sk.everythingseventual-第109章

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　Ronk　started　to　sing　about　the　cocaine　blues。　Halfway　through　the　third　verse　I　paused　with　my　razor　by　my　cheek。　Got　a　headful　of　whiskey　and　a　bellyful　of　gin；　Dave　sang　in　his　rasping　voice。　Doctor　say　it　kill　me　but　he　don't　say　when。　And　that　was　the　answer；　of　course。　A　guilty　conscience　had　led　me　to　assume　that　my　mother　would　die　immediately；　and　Staub　had　never　corrected　that　assumption…how　could　he；　when　I　had　never　even　asked？…but　it　clearly　wasn't　true。
　　Doctor　say　it　kill　me　but　he　don't　say　when。
　　What　in　God's　name　was　I　beating　myself　up　about？　Didn't　my　choice　amount　to　no　more　than　the　natural　order　of　things？　Didn't　children　usually　outlive　their　parents？　The　son　of　a　bitch　had　tried　to　scare　me…to　guilt…trip　me…but　I　didn't　have　to　buy　what　he　was　selling；　did　I？　Didn't　we　all　ride　the　Bullet　in　the　end？
　　You're　just　trying　to　let　yourself　off。　Trying　to　find　a　way　to　make　it　okay。　Maybe　what　you're　thinking　is　true　。　。　。　but　when　he　asked　you　to　choose；　you　chose　her。　There's　no　way　to　think　your　way　around　that；　buddy…you　chose　her。
　　I　opened　my　eyes　and　looked　at　my　face　in　the　mirror。　'I　did　what　I　had　to；'　I　said。　I　didn't　quite　believe　it；　but　in　time　I　supposed　I　would。
　　
　　Mrs。　McCurdy　and　I　went　up　to　see　my　mother　and　my　mother　was　a　little　better。　I　asked　her　if　she　remembered　her　dream　about　Thrill　Village；　in　Laconia。　She　shook　her　head。　'I　barely　remember　you　ing　in　last　night；'　she　said。　'I　was　awful　sleepy。　Does　it　matter？'
　　'Nope；'　I　said；　and　kissed　her　temple。　'Not　a　bit。'
　　
　　My　Ma　got　out　of　the　hospital　five　days　later。　She　walked　with　a　limp　for　a　little　while；　but　that　went　away　and　a　month　later　she　was　back　at　work　again…only　half　shifts　at　first　but　then　full…time；　just　as　if　nothing　had　happened。　I　returned　to　school　and　got　a　job　at　Pat's　Pizza　in　downtown　Orono。　The　money　wasn't　great；　but　it　was　enough　to　get　my　car　fixed。　That　was　good；　I'd　lost　what　little　taste　for　hitchhiking　I'd　ever　had。
　　My　mother　tried　to　quit　smoking　and　for　a　little　while　she　did。　Then　I　came　back　from　school　for　April　vacation　a　day　early；　and　the　kitchen　was　just　as　smoky　as　it　had　ever　been。　She　looked　at　me　with　eyes　that　were　both　ashamed　and　defiant。　'I　can't；'　she　said。　'I'm　sorry；　Al…I　know　you　want　me　to　and　I　know　I　should；　but　there's　such　a　hole　in　my　life　without　it。　Nothing　fills　it。　The　best　I　can　do　is　wish　I'd　never　started　in　the　first　place。'
　　
　　Two　weeks　after　I　graduated　from　college；　my　Ma　had　another　stroke…just　a　little　one。　She　tried　to　quit　smoking　again　when　the　doctor　scolded　her；　then　put　on　fifty　pounds　and　went　back　to　the　tobacco。　'As　a　dog　returneth　to　its　vomit；'　the　Bible　says；　I've　always　liked　that　one。　I　got　a　pretty　good　job　in　Portland　on　my　first　try…lucky；　I　guess…and　started　the　work　of　convincing　her　to　quit　her　own　job。　It　was　a　tough　sled　at　first。　I　might　have　given　up　in　disgust；　but　I　had　a　certain　memory　that　kept　me　digging　away　at　her　Yankee　defenses。
　　'You　ought　to　be　saving　for　your　own　life；　not　taking　care　of　me；'　she　said。　'You'll　want　to　get　married　someday；　Al；　and　what　you　spend　on　me　you　won't　have　for　that。　For　your　real　life。'
　　'You're　my　real　life；'　I　said；　and　kissed　her。　'You　can　like　it　or　lump　it；　but　that's　just　the　way　it　is。'　And　finally　she　threw　in　the　towel。
　　We　had　some　pretty　good　years　after　that…seven　of　them　in　all。　I　didn't　live　with　her；　but　I　visited　her　almost　every　day。　We　played　a　lot　of　gin　rummy　and　watched　a　lot　of　movies　on　the　video　recorder　I　bought　her。　Had　a　bucketload　of　laughs；　as　she　liked　to　say。　I　don't　know　if　I　owe　those　years　to　George　Staub　or　not；　but　they　were　good　years。　And　my　memory　of　the　night　I　met　Staub　never　faded　and　grew　dreamlike；　as　I　always　expected　it　would；　every　incident；　from　the　old　man　telling　me　to　wish　on　the　harvest　moon　to　the　fingers　fumbling　at　my　shirt　as　Staub　passed　his　button　on　to　me；　remained　perfectly　clear。　And　there　came　a　day　when　I　could　no　longer　find　that　button。　I　knew　I'd　had　it　when　I'd　moved　into　my　little　apartment　in　Fal…mouth…I　kept　it　in　the　top　drawer　of　my　bedside　table；　along　with　a　couple　of　bs；　my　two　sets　of　cufflinks；　and　an　old　political　button　that　said　BILL　CLINTON；　THE　SAFE　SAX　PRESIDENT…but　then　it　came　up　missing。　And　when　the　telephone　rang　a　day　or　two　later；　I　knew　why　Mrs。　McCurdy　was　crying。　It　was　the　bad　news　I'd　never　quite　stopped　expecting；　fun　is　fun　and　done　is　done。
　　
　　When　the　funeral　was　over；　and　the　wake；　and　the　seemingly　endless　line　of　mourners　had　finally　e　to　its　end；　I　went　back　to　the　little　house　in　Harlow　where　my　mother　had　spent　her　final　few　years；　smoking　and　eating　powdered　doughnuts。　It　had　been　Jean　and　Alan　Parker　against　the　world；　now　it　was　just　me。
　　I　went　through　her　personal　effects；　putting　aside　the　few　papers　that　would　have　to　be　dealt　with　later；　boxing　up　the　things　I'd　want　to　keep　on　one　side　of　the　room　and　the　things　I'd　want　to　give　away　to　the　Goodwill　on　the　other。　Near　the　end　of　the　job　I　got　down　on　my　knees　and　looked　under　her　bed　and　there　it　was；　what　I'd　been　looking　for　all　along　without　quite　admitting　it　to　myself：　a　dusty　button　reading　I　RODE　THE　BULLET　AT　THRILL　VILLAGE；　LACONIA。　I　curled　my　fist　tight　around　it。　The　pin　dug　into　my　flesh　and　I　squeezed　my　hand　even　tighter；　taking　a　bitter　pleasure　in　the　pain。　When　I　rolled　my　fingers　open　again；　my　eyes　had　filled　with　tears　and　the　words　on　the　button　had　doubled；　overlaying　each　other　in　a　shimmer。　It　was　like　looking　at　a　3…D　movie　without　the　glasses。
　　'Are　you　satisfied？'　I　asked　the　silent　room。　'Is　it　enough？'　There　was　no　answer；　of　course。　'Why　did　you　even　bother？　What　was　the　goddam　point？'
　　Still　no　answer；　and　why　would　there　be？　You　wait　in　line；　that's　all。　You　wait　in　line　beneath　the　moon　and　make　your　wishes　by　its　infected　light。　You　wait　in　line　and　listen　to　them　screaming…they　pay　to　be　terrified；　and　on　the　Bullet　they　always　get　their　money's　worth。　Maybe　when　it's　your　turn　you　ride；　maybe　you　run。　Either　way　it　es　to　the　same；　I　think。　There　ought　to　be　more　to　it；　but　there's　really　not…fun　is　fun　and　done　is　done。
　　Take　your　button　and　get　out　of　here。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　LUCKEY　QUARTER
　　
　　
　　In　the　fall　of　1996；　I　crossed　the　United　States　from　Maine　to　California　on　my　Harley…Davidson　motorcycle；　stopping　at　independent　bookstores　to　promote　a　novel　called　Insomnia。　It　was　a　great　trip。　The　high　point　was　probably　sitting　on　the　stoop　of　an　abandoned　general　store　in　Kansas；　watching　the　sun　go　down　in　the　west　as　the　full　moon　rose　in　the　east。　I　thought　of　a　scene　in　Pat　Conroy's　The　Prince　of　Tides　where　the　same　thing　happens；　and　an　enraptured　child　cries　out；　'Oh；　Mama；　do　it　again！'　Later；　in　Nevada；　I　stayed　in　a　ramshackle　hotel　where　the　turn…down　maids　left　two…dollar　slots　chips　on　the　pillow。　Beside　each　chip　was　a　little　card　that　said　something　like；　'Hi；　I'm　Marie；　Good　Luck！'　This　story　came　to　mind。　I　wrote　it　longhand；　on　hotel　stationery。
　　
　　
　　
　　'Oh　you　cheap　son　of　a　bitch！'　she　cried　in　the　empty　hotel　room；　more　in　surprise　than　in　anger。
　　Then…it　was　the　way　she　was　built…Darlene　Pullen　started　to　laugh。　She　sat　down　in　the　chair　beside　the　rumpled；　abandoned　bed　with　the　quarter　in　one　hand　and　the　envelope　it　had　fallen　out　of　in　the　other；　looking　back　and　forth　between　them　and　laughing　until　tears　spilled　from　her　eyes　and　rolled　down　her　cheeks。　Patsy；　her　older　kid；　needed　braces。　Darlene　had　absolutely　no　idea　how　she　was　going　to　pay　for　them；　she　had　been　worried　about　it　all　week；　and　if　this　wasn't　the　final　straw；　what　was？　And　if　you　couldn't　laugh；　what　could　you　do？　Find　a　gun　and　shoot　yourself？
　　Different　girls　had　different　places　to　leave　the　all…important　envelope；　which　they　called　'the　honeypot。'　Gerda；　the　Swede　who'd　been　a　downtown　corner…girl　before　finding　Jesus　the　previous　summer　at　a　revival　meeting　in　Tahoe；　propped　hers　up　against　one　of　the　bathroom　glasses；　Melissa　put　hers　under　the　TV　controller。　Darlene　always　leaned　hers　against　the　telephone；　and　when　she　came　in　this　morning　and　found　322's　on　the　pillow　instead；　she　had