sk.cujo-第44章

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able　was　a　homely　checked　tablecloth。　All　this　was　being　presided　over　by　a　lovely　old　woman　with　pure　white　hair　that　had　been　rolled　into　a　bun　at　the　nape　of　her　neck。　Fully　inserted　into　the　capsule　of　her　dream　now；　Donna　saw　with　no　surprise　at　all　that　this　woman　was　her　mother。
The　Cambers　were　there；　but　they　weren't　really　the　Cambers　at　all。　Joe　Camber　looked　like　Vic　in　a　clean　Sears　work　coverall；　and　Mrs。　Camber　was　wearing　Donna's　green　watered…silk　dress。　Their　boy　looked　the　way　Tad　was　going　to　look　when　he　was　in　the　fifth　grade　。。。
'Mommy？'
The　picture　wavered；　started　to　break　up。　She　tried　to　hold　on　to　it　because　it　was　peaceful　and　lovely：　the　archetype　of　a　family　life　she　had　never　had；　the　type　she　and　Vic　would　never　have　with　their　one　planned　child　and　their　carefully　programmed　lives。　With　sudden　rising　sadness；　she　wondered　why　she　had　never　thought　of　things　in　that　light　before。
'Mommy？'
The　picture　wavered　again　and　began　to　darken。　That　voice　from　outside；　piercing　the　vision　the　way　a　needle　may　pierce　the　shell　of　an　egg。　Never　mind。　The　Cambers　were　at　their　family　reunion　and　they　would　pull　in　later；　around　ten；　happy　and　full　of　barbecue。　Everything　would　be　all　right。　The　Joe　Camber　with　Vic's　face　would　take　care　of　everything。　Everything　would　be　all　right　again。　There　were　some　things　that　God　never　allowed。　It　would　
'Mommy！'
She　came　out　of　the　doze；　sitting　up；　surprised　to　find　herself　behind　the　wheel　of　the　Pinto　instead　of　at　home　in　bed　。。。　but　only　for　a　second。　Already　the　lovely；　surreal　image　of　the　relatives　gathered　around　the　trestle　picnic　table　were　beginning　to　dissolve；　and　in　fifteen　minutes　she　would　not　even　remember　that　she　had　dreamed。
'Huh？　What？'
Suddenly；　shockingly；　the　phone　inside　the　Cambers'　house　began　to　ring。　The　dog　rose　to　its　feet；　moving　shadows　that　resolved　themselves　into　its　large　and　ungainly　form。
'Mommy；　I　have　to　go　to　the　bathroom。'
Cujo　began　to　roar　at　the　sound　of　the　telephone。　He　was　not　barking；　he　was　roaring。　Suddenly　he　charged　at　the　house。　He　struck　the　back　door　hard　enough　to　shake　it　in　its　frame。
No。　she　thought　sickly。　oh　no；　stop；　please；　stop　
'Mommy；　I　have　to　…'
The　dog　was　snarling；　biting　at　the　wood　of　the　door。　She　could　hear　the　sick　splintering　sounds　its　teeth　made。
'go　weewee。'
The　phone　rang　six　times。　Eight　times。　Ten。　Then　it　stopped。
She　realized　she　had　been　holding　her　breath。　She　let　it　out　through　her　teeth　in　a　low；　hot　sigh。
Cujo　stood　at　the　door；　his　back　paws　on　the　ground；　his　forepaws　on　the　top　step。　He　continued　to　growl　low　in　his　chest　…　a　hateful；　nightmarish　sound。　At　last　he　turned　and　looked　at　the　Pinto　for　a　time　…　Donna　could　see　the　dried　foam　caked　on　his　muzzle　and　chest　…　then　he　padded　back　into　the　shadows　and　grew　indistinct。　It　was　impossible　to　tell　exactly　where　he　went。　In　the　garage；　maybe。　Or　maybe　down　the　side　of　the　barn。
Tad　was　tugging　desperately　at　the　sleeve　of　her　shirt。
'Mommy；　I　have　to　go　bad！'
She　looked　at　him　helplessly。
Brett　Camber　put　the　phone　down　slowly。　'No　one　answered。　He's　not　home；　I　guess。'
Charity　nodded；　not　terribly　surprised。　She　was　glad　that　Jim　had　suggested　they　make　the　call　from　his　office；　which　was　downstairs　and　off　the　'family　room'。　The　family　room　was　soundproofed。　There　were　shelves　of　board　games　in　there；　a　Panasonic　large…screen　TV　with　a　video　recorder　and　an　Atari　video…games　setup　attached　to　it。　And　standing　m　one　corner　was　a　lovely　old　Wurlitzer　jukebox　that　really　worked。
'Down　at　Gary's；　I　guess；'　Brett　added　disconsolately。
'Yes；　I　imagine　he's　with　Gary；'　she　agreed；　which　wasn't　exactly　the　same　as　saying　they　were　together　at　Gary's　house。　She　had　seen　the　faraway　look　that　had　e　into　Joe's　eyes　when　she　had　finally　struck　the　deal　with　him；　the　deal　that　had　gotten　her　and　her　son　down　here。　She　hoped　Brett　wouldn't　think　of　calling　directory　assistance　for　Gary　Pervier's　number；　because　she　doubted　if　there　would　he　any　answer　there　either。　She　suspected　that　there　were　two　old　dogs　out　somewhere　tonight　howling　at　the　moon。
'Do　you　think　Cuje　is　okay；　Mom？'
'Why；　I　don't　think　your　father　would　go　off　and　leave　him　if　he　wasn't；　she　said；　and　that　was　true　…　she　didn't　believe　he　would　'Why　don't　we　leave　it　for　tonight　and　you　call　him　in　the　morning？　You　ought　to　be　getting　to　bed　anyway。　It's　past　ten。　You've　had　a　big　day。'
'I'm　not　tired。'
'Well；　it's　not　good　to　go　too　long　on　nervous　excitement。　I　put　your　toothbrush　out；　and　your　Aunt　Holly　put　out　a　washcloth　and　a　towel　for　you。　Do　you　remember　which　bedroom　…？'
'Yeah；　sure。　You　going　to　bed；　Mom？'
'Soon。　I'm　going　to　sit　up　with　Holly　for　a　while。　We've　got　a　lot　of　history　to　catch　up　on；　she　and　V
Shyly；　Brett　said；　'She　looks　like　you。　Y'know　that？'
Charity　looked　at　him；　surprised。　'Does　she？　Yes；　I　suppose　she　does。　A　little。'
'And　that　little　kid；　Jimmy。　He's　got　a　real　right　hook。　Pow！'　Brett　burst　out　laughing。
'Did　he　hurt　your　stomach？'
'Heck；　no。'　Brett　was　looking　around　Jim's　study　carefully；　noting　the　Underwood　typewriter　on　the　desk；　the　Rolodex；　the　neat　open　file　of　folders　with　the　names　on　the　tabs　in　alphabetical　order。　There　was　a　careful；　measuring　look　in　his　eyes　that　she　couldn't　understand　or　evaluate。　He　seemed　to　e　back　from　far　away。　'Nah；　he　didn't　hurt　me。　He's　just　a　Iittle　kid。'　He　cocked　his　head　at　her。　'My　cousin；　right？'
'Right。'
'Blood　relation。'　He　seemed　to　muse　over　it。
'Brett；　do　you　like　your　Uncle　Jim　and　Aunt　Holly？'
I　like　her。　I　can't　tell　about　him　yet。　That　jukebox。　That's　really　neat。　But　He　shook　his　head　in　a　kind　of　impatience。
'What　about　it；　Brett？'
'He　takes　so　much　pride　in　it！'　Brett　said。　'It　was　the　first　thing　he　showed　me；　like　a　kid　with　a　toy；　isn't　this　neat；　you　know　…'
'Well；　he's　only　had　it　for　a　little　while；'　Charity　said。　An　unformed　dread　had　begun　to　swirl　around　inside　of　her；　connected　somehow　with　Joe　…　what　had　he　told　Brett　when　he　took　him　out　on　the　sidewalk？　'Anyone's　partial　to　Something　new。　Holly　wrote　me　when　they　finally　got　it；　said　Jim　had　wanted　one　of　those　things　since　he　was　a　young　man。　People　。。。　honey；　different　people　buy　different　things　to　。。。　to　show　themselves　that　they're　successful；　I　suppose。　There's　no　accounting　for　it。　But　usually　it's　something　they　couldn't　have　when　they　were　poor。'
'Was　Uncle　Jim　poor？'
'I　really　don't　know；'　she　said。　'But　they're　not　poor　now。'
'All　I　meant　was　that　he　didn't　have　anything　to　do　with　it。　You　get　what　I　mean？'　He　looked　at　her　closely。　'He　bought　it　with　money　and　hired　some　people　to　fix　it　and　hired　some　more　people　to　bring　it　here；　and　he　says　it's　his；　but　he　didn't　。。。　you　know；　he　didn't　。。。　aw；　I　don't　know。'
'He　didn't　make　it　with　his　own　hands？'　Although　her　fear　was　greater　now；　more　coalesced；　her　voice　was　gentle。
'Yeah！　That's　right！　He　bought　it　with　money；　but　he　didn't　really　have　nothing　to　do
'Anything　…'
'Okay；　yeah；　anything　to　do　with　it；　but　now　he's；　like；　takin　credit　for　it　…~
'He　said　a　jukebox　is　a　delicate；　plicated　machine
'Dad　could　have　gotten　it　running；'　Brett　said　flatly；　and　Charity　thought　she　heard　a　door　bang　shut　suddenly；　closing　with　a　loud；　toneless；　frightening　bang。　It　wasn't　in　the　house。　It　was　in　her　heart。　'Dad　would　have　tinkered　it　up　and　it　would　have　been　his。'
'Brett；'　she　said　（and　her　voice　sounded　weak　and　justifying　to　her　own　ears）；　'not　everybody　is　good　at　tinkering　and　fixing　like　your　father　is。'
'I　know　that；'　he　said；　still　looking　around　the　office。　'Yeah。　But　Uncle　Jim　shouldn't　take　credit　for　it　just　because　he　had　the　money。　See？　It's　him　taking　the　credit　that　I　don't　h　…that　bothers　me。'
She　was　suddenly　furious　with　him。　She　wanted　to　take　him　by　the　shoulders　and　shake　him　back　and　forth；　to　raise　her　voice　until　it　was　loud　enough　to　shout　the　truth　into　his　brain。　That　money　did　not　e　by　accident；　that　it　almost　always　resulted　from　some　sustained　act　of　will；　and　that　will　was　the　core　of　character。　She　would　tell　him　that　while　his　father　was　perfecting　his　skills　as　a　tinkerer　and　swilling　down　Black　Label　with　the　rest　of　the　boys　in　the　back　of　Emerson's　Sunoco；　sitting　in　pi