　sobbing；　wailing　undertone。
　　How　to　get　all　that　into　a　single　strip；　a　few　pages　of　black…and…white　drawings？　How　to　best　show　the　tawdry　tenement　where　they　had　been　sequestered；　the　weathered　wood　and　torn　tarpaper　houses；　the　narrow；　muddy　streets；　the　stupid　malice　on　the　faces　of　the　cops？　It　was　the　sort　of　thing　Bobby　had　done　effortlessly　in　the　three　issues　of　Birdland。　His　stories　had　taken　place　mostly　in　the　slums　and　beat　sections　of　New　York　or　New　Orleans　or　Kansas　City；　not　Jackson；　Mississippi；　and　his　human　characters　had　been　fictional　junkies　and　street　freaks　and　jazz　musicians；　not　real　ones。
　　But　the　mood　of　Birdland；　the　stark；　slick；　slightly　hallucinatory　drawings；　the　distorted　reflections　in　puddles　and　the　dark　windows　of　bars；　the　constant　low…key　threat　of　violence；　the　feeling　that　everything　in　the　strip　was　a　little　larger　than　life；　and　a　little　louder；　and　a　little　weirder…　that　was　what　Trevor　wanted　to　capture　here。
　　For　now；　though；　he　was　just　sketching　in　the　panels　and　their　contents；　space　for　captions　and　word　balloons；　rough　figures　and　backgrounds；　the　barest　hints　of　gestures　and　expressions。　The　faces　and　hands　were　his　favorite　part；　he　would　linger　over　them　later。　He　had　already　drawn　Bird　hundreds　of　times。　The　handsome　fleshy　features　appeared　on　the　margins　of　his　pages　and　woven　into　his　backgrounds　nearly　as　often　as　the　face　of　his　father。
　　He　reached　the　part　on　the　porch；　just　before　the　police　arrived；　and　the　first　time　Walter　Brown's　face　appeared　in　closeup。　His　pencil　slowed；　then　stopped；　and　he　tapped　the　eraser　against　the　page　thoughtfully。　He　realized　he　had　never　seen　a　picture　of　Brown；　had　no　idea　what　the　singer　looked　like。
　　No　problem：　he　could　wing　it；　improvise　the　man's　face　like　a　jazz　solo。　He　already　had　a　hazy　picture　in　his　head；　and　even　as　he　thought　about　it；　the　features　grew　clearer。　His　fantasy　Walter　Brown　was　a　very　young　man；　about　twenty…but　then　they　had　all　been　young；　mostly　younger　than　Trevor　was　now…and　boyishly　thin　to　Bird's　fleshiness；　with　high　cheekbones　and　slightly　slanting　dark…almond　eyes。　Handsome。
　　This　was　how　he　usually　worked：　pondering　an　idea　for　months；　turning　it　over　and　over　in　his　head　until　he　had　nearly　every　panel　and　line　worked　out。　Only　then　did　he　put　pencil　or　pen　or　brush　to　paper；　and　the　thing　spilled　full…blown　onto　the　page。　Bobby　had　been　the　same　way；　working　in　feverish　bursts　and　starts。　And　when　the　inspiration　was　gone；　it　was　gone　forever。
　　At　least　if　that　happens　to　me；　Trevor　reminded　himself；　I　won't　have　anyone　to　kill。　There　was　no　person　he　had　cared　that　much　about。　Incidents　like　the　one　with　the　art　teacher　were　a　different　thing　altogether。　You　could　cheerfully　rip　such　people's　heads　off　and　drink　the　fountaining　blood　from　the　neck…stumps　in　those　first　few　minutes　of　blind　rage；　if　the　fragile　constraints　of　civilization　and　lack　of　physical　power　did　not　bind　you。
　　But　later；　when　you　had　time　to　think　on　it；　you　realized　that　nothing　could　be　gained　by　hurting　such　people；　that　perhaps　they　were　not　even　alive　enough　to　feel　pain。　You　could　make　better　use　of　your　anger　by　keeping　it　to　yourself；　letting　it　grow　until　you　needed　it。
　　Still　。。。　if　you　loved　someone；　really　loved　them；　wouldn't　you　want　to　take　them　with　you　when　you　died？　Trevor　tried　to　imagine　actually　holding　someone　down　and　killing　them；　just　breaking　them　apart；　watching　as　the　love　in　their　face　turned　to　agony　or　rage　or　confusion；　feeling　their　bones　crack　and　their　blood　flow　over　your　hands；　under　the　nails；　greasing　into　the　palms。
　　There　was　no　one　with　whom　he　would　want　such　intimacy。　Kinsey　had　hugged　him　last　night　in　the　club；　had　held　him　as　naturally　as　one　might　hold　a　suffering　child。　It　had　been　the　first　time　Trevor　had　cried　in　another　person's　presence　in　twenty　years。　For　that　matter；　it　was　as　physically　close　to　another　person　as　he　had　been　since　the　man　with　gentle　hands　carried　him　out　of　the　house；　since　his　last　glimpse　of　his　father's　swollen　face。　These　two　brief　meetings　of　clothed　skin　were　all　he'd　had。
　　No；　he　remembered。　Not　quite　all。
　　Once；　when　he　was　twelve；　a　slightly　older　boy　at　the　Home　had　caught　him　alone　in　the　shower　and　pushed　him　into　a　corner。　The　boy's　hands　had　scrabbled　over　his　slick　soapy　skin；　and　Trevor　had　felt　something　in　his　head　snap。　Next　thing　he　knew　three　counselors　were　pulling　him　off　the　kid；　who　was　curled　in　the　fetal　position　on　the　stall　floor；　and　the　knuckles　of　his　left　hand　were　throbbing；　bruised；　and　blood　was　streaking　the　white　tiles；　swirling　down　the　silver　drain　。　。　。
　　The　older　boy　had　a　concussion；　and　Trevor　was　confined　to　his　hall　for　a　month。　His　homework　and　meals　were　brought　to　him。　The　solitude　was　wonderful。　He　filled　eighteen　notebooks；　and　one　of　the　things　he　drew　over　and　over　was　the　shower　stall　with　the　boy　in　it：　head　smacking　the　cold　tiles　at　the　precise　moment　of　impact；　skinny　body　curled　in　a　half　inch　of　water　threaded　with　his　own　blood。　His　blood　that　Trevor　had　spilled　before　he　even　knew　what　he　was　doing。
　　And　the　weird　thing　was；　the　boy's　hands　had　actually　felt　good　sliding　over　his　skin。　He　had　liked　the　feeling　。　。　。　and　then　suddenly　the　boy　had　been　on　the　floor　with　blood　ing　out　of　his　head。
　　He　had　plenty　of　time　to　think　about　what　he　had　done；　and　what　had　made　him　do　it；　the　violence　inherent　in　his　genes；　in　his　soul。　That　was　the　first　time　he　could　remember　considering　the　forts　of　suicide。
　　Trevor　stuck　his　pencil　behind　his　ear；　laid　his　sketchbook　on　the　ground　in　front　of　him。　He　let　the　fingers　of　his　right　hand　slide　down　the　soft　inner　skin　of　his　left　forearm。　The　skin　there　was　mottled　with　old　scars；　years　of　slashes　and　cross…hatchings　done　with　a　single…edged　Exacto　razor　blade；　the　same　kind　he　used　for　layouts。　Perhaps　a　hundred　thin　raised　lines　of　skin；　paler　than　the　rest　of　his　arm；　exquisitely　sensitive；　some　still　reddened　and　hurt　once　in　a　while；　as　if　the　tissue　deep　inside　his　arm　had　never　quite　healed。　But　if　you　went　deep　enough　into　the　tissue；　no　scar　ever　healed　pletely。
　　And　this　map　of　pain　he　had　carved　out　of　his　skin；　this　had　been　no　half…assed　attempt　at　suicide；　anyway。　Trevor　knew　that　to　kill　yourself　you　had　to　cut　along　the　length　of　your　arm；　had　to　lay　it　open　from　wrist　to　elbow　like　some　fruit　with　a　rich　red　pulp　and　a　hard　white　core。　Had　to　cut　all　the　way　to　bone；　had　to　sever　every　major　artery　and　vein。　He　had　never　tried　it。
　　These　cuts　he　had　made　over　the　years　were　more　in　the　nature　of　experimentation：　to　test　his　domain　over　his　own　malleable　flesh；　to　know　the　strange　human　jelly　below　the　surface；　part　layer　upon　cell…delicate　layer　of　skin；　part　quickening　blood；　part　pale　subcutaneous　fat　that　parted　like　butter　at　the　touch　of　a　new　blade。　Sometimes　he　would　hold　his　arm　over　a　page　of　his　sketchbook；　let　the　blood　fall　on　clean　white　paper　or　mingle　with　fresh　black　ink；　sometimes　he　would　trace　it　into　patterns