sk.thetalisman-第2章

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stino　bag　had　torn　right　down　through　the　big　D'AG；　and　a　jumble　of　rolled…up　socks；　loose　photographs；　chess…men　and　the　board；　and　ic　books　had　dribbled　over　all　else　in　the　trunk。　Jack　managed　to　get　most　of　this　stuff　into　other　bags。　Lily　was　moving　slowly　up　the　hotel　steps；　pulling　herself　along　on　the　railing　like　an　old　lady。　'I'll　find　the　bellhop；'　she　said　without　turning　around。
　　Jack　straightened　up　from　the　bulging　bags　and　looked　again　at　the　sky　where　he　was　sure　he　had　seen　a　rainbow。　There　was　no　rainbow；　only　that　unfortable；　shifting　sky。
　　Then：
　　'e　to　me；'　someone　said　behind　him　in　a　small　and　perfectly　audible　voice。
　　'What？'　he　asked；　turning　around。　The　empty　gardens　and　drive　stretched　out　before　him。
　　'Yes？'　his　mother　said。　She　looked　crickle…backed；　leaning　over　the　knob　of　the　great　wooden　door。
　　'Mistake；'　he　said。　There　had　been　no　voice；　no　rainbow。　He　forgot　both　and　looked　up　at　his　mother；　who　was　struggling　with　the　vast　door。　'Hold　on；　I'll　help；'　he　called；　and　trotted　up　the　steps；　awkwardly　carrying　a　big　suitcase　and　a　straining　paper　bag　filled　with　sweaters。
　　　
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　　Until　he　met　Speedy　Parker；　Jack　had　moved　through　the　days　at　the　hotel　as　unconscious　of　the　passage　of　time　as　a　sleeping　dog。　His　entire　life　seemed　almost　dreamlike　to　him　during　these　days；　full　of　shadows　and　inexplicable　transitions。　Even　the　terrible　news　about　Uncle　Tommy　which　had　e　down　the　telephone　wires　the　night　before　had　not　entirely　awakened　him；　as　shocking　as　it　had　been。　If　Jack　had　been　a　mystic；　he　might　have　thought　that　other　forces　had　taken　him　over　and　were　manipulating　his　mother's　life　and　his　own。　Jack　Sawyer　at　twelve　was　a　being　who　required　things　to　do；　and　the　noiseless　passivity　of　these　days；　after　the　hubbub　of　Manhattan；　had　confused　and　undone　him　in　some　basic　way。
　　Jack　had　found　himself　standing　on　the　beach　with　no　recollection　of　having　gone　there；　no　idea　of　what　he　was　doing　there　at　all。　He　supposed　he　was　mourning　Uncle　Tommy；　but　it　was　as　though　his　mind　had　gone　to　sleep；　leaving　his　body　to　fend　for　itself。　He　could　not　concentrate　long　enough　to　grasp　the　plots　of　the　sits　he　and　Lily　watched　at　night；　much　less　keep　the　nuances　of　fiction　in　his　head。
　　'You're　tired　from　all　this　moving　around；'　his　mother　said；　dragging　deeply　on　a　cigarette　and　squinting　at　him　through　the　smoke。　'All　you　have　to　do；　Jack…O；　is　relax　for　a　little　while。　This　is　a　good　place。　Let's　enjoy　it　as　long　as　we　can。'　
　　Bob　Newhart；　before　them　in　a　slightly　too…reddish　color　on　the　set；　bemusedly　regarded　a　shoe　he　held　in　his　right　hand。
　　'That's　what　I'm　doing；　Jacky。'　She　smiled　at　him。　'Relaxing　and　enjoying　it。'　
　　He　peeked　at　his　watch。　Two　hours　had　passed　while　they　sat　in　front　of　the　television；　and　he　could　not　remember　anything　that　had　preceded　this　program。
　　Jack　was　getting　up　to　go　to　bed　when　the　phone　rang。　Good　old　Uncle　Morgan　Sloat　had　found　them。　Uncle　Morgan's　news　was　never　very　great；　but　this　was　apparently　a　blockbuster　even　by　Uncle　Morgan's　standards。　Jack　stood　in　the　middle　of　the　room；　watching　as　his　mother's　face　grew　paler；　palest。　Her　hand　crept　to　her　throat；　where　new　lines　had　appeared　over　the　last　few　months；　and　pressed　lightly。　She　said　barely　a　word　until　the　end；　when　she　whispered；　'Thank　you；　Morgan；'　and　hung　up。　She　had　turned　to　Jack　then；　looking　older　and　sicker　than　ever。
　　'Got　to　be　tough　now；　Jacky；　all　right？'　
　　He　hadn't　felt　tough。
　　She　took　his　hand　then　and　told　him。
　　'Uncle　Tommy　was　killed　in　a　hit…and…run　accident　this　afternoon；　Jack。'　He　gasped；　feeling　as　if　the　wind　had　been　torn　out　of　him。
　　'He　was　crossing　La　Cienega　Boulevard　and　a　van　hit　him。　There　was　a　witness　who　said　it　was　black；　and　that　the　words　WILD　CHILD　were　written　on　the　side；　but　that　was　。　。　。　was　all。'　Lily　began　to　cry。　A　moment　later；　almost　surprised；　Jack　began　to　cry　as　well。　All　of　that　had　happened　three　days　ago；　and　to　Jack　it　seemed　forever。
　　　
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　　On　September　15th；　1981；　a　boy　named　Jack　Sawyer　stood　looking　out　at　the　steady　water　as　he　stood　on　an　unmarked　beach　before　a　hotel　that　looked　like　a　castle　in　a　Sir　Walter　Scott　novel。　He　wanted　to　cry　but　was　unable　to　release　his　tears。　He　was　surrounded　by　death；　death　made　up　half　the　world；　there　were　no　rainbows。　The　WILD　CHILD　van　had　subtracted　Uncle　Tommy　from　the　world。　Uncle　Tommy；　dead　in　L。A。；　too　far　from　the　east　coast；　where　even　a　kid　like　Jack　knew　he　really　belonged。　A　man　who　felt　he　had　to　put　on　a　tie　before　going　out　to　get　a　roast　beef　sandwich　at　Arby's　had　no　business　on　the　west　coast　at　all。
　　His　father　was　dead；　Uncle　Tommy　was　dead；　his　mother　might　be　dying。　He　felt　death　here；　too；　at　Arcadia　Beach；　where　it　spoke　through　telephones　in　Uncle　Morgan's　voice。　It　was　nothing　as　cheap　or　obvious　as　the　melancholy　feel　of　a　resort　in　the　off…season；　where　one　kept　stumbling　over　the　Ghosts　of　Summers　Past；　it　seemed　to　be　in　the　texture　of　things；　a　smell　on　the　ocean　breeze。　He　was　scared　。　。　。　and　he　had　been　scared　for　a　long　time。　Being　here；　where　it　was　so　quiet；　had　only　helped　him　to　realize　it…had　helped　him　to　realize　that　maybe　Death　had　driven　all　the　way　up　I…95　from　New　York；　squinting　out　through　cigarette　smoke　and　asking　him　to　find　some　bop　on　the　car　radio。
　　He　could　remember…vaguely…his　father　telling　him　that　he　was　born　with　an　old　head；　but　his　head　didn't　feel　old　now。　Right　now；　his　head　felt　very　young。　Scared；　he　thought。　I'm　pretty　damn　scared。　This　is　where　the　world　ends；　right？
　　Seagulls　coursed　the　gray　air　overhead。　The　silence　was　as　gray　as　the　air…as　deadly　as　the　growing　circles　under　her　eyes。
　　　
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　　When　he　had　wandered　into　Funworld　and　met　Lester　Speedy　Parker　after　he　did　not　quite　know　how　many　days　of　numbly　drifting　through　time；　that　passive　feeling　of　being　on　hold　had　somehow　left　him。　Lester　Parker　was　a　black　man　with　crinkly　gray　hair　and　heavy　lines　cutting　through　his　cheeks。　He　was　utterly　unremarkable　now　despite　whatever　he　had　acplished　in　his　earlier　life　as　a　travelling　blues　musician。　Nor　had　he　said　anything　particularly　remarkable。　Yet　as　soon　as　Jack　had　walked　aimlessly　into　Funworld's　game　arcade　and　met　Speedy's　pale　eyes　he　felt　all　the　fuzziness　leave　him。　He　had　bee　himself　again。　It　was　as　if　a　magical　current　had　passed　directly　from　the　old　man　into　Jack。　Speedy　had　smiled　at　him　and　said；　'Well；　it　looks　like　I　got　me　some　pany。　Little　travellin　man　just　walked　in。'
　　It　was　true；　he　was　not　on　hold　anymore：　just　an　instant　before；　he　had　seemed　to　be　wrapped　in　wet　wool　and　cotton　candy；　and　now　he　was　set　free。　A　silvery　nimbus　seemed　to　play　about　the　old　man　for　an　instant；　a　little　aureole　of　light　which　disappeared　as　soon　as　Jack　blinked。　For　the　first　time　Jack　saw　that　the　man　was　holding　the　handle　of　a　wide　heavy　push…broom。
　　'You　okay；　son？'　The　handyman　put　one　hand　in　the　small　of　his　back；　and　stretched　backward。　'The　world　just　get　worse；　or　did　she　get　better？'
　　'Uh；　better；'　Jack　said。
　　'Then　you　e　to　the　right　place；　I'd　say。　What　do　they　call　you？'　
　　Little　travellin　man；　Speedy　had　said　that　first　day；　ole　Travellin　Jack。　He　had　leaned　his　tall　angular　body　against　the　Skee…Ball　machine　and　wrapped　his　arms　around　the　broom…handle　as　though　it　were　a　girl　at　a　dance。　The　man　you　see　here　is　Lester　Speedy　Parker；　formerly　a　travellin　man　hisself；　son；　hee　hee…oh　yeah；　Speedy　knew　the　road；　he　knew　all　the　roads；　way　back　in　the　old　days。　Had　me　a　band；　Travellin　Jack；　played　the　blues。　Git…tar　blues。　Made　me　a　few　records；　too；　but　I　won't　shame　you　by　asking　if　you　ever　heard　em。　Every　syllable　had　its　own　rhythmic　lilt；　every　phrase　its　rimshot　and　backbeat；　Speedy　Parker　carried　a　broom　instead　of　a　guitar；　but　he　was　still　a　musician。　Within　the　first　five　seconds　of　talking　to　Speedy；　Jack　had　known　that　his　jazz…loving　father　would　have　relished　this　man's　pany。
　　He　had　tagged　along　behind　Speedy　for　the　better　part　of　three　or　four　days；　watching　him　work　and　helping　out　when　he　could。　Speedy　let　him　bang　in　nails；　sand　down　a　pic