sk.carrie-第17章

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ed　in　the　back　（her　fraternity　dates　drank　Budweiser；　Billy　and　his　friends　drank　Rheingold）；　and　she　had　to　place　her　feet　around　a　huge；　grease…clotted　Craftsman　toolkit　without　a　lid。　The　tools　inside　were　of　many　different　makes；　and　she　suspected　that　many　of　them　were　stolen。　The　car　smelled　of　oil　and　gas。　The　sound　of　straight　pipes　came　loudly　and　exhilaratingly　through　the　thin　floorboards。　A　row　of　dials　slung　under　the　dash　registered　amps；　oil　pressure；　and　tach　（whatever　that　was）。　The　back　wheels　were　jacked　and　the　hood　seemed　to　point　at　the　road。
And　of　course　he　drove　fast。
On　the　third　ride　home　one　of　the　bald　front　tyres　blew　at　sixty　miles　an　hour；　the　car　went　into　a　screaming　slide　and　she　shrieked　aloud；　suddenly　positive　of　her　own　death。　An　image　of　her　broken；　bloody　corpse；　thrown　against　the　base　of　a　telephone　pole　like　a　pile　of　rags；　flashed　through　her　mind　like　a　tabloid　photograph。　Billy　cursed　and　whipped　the　fuzz…covered　steering　wheel　from　side　to　side。
They　came　to　a　stop　on　the　left…hand　shoulder；　and　when　she　got　out　of　the　car　on　knees　that　threatened　to　buckle　at　every　step；　she　saw　that　they　had　left　a　looping　trail　of　scorched　rubber　for　seventy　feet
Billy　was　already　opening　the　trunk；　pulling　out　a　jack　and　muttering　to　himself。　Not　a　hair　was　out　of　place。
He　passed　her；　a　cigarette　already　dangling　from　the　corner　of　his　mouth。　'Bring　that　toolkit；　babe。'
She　was　flabbergasted。　Her　mouth　opened　and　closed　twice；　like　a　beached　fish；　before　she　could　get　the　words　out。　'I…I　will　not！　You　almost　k…you…almost…you　crazy　bastard！　Besides；　it's　dirty！'
He　turned　around　and　looked　at　her；　his　eyes　flat。　'You　bring　it　or　I　ain't　taking　you　to　the　fuckin　fights　tomorrow　night。'
'I　hate　the　fights！'　She　had　never　been；　but　her　anger　and　outrage　required　absolutes。　Her　fraternity　dates　took　her　to　rock　concerts；　which　she　hated。　They　always　ended　up　next　to　someone　who　hadn't　bathed　in　weeks。
He　shrugged；　went　back　to　the　front　end；　and　began　jacking。
She　brought　the　toolkit；　getting　grease　all　over　a　brandnew　sweater。　He　grunted　without　turning　around。　His　teeshirt　had　pulled　out　of　his　jeans；　and　the　flesh　of　his　back　was　smooth；　tanned；　alive　with　muscles。　It　fascinated　her；　and　she　felt　her　tongue　creep　into　the　corner　of　her　mouth。
She　helped　him　pull　the　tyre　of　the　wheel；　getting　her　hands　black。　The　car　rocked　alarmingly　on　the　jack；　and　the　spare　was　down　to　the　canvas　in　two　places。
When　the　job　was　finished　and　she　got　back　in；　there　were　heavy　smears　of　grease　across　both　the　sweater　and　the　expensive　red　skirt　she　was　wearing。
'If　you　think…'　she　began　as　he　got　behind　the　wheel。
He　slid　across　the　seat　and　kissed　her；　his　hands　moving　heavily　on　her；　from　waist　to　breasts。　His　breath　was　redolent　of　tobacco；　there　was　the　smell　of　Brylcreem　and　sweat。　She　broke　it　at　last　and　stared　down　at　herself；　gasping　for　breath。　The　sweater　was　blotted　with　road　grease　and　dirt　now。　Twenty…seven…fifty　in　Jordan　Marsh　and　it　was　beyond　anything　but　the　garbage　can。　She　was　intensely；　almost　painfully　excited。
'How　are　you　going　to　explain　that？'　he　asked；　and　kissed　her　again。　His　mouth　felt　as　if　he　might　be　grinning。'
'Feel　me；'　she　said　in　his　car。　'Feel　me　all　over。　Get　me　dirty。'
He　did。　One　nylon　split　like　a　gaping　mouth。　Her　skirt；　short　to　begin　with；　was　pushed　rudely　up　to　her　waist。　He　groped　greedily；　with　no　finesse　at　all。　And　something　…　perhaps　that；　perhaps　the　sudden　brush　with　death　…　brought　her　to　a　sudden；　jolting　orgasm。　She　had　gone　to　the　fights　with　him。
'Quarter　to　eight；'　he　said；　and　sat　up　in　bed。　He　put　on　the　lamp　and　began　to　dress；　His　body　still　fascinated　her。　She　thought　of　last　Monday　night；　and　how　it　had　been。　He　had
（no）
Tune　enough　to　think　of　that　later；　maybe；　when　it　would　do　something　for　her　besides　cause　useless　arousal。　She　swung　her　own　legs　over　the　edge　of　the　bed　and　slid　into　gossamer　panties。
'Maybe　it's　a　bad　idea；'　she　said；　not　sure　if　she　was　testing　him　or　herself。　'Maybe　we　ought　to　just　get　back　into　bed　and…'
'It's　a　good　idea；'　he　said；　and　a　shadow　of　humour　crossed　his　face。　'Pig　blood　for　a　pig。'
'What？'
'Nothing。　e　on。　Get　dressed。'
She　did；　and　when　they　left　by　the　back　stairs　she　could　feel　a　large　excitement　blooming；　like　a　rapacious　and　night…flowering　vine；　in　her　belly。
From　My　Name　Is　Susan　Snell　（p。　45）：
You　know；　I'm　not　as　sorry　about　all　of　it　as　people　seem　to　think　I　should　be。　Not　that　they　say　it　right　out；　they're　the　ones　who　always　say　how　dreadfully　sorry　they　are。　That's　usually　just　before　they　ask　for　my　autograph。　But　they　expect　you　to　be　sorry。　They　expect　you　to　get　weepy；　to　wear　a　lot　of　black；　to　drink　a　little　too　much　or　take　drugs。　They　say　things　like：　'Oh；　it's　such　a　shame。　But　you　know　what　happened　to　her…'　and　blah；　blah；　blah。
But　sorry　is　the　Kool…Aid　of　human　emotions。　It's　what　you　say　when　you　spill　a　cup　of　coffee　or　throw　a　gutterball　when　you're　bowling　with　the　girls　in　the　league。　True　sorrow　is　as　rare　as　true　love。　I'm　not　sorry　that　Tommy　is　dead　any　more。　He　seems　too　much　like　a　daydream　I　once　had。　You　probably　think　that's　cruel；　but　there's　been　a　lot　of　water　under　the　bridge　since　Prom　Night。　And　I'm　not　sorry　for　my　appearance　before　The　White　mission。　I　told　the　truth　…　as　much　of　it　as　I　knew。
But　I　am　sorry　for　Carrie。
They've　forgotten　her；　you　know。　They've　made　her　into　some　kind　of　a　symbol　and　forgotten　that　she　was　a　human　being；　as　real　as　you　reading　this；　with　hopes　and　dreams　and　blah；　blah；　blah。　Useless　to　tell　you　that；　I　suppose。　Nothing　can　change　her　back　now　from　something　made　out　of　newsprint　into　a　person。　But　she　was；　and　she　hurt。　More　than　any　of　us　probably　know；　she　hurt。
And　so　I'm　sorry　and　I　hope　it　was　good　for　her；　that　prom。　Until　the　terror　began；　I　hope　it　was　good　and　fine　and　wonderful　and　magic　。。。
Tommy　pulled　into　the　parking　lot　beside　the　high　school's　new　wing；　let　the　motor　idle　for　just　a　second；　and　then　switched　it　of。　Carrie　sat　on　her　side　of　the　seat；　holding　her　wrap　around　her　bare　shoulders。　It　suddenly　seemed　to　her　that　she　was　living　in　a　dream　of　hidden　intentions　and　had　just　bee　aware　of　the　fact。　What　could　she　be　doing？　She　had　left　Momma　alone。
'Nervous？'　He　asked；　and　she　jumped。
'Yes。'
He　laughed　and　got　out。　She　was　about　to　open　the　door　when　he　opened　it　for　her。　'Don't　be　nervous；'　he　mid。　'You're　like　Galatea。'
'Who？'
'Galatea。　We　read　about　her　in　Mr　Evers'　class。　She　turned　from　a　drudge　into　a　beautiful　woman　and　nobody　even　knew　her。'
She　considered　it。　'I　want　them　to　know　me；'　she　said　finally。
'I　don't　blame　you。　e　on。'
George　Dawson　and　Frieda　Jason　were　standing　by　the　Coke　machine。　Frieda　was　in　an　orange　tulle　concoction；　and　looked　a　little　like　a　tuba。　Donna　Thibodeau　was　taking　tickets　at　the　door　along　with　David　Bracken。　They　were　both　National　Honour　Society　members；　part　of　Miss　personal　Gestapo；　and　they　wore　white　slacks　and　red　blazers　…　the　school　colours。　Tina　Blake　and　Norma　Watson　were　handing　out　programmes　and　seating　people　inside　according　to　their　chart　Both　of　them　were　dressed　in　black；　and　Carrie　supposed　they　thought　they　were　very　chic；　but　to　her　they　looked　like　cigarette　girls　in　an　old　gangster　movie。
All　of　them　turned　to　look　at　Tommy　and　Carrie　when　they　came　in；　and　for　a　moment　there　was　a　stiff；　awkward　silence。　Carrie　felt　a　strong　urge　to　wet　her　lips　and　controlled　it。　Then　George　Dawson　said：
'Gawd；　you　look　queer；　Ross。'
Tommy　smiled。　'When　did　you　e　out　of　the　treetops；　Bomba？'
Dawson　lurched　forward　with　his　fists　up；　and　for　a　moment　Carrie　felt　stark　terror。　In　her　keyed…up　state；　she　came　within　an　ace　of　picking　George　up　and　throwing　him　across　the　lobby。　Then　she　realized　it　was　an　old　game；　often　played；　well…loved。
The　two　of　them　sparred　in　a　growing　circle。　Then　George；　who　had　been　tagged　twice　in　the　ribs；　began　to　gobble　and　yell：…　'Kill　them　Congs！　Get　them　Gooks！　Pongee　sticks！　Tiger　cages！'　and　Tommy　collapsed　his　guard；　laughing。
'Don't　let　it　bother　you；'　Frieda　said；　tilting　her　letteropener　nose　and　strolling　over。　'If　they　kill　each　other；　I'll　dance　with　you。'
'They　look　too　stupid　to　kill；'　Carrie　ventured。　'Like　dinosaurs。'　And　when　Frieda　grinned；　she　felt　something　very　old　and　rusty　loosen　inside　her。　A　warmth　came　with　At。　Relief。　Ease。
'Where'd　you　buy　your　dress？'　Frieda　asked。　'I　love　it。'
'I　made　it。'
'Made　it？'　Frieda's　eyes　opened　in　unaffected　surprise。　'No　shit！'
Carrie　felt　herself　blushing　furiously。　'Yes　I　did。　I　。。。　I　like　to　sew。　I　got　the　material　at　John's　in　Andover。　The　pattern　is　really　quite　easy。'
'e　on；'　George　said　to　all　of　them　in　general。　'Band's　gonna　start。'　He　rolled　his　eyes　and　went　through　a　limber；　satiric　buck…and…wing。　'Vibes；　vibes；　vibes。　Us　Gooks　love　them　big　Fender　viyyybrations。'
When　they　went　in；　George　was　doing　impressions　of　Flash　Bobby　Pickett　and　mugging。　Carrie　was　telling　Freida　about　her　dress；　and　Tommy　was　grinning；　hands　stuffed　in　his　pockets。　Spoiled　the　lines　of　his　dinner　jacket　Sue　would　be　telling　him；　but　fuck　it；　it　seems　to　be　working。　So　far　it　was　working　fine。
He　and　George　and　Frieda　had　less　than　two　hours　to　live。
From　The　Shadow　Exploded　（p。　132）：
The　White　mission's　stand　on　the　trigger　of　the　whole　affair　…　two　buckets　of　pig　blood　on　a　beam　over　the　stage　…　seems　to　be　overly　weak　and　vacillating；　even　in　light　of　the　scant　concrete　proof。　If　one　chooses　to　believe　the　hearsay　evidence　of　Nolan's　immediate　circle　of　friends　（and　to　be　brutally　frank；　they　do　not　seem　intelligent　enough　to　lie　convincingly）；　then　Nolan　took　this　part　of　the　conspiracy　entirely　out　of　Christine　Hargensen's　hands　and　acted　on　his　own　initiative　。。。
He　didn't　talk　when　he　drove；　he　liked　to　drive。　The　operation　gave　him　a　feeling　of　power　that　nothing　could　rival；　not　even　fucking。
The　road　unrolled　before　them　in　photographic　blacks　and　whites；　and　the　speedometer　trembled　just　past　seventy。　He　came　from　what　the　social　workers　called　a　broken　home；　his　father　had　taken　off　after　the　failure　of　a　badly　managed　gas…station　venture　when　Billy　was　twelve；　and　his　mother　had　four　boyfriends　at　last　count。　Brucie　was　in　greatest　favour　right　now。　He　was　a　Seagram's　7　man。　She　was　turning　into　one　ugly　bag；　too。
But　the　car：　the　car　fed　him　power　and　glory　from　its　own　mystic　lines　of　force。　It　made　him　someone　to　be　reckoned　with；　someone　with　mana。　It　was　not　by　accident　that　he　had　done　most　of　his　balling　in　the　back　seat。　The　car　was　his　slave　and　his　god。　It　gave；　and　it　could　take　away。　Billy　had　used　it　to　take　away　many　times。　On　long；　sleepless　nights　when　his　mother　and　Brucie　were　fighting；　Billy　made　popcorn　and　went　out　cruising　for　stray　dogs。　Some　mornings　he　let　the　car　roll；　engine　dead；　into　the　garage　he　had　constructed　behind　the　house　with　its　front　bumper　dripping。
She　knew　his　habits　well　enough　by　now　and　did　not　bother　making　conversation　that　would　simply　be　ignored　anyway。　She　sat　beside　him　with　one　leg　curled　under　her；　gnawing　a　knuckle。　The　fights　of　the　cars　streaking　past　them　on　302　gleamed　softly　in　her　hair；　streaking　it　silver。
He　wondered　how　long　she　would　last。　Maybe　not　long　after　to