按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
'
They went through the door into the foyer； and then out onto the wooden steps leading down to the parking lot。
'Easy〃 Ben grunted。 'Don't drop him。'
They went down the stairs； Weasel's limp feet cropping on the risers like blocks of wood。
'The Citro？n 。 。 。 over in the last row。'
They carried him over。 The coolness in the air was sharper now； and tomorrow the leaves would be blooded。 Weasel had begun to grunt deep in his throat and his head jerked weakly on the stalk of his neck。
'Can you put him to bed when you get back to Eva's？' Matt asked。
'Yes； I think so。'
'Good。 Look； you can just see the roof tree of the Marsten House over the trees。'
Ben looked。 Matt was right； the top angle just peeked above the dark horizon of pines； blotting out the stars at the rim of the visible world with the regular shape of human construction。
Ben opened the passenger door and said； 'Here。 Let me have him。'
He took Weasel's full weight and slipped him neatly into the passenger seat and closed the door。 Weasel's head lolled against the window； giving it a flattened； grotesque look。
'Tuesday at eleven？'
'I'll be there。'
'Thanks。 And thanks for helping Weasel； too。' He held out his hand and Ben shook it。
He got in； started the Citro？n； and headed back toward town。 Once the roadhouse neon had disappeared behind the trees； the road was deserted and black； and Ben thought； These roads are haunted now。
Weasel gave a snort and a groan beside him and Ben jumped。 The Citro？n swerved minutely on the road。
Now； why did I think that？
No answer。
He opened the wing window so that it scooped cold air directly onto Weasel on the ride home； and by the time he drove into Eva Miller's dooryard； Weasel had attained a soupy semi…consciousness。
Ben led him； half stumbling； up the back porch steps and into the kitchen； which was dimly lit by the stove's fluorescent。 Weasel moaned； then muttered deep in his throat； 'She's a lovely girl； Jack； …and married women； they know 。 。 。 know 。 。 。 '
A shadow detached itself from the hall and it was Eva； huge in an old quilted house coat； her hair done up in rollers and covered with a filmy net scarf。 Her face was pale and ghostly with night cream。
'Ed；' she said。 'Oh； Ed 。 。 。 you do go on； don't you？'
His eyes opened a little at the sound of her voice； and a smile touched his features。 'On and on and on；' he croaked。 'Wouldn't you know it more than the rest？'
'Can you get him up to his room？' she asked Ben。
'Yes； no sweat。'
He tightened his grip on Weasel and somehow jot him up the stairs and down to his room。 The door was unlocked and he carried him inside。 The minute he laid him on the bed； signs of consciousness ceased and he fell into a deep sleep。
Ben paused a moment to look around。 The room was clean； almost sterile； things put away with barrackslike neatness。 As he began to work on Weasel's shoes； Eva Miller said from behind him； 'Never mind that； Mr Mears。 Go on up； if you like。'
'But he ought to be…'
'I'll undress him。' Her face was grave and full of dignified； measured sadness。 'Undress him and give him an alcohol rub to help with his hangover in the morning。 I've done it before。 Many times。'
'All right；' Ben said； and went upstairs without looking back。 He undressed slowly； thought about taking a shower； and decided not to。 He got into bed and lay looking at the ceiling and did not sleep for a long time。
Chapter Six
THE LOT （II）
1
Fall and spring came to Jerusalem's Lot with the same suddenness of sunrise and sunset in the tropics。 The line of demarcation could be as thin as one day。 But spring is not the finest season in New England…it's too short； too uncertain； too apt to turn savage on short notice。 Even so； there are April days which linger in the memory even after one has forgotten the wife's touch； or the feel of the baby's toothless mouth at the nipple。 But by mid…May； the sun； rises out of the morning's haze with authority and potency； and standing on your top step at seven in the morning with your dinner bucket in your hand； you know that the dew will be melted off the grass by eight and that the dust on the back roads will hang depthless and still in the air for five minutes after a car's passage； and that by one in the afternoon it will be up to ninety…five on the third floor of the mill and the sweat will roll off your arms like oil and stick your shirt to your back in a widening patch and it might as well be July。
But when fall es； kicking summer out on its treacherous ass as it always does one day sometime after the midpoint of September； it stays awhile like an old friend that you have missed。 It settles in the way an old friend will settle into your favorite chair and take out his pipe and light it and then fill the afternoon with stories of places he has been and things he has done since last he saw you。
It stays on through October and； in rare years； on into November。 Day after day the skies are a clear； hard blue； and the clouds that float across them； always west to east； are calm white ships with gray keels。 The wind begins to blow by the day； and it is never still。 It hurries you along as you walk the roads； crunching the leaves that have fallen in mad and variegated drifts。 The wind makes you ache in some place that is deeper than your bones。 It may be that it touches something old in the human soul； a chord of race memory that says Migrate or die…migrate or die。 Even in your house； behind square walls； the wind beats against the wood and the glass and sends its fleshless pucker against the eaves and sooner or later you have to put down what you were doing and go out and see。 And you can stand on your stoop or in your dooryard at midafternoon and watch the cloud shadows rush across Griffen's pasture and up Schoolyard Hill； light and dark； light and dark； like the shutters of the gods being opened and closed。 You can see the goldenrod； that most tenacious and pernicious and beauteous of all New England flora； bowing away from the wind like a great and silent congregation。 And if there are no cars or planes； and if no one's Uncle John is out in the wood lot west of town banging away at a quail or pheasant； if the only sound is the slow beat of your own heart； you can hear another sound； and that is the sound of life winding down to its cyclic close； waiting for the first winter snow to perform last rites。
2
That year the first day of fall （real fall as opposed to calendar fall） was September 28； the day that Danny Glick was buried in the Harmony Hill Cemetery。
Church services were private； but the graveside services were open to the town and a good portion of the town turned out…class…mates； the curious； and the older people to whom funerals grow nearly pulsive as old age knits their shrouds up around them。
They came up Burns Road in a long line； twisting up and out of sight over the next hill。 All the cars had their lights turned on in spite of the day's brilliance。 First came Carl Foreman's hearse； its rear windows filled with flowers； then Tony Glick's 1965 Mercury； i