sk.dreamcatcher-第48章

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　　　　As　a　result　of　such　memories；　Jonesy　was　positive　March　fifteenth　had　already　happened。　There　were　all　sorts　of　evidence　supporting　the　thesis；　his　office　calendar　being　Exhibit　A。　Yet　here　they　were　again；　those　troublesome　Ides　。　。　。　and　now；　oh　goddam；　how　was　this　for　unfair；　now　there　seemed　to　be　more　of　the　fifteenth　than　ever。
　　　　Previously；　his　memory　of　that　day　faded　out　at　around　ten　A。M。　He'd　been　in　his　office；　drinking　coffee　and　making　a　stack　of　books　to　take　down　to　the　History　Department　office；　where　there　was　a　FREE　WITH　STUDENT　ID　table。　He　hadn't　been　happy；　but　he　couldn't　for　the　life　of　him　remember　why。　According　to　the　same　office　calendar　on　which　he　had　spied　the　unkept　March　seventeenth　appointment　to　go　see　Duddits；　he'd　had　a　March　fifteenth　appointment　with　a　student　named　David　Defuniak。　Jonesy　couldn't　remember　what　it　had　been　about；　but　he　later　found　a　notation　from　one　of　his　grad　assistants　about　a　make…up　essay　from　Defuniak　…　short…term　results　of　the　Norman　Conquest　…　so　he　supposed　it　had　been　that。　Still；　what　was　there　in　a　make…up　assignment　that　could　possibly　have　made　Associate　Professor　Gary　Jones　feel　unhappy？
　　　　Unhappy　or　not；　he　had　been　humming　something；　humming　and　then　scatting　the　words；　which　were　close　to　nonsense：　Yes　we　can；　yes　we　can…can；　great　gosh　a'mighty　yes　we　can…can。　There　were　a　few　little　shreds　after　that　…　wishing　Colleen；　the　Department　secretary；　a　nice　St　Paddy's　Day；　grabbing　a　Boston　Phoenix　from　the　newspaper　box　outside　the　building；　dropping　a　quarter　into　the　saxophone　case　of　a　skinhead　just　over　the　bridge　on　the　Cambridge　side；　feeling　sorry　for　the　guy　because　he　was　wearing　a　light　sweater　and　the　wind　ing　off　the　Charles　was　sharp　…　but　mostly　what　he　remembered　after　making　that　stack　of　giveaway　books　was　darkness。　Consciousness　had　returned　in　the　hospital；　with　that　droning　voice　from　a　nearby　room：　Please　stop；　I　can't　stand　it；　give　me　a　shot；　where's　Marcy；　I　want　Marcy。　Or　maybe　it　had　been　where's　Jonesy；　I　want　Jonesy。　Old　creeping　death。　Death　pretending　to　be　a　patient。　Death　had　lost　track　of　him　…　sure；　it　was　possible；　it　was　a　big　hospital　stuffed　full　of　pain；　sweating　agony　out　its　very　seams　…　and　now　old　creeping　death　was　trying　to　find　him　again。　Trying　to　trick　him。　Trying　to　make　him　give　himself　away。
　　　　This　time　around；　though；　all　that　merciful　darkness　in　the　middle　is　gone。　This　time　around　he　not　only　wishes　Colleen　a　happy　St。　Paddy's　Day；　he　tells　her　a　joke：　What　do　you　call　a　Jamaican　proctologist？　A　Pokémon。　He　goes　out；　his　future　self　…　his　November　self　…　riding　in　his　March　head　like　a　stowaway。　His　future　self　hears　his　March　self　think　foat　a　beautiful　day　it　turned　out　to　be　as　he　starts　walking　towards　his　appointment　with　destiny　in　Cambridge。　He　tries　to　tell　his　March　self　that　this　is　a　bad　idea；　a　grotesquely　bad　idea；　that　he　can　save　himself　months　of　agony　just　by　hailing　a　Red　Top　or　taking　the　T；　but　he　can't　get　through。　Perhaps　all　the　science…fiction　stories　he　read　about　time　when　he　was　a　teenager　had　it　right：　you　can't　change　the　past；　no　matter　how　you　try。
　　　　He　walks　across　the　bridge；　and　although　the　wind　is　a　little　cold；　he　still　enjoys　the　sun　on　his　face　and　the　way　it　breaks　into　a　million　bright　splinters　on　the　Charles。　He　sings　a　snatch　of　'Here　es　the　Sun；'　then　reverts　to　the　Pointer　Sisters：　Yes　we　cancan；　great　gosh　a'mighty。　Swinging　his　briefcase　in　rhythm。　His　sandwich　is　inside。　Egg　salad。　Mmm…mmmm；　Henry　said。　SSDD；　Henry　said。
　　　　Here　is　the　saxophonist；　and　surprise：　he's　not　on　the　end　of　the　Mass　Ave　Bridge　but　farther　up；　by　the　MIT　campus；　outside　one　of　those　funky　little　Indian　restaurants。　He's　shivering　in　the　cold；　bald；　with　nicks　on　his　scalp　suggesting　he　wasn't　cut　out　to　be　a　barber。　The　way　he's　playing　'These　Foolish　Things'　suggests　he　wasn't　cut　out　to　be　a　horn…player；　either；　and　Jonesy　wants　to　tell　him　to　be　a　carpenter；　an　actor；　a　terrorist；　anything　but　a　musician。　Instead；　Jonesy　actually　encourages　him；　not　dropping　the　quarter　he　previously　remembered　into　the　guy's　case　（it's　lined　with　scuffed　purple　velvet）；　but　a　whole　fistful　of　change　…　these　foolish　things；　indeed。　He　blames　it　on　the　first　warm　sun　after　a　long　cold　winter；　he　blames　it　on　how　well　things　turned　out　with　Defuniak。
　　　　The　sax…man　rolls　his　eyes　to　Jonesy；　thanking　him　but　still　blowing；　Jonesy　thinks　of　another　joke：　What　do　you　call　a　sax…player　with　a　credit　card？　An　optimist。
　　　　He　walks　on；　swinging　his　case；　not　listening　to　the　Jonesy　inside；　the　one　who　has　swum　upstream　from　November　like　some　time…travelling　salmon。　'Hey　Jonesy；　stop。　Just　a　few　seconds　should　be　enough。　Tie　your　shoe　or　something。　（No　good；　he's　wearing　loafers。　Soon　he　will　be　wearing　a　cast；　as　well。）　That　intersection　up　there　is　where　it　happens；　the　one　where　the　Red　Line　stops；　Mass　Ave　and　Prospect。　There's　an　old　guy　ing；　a　wonked…out　history　professor　in　a　dark　blue　Lincoln　Town　Car　and　he's　going　to　clean　you　like　a　house。'
　　　　But　it's　no　good。　No　matter　how　hard　he　yells；　it's　no　good。　The　phone　lines　are　down。　You　can't　go　back；　can't　kill　your　own　grandfather；　can't　shoot　Lee　Harvey　Oswald　as　he　kneels　at　a　sixth…floor　window　of　the　Texas　School　Book　Depository；　congealing　fried　chicken　on　a　paper　plate　beside　him　and　his　mail…order　rifle　aimed；　can't　stop　yourself　walking　across　the　intersection　of　Mass　Ave　and　Prospect　Street　with　your　briefcase　in　your　hand　and　your　copy　of　the　Boston　Phoenix　…　which　you　will　never　read　…　under　your　arm。　Sorry；　sir；　the　lines　are　down　somewhere　in　the　Jefferson　Tract；　it's　a　real　fuckarow　up　there；　your　call　cannot　go　through…
　　　　And　then；　oh　God；　this　is　new　…　the　message　does　go　through！　As　he　reaches　the　corner；　as　he　stands　there　on　the　curb；　just　about　to　step　down　into　the　crosswalk；　it　does　go　through！
　　　　'What？'　he　says；　and　the　man　who　was　stopped　beside　him；　the　first　one　to　bend　over　him　in　a　past　which　now　may　be　blessedly　canceled；　looks　at　him　suspiciously　and　says　'I　didn't　say　anything；'　as　though　there　might　be　a　third　with　them。　Jonesy　barely　hears　him　because　there　is　a　third；　there　is　a　voice　inside　him；　one　which　sounds　suspiciously　like　his　own；　and　it's　screaming　at　him　to　stay　on　the　curb；　to　stay　out　of　the　street…
　　　　Then　he　hears　someone　crying。　He　looks　across　to　the　far　side　of　Prospect　and　oh　God；　Duddits　is　there；　Duddits　Cavell　naked　except　for　his　Underoos；　and　there　is　brown　stuff　smeared　all　around　his　mouth。　It　looks　like　chocolate；　but　Jonesy　knows　better。　It's　dogshit；　that　bastard　Richie　made　him　eat　it　after　all；　and　people　over　there　are　walking　back　and　forth　regardless；　ignoring　him；　as　if　Duddits　wasn't　there。
　　　　'Duddits！'　Jonesy　calls。　'Duddits；　hang　on；　man；　I'm　ing！'
　　　　And　he　plunges　into　the　street　without　looking；　the　passenger　inside　helpless　to　do　anything　but　ride　along；　understanding　at　last　that　this　was　exactly　how　and　why　the　accident　happened　…　the　old　man；　yes；　the　old　man　with　early…stage　Alzheimer's　who　had　no　business　behind　the　wheel　of　a　car　in　the　first　place；　but　that　had　only　been　part　of　it。　The　other　part；　concealed　in　the　blackness　surrounding　the　crash　until　now；　was　this：　he　had　seen　Duddits　and　had　simply　bolted；　forgetting　to　look。
　　　　He　glimpses　something　more；　as　well：　some　huge　pattern；　something　like　a　dreamcatcher　that　binds　all　the　years　since　they　first　met　Duddits　Cavell　in　1978；　something　that　binds　the　future　as　well。
　　　　Sunlight　twinkles　on　a　windshield；　he　sees　this　in　the　er　of　his　left　eye。　A　car　ing；　and　too　fast。　The　man　who　was　beside　him　on　the　curb；　old　Mr　I…Didn't…Say…Anything；　cries　out：　'Watch　it；　guy；　watch　it！'　but　Jonesy　barely　hears　him。　Because　there　is　a　deer　on　the　sidewalk　behind　Duddits；　a　fine　big　buck；　almost　as　big　as　a　man。　Then；　just　before　the　Town　Car　strikes　him；　Jonesy　sees　the　deer　is　a　man；　a　man　in　an　orange　cap　and　an　orange　flagman's　vest。　On　his　shoulder；　like　a　hideous　mascot；　is　a　legless　weasel…thing　with　enormous　black　eyes。　Its　tail　…　or　maybe　it's　a　tentacle　…　is　curled　around　the　man's　neck。　How　in　God's　name　could　I　have　thought　he　was　a　deer？　Jonesy　thinks；　and　then　the　Lincoln　strikes　him　and　he　is　knocked　into　the　street。　He　hears　a　bitter；　muffled　snap　as　his　hip　breaks。


2

There　is　no　darkness；　not　this　time；　for　better　or　worse；　arc…sodiums　have　been　installed　on　Memory　Lane。　Yet　the　film　is　confused；　as　if　the　editor　took　a　few　too　many　drinks　at　lunch　and　forgot　just　how　the　story　was　supposed　to　go。　Part　of　this　has　to　do　with　the　strange　way　time　has　been　twisted　out　of　shape：　he　seems　to　be　living　in　the　past；　present；　and　future　all　at　the　same　time。
　　　　This　is　how　we　travel；　a　voice　says；　and　Jonesy　realizes　it　is　the　voice　he　heard　weeping　for　Marcy；　for　a　shot。　Once　acceleration　passes　a　certain　point；　all　travel　bees　time　travel。　Memory　is　the　basis　of　every　journey。
　　　　The　man　on　the　corner；　old　Mr　I…Didn't…Say…Anything；　bends　over　him；　asks　if　he's　all　right；　sees　that　he　isn't；　then　looks　up　and　says；　'Who's　got　a　cell　phone？　This　guy　needs　an　ambulance。'　When　he　raises　his　head；　Jonesy　sees　there's　a　little　cut　under　the　guy's　chin；　old　Mr　I…Didn't…Say…Anything　probably　did　it　that　morning　without　even　realizing　it。　That's　sweet；　Jonesy　thinks；　then　the　film　jumps　and　here's　an　old　dude　in　a　rusty　black　topcoat　and　a　fedora　hat　…　call　this　elderly　dickweed　old　Mr　What'd…l…Do。　He's　wandering　around　asking　people　that。　He　says　he　looked　away　for　a　moment　and　felt　a　thump　…　what'd　I　do？　He　says　he　has　never　liked　a　big　car　what'd　I　do？　He　says　he　can't　remember　the　name　of　the　insurance　pany；　but　they　call　themselves　the　Good　Hands　People　…　what'd　I　do？　There　is　a　stain　on　the　crotch　of　his　trousers；　and　as　Jonesy　lies　there　in　the　street　he　can't　help　feeling　a　kind　of　exasperated　pity　for　the　old　geezer　…　wishes　he　could　tell　him　You　want　to　know　what　you　did；　take　a　look　at　your　pants。　You　did　Number　One；　Q…E…fuckin…D。
　　　　The　film　jumps　again。　Now　there　are　even　more　people　gathered　around　him。　They　look　very　tall　and　Jonesy　thinks　it's　like　having　a　coffin's…eye　view　of　a　funeral。　That　makes　him　remember　a　Ray　Bradbury　story；　he　thinks　it's　called　'The　Crowd；'　where　the　people　who　gather　at　accident　sites　…　always　the　same　ones　determine　your　fate　by　what　they　say。　If　they　stand　around　you　murmuring　that　it　isn't　so　bad；　he's　lucky　the　car　swerved　at　the　last　second；　you'll　be　okay。　If；　on　the　other　hand；　the　people　who　make　up　the　crowd　start　saying　things　like　He　looks　bad　or　I　don't　think　he's　going　to　make　it；　you'll　die。　Always　the　same　people。　Always　the　same　empty；　avid　faces。　The　lookie…loos　who　just　have　to　see　the　blood　and　hear　the　groans　of　the　injured。
　　　　In　the　cluster　surrounding　him；　just　behind　old　Mr　I…Didn't…Say…Anything；　Jonesy　sees　Duddits　Cavell；　now　fully　dressed　and　looking　okay　…　no　dogshit　mustache；　in　other　words。　McCarthy　is　there；　too。　Call　him　old　Mr　I…Stand…at…the…Door…and…Knock；　Jonesy　thinks。　And　someone　else；　as　well。　A　gray　man。　Only　he's　not　a　man　at　all；　not　really；　he's　the　alien　that　was　standing　behind　him　while　Jonesy　was　at　the　bathroom　door。　Huge　black　eyes　dominate　a　face　which　is　otherwise　almost　featurel