pzb.drawingblood-第24章

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eaths。　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　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　the