sk.cujo-第13章

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end。　'Seventy…four　had　been　the　year　Brett's　night　problems　had　begun　…restlessness；　bad　dreams；　and；　more　and　more　frequently；　incidents　of　sleepwalking。　It　was　also　the　year　Joe　began　drinking　heavily。　Brett's　uneasy　nights　and　his　somnambulism　had　eventually　gone　away。　Joe's　drinking　had　not。
Brett　had　been　four　then；　he　was　ten　now　and　didn't　even　remember　his　Aunt　Holly；　who　had　been　married　for　six　years。　She　had　a　little　boy；　named　after　her　husband；　and　a　little　girl。　Charity　had　never　seen　either　child；　her　own　niece　and　nephew；　except　for　the　Kodachromes　Holly　occasionally　sent　in　*the　mail。
She　had　gotten　scared　of　asking　Joe。　He　was　tired　of　hearing　her　talk　about　it；　and　if　she　asked　him　again　he　might　hit　her。　It　had　been　almost　sixteen　months　since　she'd　last　asked　him　if　maybe　they　couldn't　take　a　little　vacation　down　Connecticut　way。　Not　much　of　a　one　for　traveling　was　Mrs。
Camber's　son　Joe。　He　liked　it　just　fine　in　Castle　Rock。　Once　a　year　he　and　that　old　tosspot　Gary　Pervier　and　some　of　their　cronies　would　go　up　north　to　Moosehead　to　shoot　deer。　Last　November　he　had　wanted　to　take　Brett。　She　had　put　her　foot　down　and　it　had　stayed　down；　in　spite　of　Joe's　sullen　mutterings　and　Brett's　wounded　eyes。　She　was　not　going　to　have　the　boy　out　with　that　bunch　of　men　for　two　weeks；　listening　to　a　lot　of　vulgar　talk　and　jokes　about　sex　and　seeing　what　animals　men　could　turn　into　when　they　got　to　drinking　nonstop　over　a　period　of　days　and　weeks。　All　of　them　with　loaded　guns；　walking　in　the　woods。　Loaded　guns；　loaded　men；　somebody　always　got　hurt　sooner　or　later；　fluorescent…orange　hats　and　vests　or　not。　It　wasn't　going　to　be　Brett。　Not　her　son。
The　hammer　struck　the　steel　steadily；　rhythmically。　It　stopped。　She　relaxed　a　little。　Then　it　started　again。
She　supposed　that　sooner　or　later　Brett　would　go　with　them；　and　that　would　be　the　end　of　him　for　her。　He　would　join　their　club；　and　ever　after　she　would　be　little　more　than　a　kitchen　drudge　that　kept　the　clubhouse　neat。　Yes；　that　day　would　e；　and　she　knew　it；　and　she　grieved　for　it。　But　at　least　she　had　been　able　to　stave　it　off　for　another　year。
And　this　year？　Would　she　be　able　to　keep　him　home　with　her　this　November）　Maybe　not。　Either　way；　it　would　be　better　…not　all　right　but　at　least　better　…　if　she　could　take　Brett　down　to　Connecticut　first。　Take　him　down　there　and　show　him　how　some　。。。
。。。　some　。。。
Oh；　say　it；　if　only　to　yourself。
（how　some　decent　people　lived）
If　Joe　would　let　them　go　alone　。。。　but　there　was　no　sense　thinking　of　that。　Joe　could　go　places　alone　or　with　his　friends；　but　she　couldn't；　not　even　with　Brett　in　tow。　That　was　one　of　their　marriage's　ground　rules。　Yet　she　couldn't　help　thinking　about　how　much　better　it　would　be　without　him　…　without　him　sitting　in　Holly's　kitchen；　swilling　beer；　looking　Holly's　Jim　up　and　down　with　those　insolent　brown　eyes。　It　would　he　better　without　him　being　impatient　to　be　gone　until　Holly　and　Jim　were　also　impatient　for　them　to　be　gone　。。。
She　and　Brett。
Just　the　two　of　them。
They　could　go　on　the　bus。
She　thought：　Last　November；　he　wanted　to　take　Brett　hunting　with；　him。
She　thought：　Could　a　trade　be　worked　out？
Cold　came　to　her；　filling　the　hollows　of　her　bones　with　spun　glass。　Would　she　actually　agree　to　such　a　trade？　He　could　take　Brett　to　Moosehead　with　him　in　the　fall　if　Joe　in　his　turn　would　agree　to　let　them　go　to　Stratford　on　the　bus　…？
There　was　money　enough　…　now　there　was　…　but　money　alone　wouldn't　do　it。　He'd　take　the　money　and　that　would　be　the　last　she　would　see　of　it。　Unless　she　played　her　cards　just　right。　just　。。。　right。
Her　mind　began　to　move　faster。　The　pounding　outside　stopped。　She　saw　Brett　leave　the　barn；　trotting；　and　was　dimly　grateful。　Some　premonitory　part　of　her　was　convinced　that　if　the　boy　ever　came　to　serious　harm；　it　would　be　in　that　dark　place　with　the　sawdust　spread　over　the　old　grease　on　the　plank　floor。
There　was　a　way。　There　must　be　a　way。
If　she　was　willing　to　gamble。
In　her　fingers　she　held　a　lottery　ticket。　She　turned　it　over　and　over　in　her　hand　as　she　stood　at　the　window；　thinking。
When　Steve　Kemp　got　back　to　his　shop；　he　was　in　a　kind　of　furious　ecstasy。　His　shop　was　on　the　western　outskirts　of　Castle　Rock；　on　Route　11。　He　had　rented　it　from　a　farmer　who　had　holdings　in　both　Castle　Rock　and　in　neighboring　Bridgton。　The　farmer　was　not　just　a　nurd；　he　was　a　Super　Nurd。
The　shop　was　dominated　by　Steve's　stripping　vat；　a　corrugated　iron　pot　that　looked　big　enough　to　boil　an　entire
congregation　of　missionaries　at　one　time。　Sitting　around　it　like　small　satellites　around　a　large　planet　was　his　work：　bureaus；　dressers；　china　cupboards；　bookcases；　tables。　The　air　was　aromatic　with　varnish；　stripping　pound；　linseed　oil。
He　had　a　fresh　change　of　clothes　in　a　battered　TWA　flightbag；　he　had　planned　to　change　after　making　love　to　the　fancy　cunt。　Now　he　hurled　the　bag　across　the　shop。　It　bounced　off　the　far　wall　and　landed　on　top　of　a　dresser。　He　walked　across　to　it　and　batted　it　aside。　He　drop…kicked　it　as　it　came　down；　and　it　hit　the　ceiling　before　failing　on　its　side　like　a　dead　woodchuck。　Then　he　simply　stood；　breathing　hard；　inhaling　the　heavy　smells；　staring　vacantly　at　three　chairs　he　had　promised　to　cane　by　the　end　of　the　week。　His　thumbs　were　jammed　into　his　belt。　His　fingers　were　curled　into　fists。　His　lower　lip　was　pooched　out。　He　looked　like　a　kid　sulking　after　a　bawling…out。
'Cheap…shit！'　he　breathed；　and　went　after　the　flightbag。　He　made　as　if　to　kick　it　again；　then　changed　his　mind　and　picked　it　up。　He　went　through　the　shed　and　into　the　three…room　house　that　adjoined　the　shop。　If　anything；　it　was　hotter　in　the　house。　Crazy　July　heat。　It　got　in　your　head。　The　kitchen　was　full　of　dirty　dishes。　Flies　buzzed　around　a　green　plastic　Hefty　bag　filled　with　Beefaroni　and　tuna…fish　cans。　The　living　room　was　dominated　by　a　big　old　Zenith　black…and…white　TV　he　had　rescued　from　the　Naples　dump。　A　big　spayed　brindle　cat；　name　of　Bernie　Carbo；　slept　on　top　of　it　like　a　dead　thing。
The　bedroom　was　where　he　worked　on　his　writing。　The　bed　itself　was　a　rollaway；　not　made；　the　sheets　stiff　with　e。　No　matter　how　much　he　was　getting　（and　over　the　last　two　weeks　that　had　been　zero）；　he　masturbated　a　great　deal。　Masturbation；　he　believed；　was　a　sign　of　creativity。　Across　from　the　bed　was　his　desk。　A　big　old…fashioned　Underwood　sat　on　top　of　it。　Manuscripts　were　stacked　to　both　sides。　More　manuscripts；　some　in　boxes；　some　secured　with　rubber　bands；　were　piled　up　in　one　corner。　He　wrote　a　lot　and　he　moved　around　a　lot　and　his　main　luggage　was　his　work　…　mostly　poems；　a　few　stories；　a　surreal　play　in　which　the　characters　spoke　a　grand　total　of　nine　words；　and　a　novel　he　had　attacked　badly　from　six　different　angles。　It　had　been　five　years　since　he　had　lived　in　one　place　long　enough　to　get　pletely　unpacked。
Last　December；　while　shaving　one　day；　he　had　discovered　the　first　threads　of　gray　in　his　beard。　The　discovery　had　thrown　him　into　a　savage　depression；　and　he　had　stayed　depressed　for　weeks。　He　hadn't　touched　a　razor　between　then　and　now；　as　if　it　was　the　act　of　shaving　that　had　somehow　caused　the　gray　to　show　up。　He　was　thirty…eight。　He　refused　to　entertain　the　thought　of　being　that　old；　but　sometimes　it　crept　up　on　his　blind　side　and　surprised　him。　To　he　that　old　…　less　than　seven　hundred　days　shy　of　forty　terrified　him。　He　had　really　believed　that　forty　was　for　other　people。
That　bitch；　he　thought　over　and　over　again。　That　bitch。
He　had　left　dozens　of　women　since　he　had　first　gotten　laid　by　a　vague；　pretty；　softly　helpless　French　substitute　when　he　was　a　high　school　junior；　but　he　himself　had　only　been　dropped　two　or　three　times。　He　was　good　at　seeing　the　drop　ing　and　opting　out　of　the　relationship　first。　It　was　a　protective　device；　like　bombing　the　queen　of　spades　on　someone　else　in　a　game　of　Hearts。　You　had　to　do　it　while　you　could　still　cover　the　bitch；　or　you　got　screwed。　You　covered　yourself。　The　way　you　didn't　think　about　your　age。　He　had　known　Donna　was　cooling　it；　but　she　had　struck　him　as　a　woman　who　could　be　manipulated　with　no　great　difficulty；　at　least　for　a　while；　by　a　bination　of　psychological　and　sexual　factors。　By　fear；　if　you　wanted　to　be　crude。　That　it　hadn't　wor