pzb.drawingblood-第3章
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Didi。 The story took him away。
Besides； he knew they would e back。 They always did。 Your parents couldn't just walk away and leave you in the back seat； not when it would be dark soon； not when you were in a strange place and there was nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep and you were only five years old。
Could they？
Momma and Daddy were far down the road now； small gesturing shapes in the distance。 But Trevor could see that they had stopped walking； that they were just standing there。 Arguing； yes。 Yelling； probably。 Maybe crying。 But not going away。
Trevor looked down at the page and fell back into the story。
It turned out they couldn't go anywhere。 Daddy called a mechanic； an immensely tall； skinny young man who was still almost a teenager； with a face as long and pale and kindly as that of the Man in the Moon。 Stitched in bright orange thread on the pocket of his greasy overalls was the improbable name Kinsey。
Kinsey said the Rambler had thrown a rod that had probably been ready to go since New Orleans； and unless they were prepared to drop several hundred bucks into that tired old engine； they might as well push the car off the road and be glad they'd broken down close to a town。 After all； Kinsey pointed out； they might be staying awhile。
Daddy helped him roll the car forward a few feet so that it was pletely off the blacktop。 The body sagged on its tires； two…toned paint a faded turquoise above the dusty strip of chrome that ran along the side； dirty white below。 Trevor thought the Rambler already looked dead。 Daddy's face was very pale； almost bluish； sheened with oily…looking sweat。 When he took off his sunglasses； Trevor saw smudgy purple shadows in the hollows of his eyes。
〃How much do we owe you？〃 Daddy said。 It was obvious from his voice that he dreaded the answer。
Kinsey looked at Momma； at Trevor and Didi in the crooks of her arms； at their clothes and other belongings heaped in the back seat； the duffel bags bulging up from under the roped…down lid of the trunk； the three mattresses strapped to the roof。 His quick blue eyes； as bright as Trevor's and Daddy's were pale； seemed to take in the situation at a glance。 〃For ing out？ Nothing。 My time isn't that valuable； believe me。〃
He lowered his head a little to peer into Daddy's face。 Trevor thought suddenly of an inquisitive giraffe。 〃But don't I know you？ You wouldn't be 。。。 no 。。。 not Robert McGee？ The cartoonist who blew the brainpan off the American underground' in the words of Saint Crumb himself？ 。 。 。 No； no； of course not。 Not in Missing Mile。 Silly of me； sorry。〃
He was already turning away； and Daddy wasn't going to say anything。 Trevor couldn't stand it。 He wanted to run to the tall young man； to yell up into that kind； curious face； Yes； it is him； it is Robert McGee and he's everything you said and he's MY DADDY TOO！ In that moment Trevor felt he would burst with pride for his father。
But Momma's arm tightened around him； holding him back。 One long lacquered nail tapped a warning on his forearm。 〃Sh；〃 he heard her say softly。
And Daddy； Robert McGee； Bobby McGee； creator of the crazed； sick； beautiful ic Birdland； whose work had appeared beside Crumb's and Shelton's； in Zap！ and the L。A。 Free Press and the East Village Other and everywhere in between； all across the country 。 。 。 who had received and refused offers from the same Hollywood he had once drawn as a giant blood…swollen tick still clinging to the rotten corpse of a dog labeled Art 。 。 。 who had once had a steady hand and a pure； scathing vision 。。。
Daddy only shook his head and looked away。
Just past downtown Missing Mile； a road splits off to the left from Firehouse Street and meanders away into scrubby countryside。 The fields out here are nearly barren； the soil gone infertile…most believe from overfarming and lack of crop rotation。 Only the oldest residents of town still say these fields are cursed； and were once sowed with salt。 The good land is on the other side of town； the side toward Corinth； out where the abandoned railyard and the deep woods are。 Firehouse Street runs into State Highway 42。 The road that splits off to the left soon bees gravel； then dirt。 This is the poorest part of Missing Mile； the place called Violin Road。
Out here the best places to live are decrepit farmhouses； big rambling places with high ceilings and large cool rooms； most of which were abandoned or sold years ago as the crops went bad。 A step below these are the aluminum trailers and tarpaper shacks； their dirt yards choked with broken toys； rusting hulks of autos； and other trash； their peripheries negligently guarded by slat…sided； soporific hounds。
Out here only the wild things are healthy； the old trees whose roots find sustenance far below the ill…used layer of topsoil； the occasional rosebush gone to green thicket and thorns； the unstoppable kudzu。 It is as if they have decided to take back the land for their own。
Trevor loved it。 It was where he discovered that he could draw even if Daddy couldn't。
Momma talked to a real estate agent in town and figured out that they could afford to rent one of the dilapidated farmhouses for a month。 By that time； she said； she would find a job in Missing Mile and Daddy would be drawing。 Sure enough； a few days after they moved their things into the house； a dress shop hired Momma as a salesgirl。 The job was no fun…she couldn't wear jeans to work； which left her with a choice of one Indian…print skirt and blouse or one patchwork dress…but she ate lunch at the diner in town and sometimes stopped for coffee after her shift。 Soon she met some of the kids they'd seen going into the record store； and others like them。
If she could drive to Raleigh or Chapel Hill； they told Momma； she could make good money modeling for university art classes。 Momma talked to Kinsey at the garage； who let her set up a payment plan。 A week later the Rambler had a brand…new engine； and Momma quit the dress shop and started driving to Raleigh several times a week。
Daddy had his things set up in a tiny fourth bedroom at the back of the house； his untidy jumble of inks and brushes and his drawing table； the one piece of furniture they had brought from Austin。 He went in there and shut the door every morning after Momma left； and he stayed in there most of the day。 Trevor had no idea whether he was drawing or not。
But Trevor was。 He had found an old sketchbook of Daddy's when Momma unpacked the car。 Most of the pages had been torn out； but there were still a few blank sheets left。 Trevor usually took Didi outside to play in the daytime…Momma had assured him that the Devil's Tramping Ground was more than forty miles away； so he didn't have to worry about accidentally ing upon the pacing； muttering demon。
When Didi was napping…something he seemed to do more and more often these days…Trevor wandered through the house； looking at the bare floorboards and the water…stained walls； wondering if anyone had ever loved this house。 One afternoon he found himself in the dim； shabby kitchen； perched on one of the rickety chairs that had e with the house； a felt…tip pen in his hand； the sketchbook on the table before him。 He had no idea what he was going to draw。 He had hardly ever thought about drawing before； that was what Daddy did。 Trevor could remember scribbling with crayons on cheap newsprint when he was Didi's age； making great round heads with stick arms and legs ing straight out of them； as small children do。 This circle with five dots in it is Momma； this one is Daddy； that one's me。 But he hadn't drawn for at least a year…not since Daddy stopped。
Daddy had told him once that the trick was not to think about it； not in your sketchbook anyway。 You just had to find the path between your hand and your heart and your brain and see what came out。 Trevor uncapped the pen and put its tip against the unblemished （though slightly yellowed） page of the sketchbook。 The ink began to bleed into the paper； making a small spreading dot； a tiny black sun in a pale void。 Then； slowly； Trevor's hand began to move。
He soon discovered he was drawing Skeletal Sammy； a character from Daddy's
