First, he would have become more careful than ever. He was too smart to just push ahead at flank speed and try to get out in eight months, or even in eighteen. He must have gone on widening the opening on the crawlspace a little at a time. A hole as big as a teacup by the time he took his New Year's Eve drink that year. A hole as big as a dinner plate by the time he took his birthday drink in 1968. As big as a serving-tray by the time the 1969 baseball season opened.
For a time I thought it should have gone much faster than it apparently did - after he broke through, I mean. It seemed to me that, instead of having to pulverize the crap and take it out of his cell in the cheater gadgets I have described, he could simply let it drop down the shaft. The length of time he took makes me believe that he didn't dare do that. He might have decided that the noise would arouse someone's suspicions. Or, if he knew about the sewer-pipe, as I believe he must have, he would have been afraid that a falling chunk of concrete would break it before he was ready, screwing up the cellblock sewage system and leading to an investigation. And an investigation, needless to say, would lead to ruin.
Still and all, I'd guess that, by the time Nixon was sworn in for his second term, the hole would have been wide enough for him to wriggle through ... and probably sooner than that Andy was a small guy.
Why didn't he go then?
That's where my educated guesses run out, folks; from this point they become progressively wilder. One possibility is that the crawlspace itself was clogged with crap and he had to clear it out, but that wouldn't account for all the time. So what was it? I think that maybe Andy got scared.
I've told you as well as I can how it is to be an institutional man. At first you can't stand those four walls, then you get so you can abide them, then you get so you accept them ... and then, as your body and your mind and your spirit adjust to life on an HO scale, you get to love them. You are told when to eat, when you can write letters, when you can smoke. If you're at work in the laundry or the plate-shop, you're assigned five minutes of each hour when you can go to the bathroom. For thirty-five years, my time was twenty-five minutes after the hour, and after thirty-five years, that's the only time I ever felt the need to take a piss or have a crap:
twenty-five minutes past the hour. And if for some reason I couldn't go, the need would pass at thirty after, and come back at twenty-five past the next hour.
I think Andy may have been wrestling with that tiger - that institutional syndrome and also with the bulking fears that all of it might have been for nothing.
How many nights must he have lain awake under his poster, thinking about that sewer line, knowing that the one chance was all he'd ever get? The blueprints might have told him how big the pipe's bore was, but a blueprint couldn't tell him what it would be like inside that pipe - if he would be able to breathe without choking, if the rats were big enough and mean enough to fight instead of retreating ... and a blueprint couldn't 've told him what he'd find at the end of the pipe, when and if he got there. Here's a joke even funnier than the parole would have been: Andy breaks into the sewer line, crawls through five hundred yards of choking, shit-smelling darkness, and comes up against a heavy-gauge mesh screen at the end of it all. Ha, ha, very funny.
That would have been on his mind. And if the long shot actually came in and he was able to get out, would he be able to get some civilian clothes and get away from the vicinity of the prison undetected? Last of all, suppose he got out of the pipe, got away from Shawshank before the alarm was raised, got to Buxton, overturned the right rock ... and found nothing beneath? Not necessarily something so dramatic as arriving at the right field and discovering that a high-rise apartment building had been erected on the spot, or that it had turned into a supermarket parking lot. It could have been that some little kid who liked rocks noticed that piece of volcanic glass, turned it over, saw the deposit-box key, and took both it and the rock back to his room as souvenirs. Maybe a November hunter kicked the rock, left the key exposed, and a squirrel or a crow with a liking for bright shiny things had taken it away. Maybe there had been spring floods one year, breaching the wall, washing the key away.
Maybe anything.
So I think - wild guess or not - that Andy just froze in place for a while. After all, you can't lose if you don't bet. What did he have to lose, you ask? His library, for one thing. The poison peace of institutional life, for another. Any future chance to grab his safe identity.
But he finally did it, just as I have told you. He tried ... and, my! Didn't he succeed in spectacular fashion? You tell me!
But did he get away, you ask? What happened after? What happened when he got to that meadow and turned over the rock ... always assuming the rock was still there?
I can't describe that scene for you, because this institutional man is still in this institution, and expects to be for years to come.
But I'll tell you this. Very late in the summer of 1975, on 15 September to be exact, I got a postcard which had been mailed from the tiny town of McNary, Texas. That town is on the American side of the border, directly across from El Porvenir. The message side of the card was totally blank. But I know. I know it in my heart as surely as I know that we're all going to die someday.
McNary was where he crossed. McNary, Texas.
So that's my story, Jack. I never believed how long it would take to write it all down, or how many pages it would take. I started writing just after I got that postcard, and here I am finishing up on 14 January 1976. I've used three pencils right down to knuckle-stubs, and a whole tablet of paper. I've kept the pages carefully hidden ... not that many could read my hen-tracks, anyway.

　　首先，他会变得比以前都小心。他太聪明了，不会盲目地加快速度推进，想在八个月或甚至十八个月内逃出去。他一定一次只把通道挖宽一点点。那年他在除夕夜喝酒时，洞口可能有茶杯那么大，到了一九六八年庆祝生日时，洞口可能有碟子大小。等到一九六九年棒球季开打时，洞口可能已经挖得像托盘那么大了。
　　有一阵子，我猜想在他挖到通道之后，挖掘的速度应该快很多，因为他只要让敲下来的混凝土块直接从通道掉落就行，不必像以前一样把它敲碎后，再用我前面说过的瞒天过海之计，运出牢房丢掉。但由于他花了这么长的时间，我相信他不敢这么做。他或许认为，混凝土掉落的声音会引起其他人怀疑。或是如果他当时正如我所猜想，已经晓得下面是污水管的话，他很可能会担心落下的混凝土块在他还未准备就绪以前，就把污水管打破，弄乱了监狱的排水系统，引起调查。不用多说，如此一来，就大难临头了。
　　但我猜想，无论如何，在尼克松第二个任期宣誓就任之前，安迪已经可以勉强挤进那个洞口了……或是更早就可以这么做，安迪长得很瘦小。
　　为什么他那时候不走呢？
　　各位，到了这个地步，我的理智推理就不管用了，只能乱猜。其中一个可能性是，爬行之处塞满垃圾，他得先清干净，才出得去。但是那也不需要花这么久的时间。所以到底是什么原因呢？
　　我觉得，也许安迪开始觉得害怕。
　　我曾经试图描述过，逐渐为监狱体制所制约是什么样的情况。起先，你无法忍受被四面墙困住的感觉，然后你逐渐可以忍受这种生活，进而接受这种生活……接下来，当你的身心都逐渐调整适应后，你甚至开始喜欢这种生活了。什么时候可以吃饭，什么时候可以写信，什么时候可以抽烟，全都规定得好好的。如果你在洗衣房或车牌工厂工作，每个小时可以有五分钟的时间上厕所，而且每个人轮流去厕所的时间都是排定的。三十五年来，我上厕所的时间是每当分针走到二十五的时候，经过三十五年后，我只有在那个时间才会想上厕所：每小时整点过后二十五分。如果我当时因为什么原因没办法上厕所，那么过了五分钟后，我的尿意或便意就会消失，直到下个钟头时钟的分针再度指在二十五分时，才会想上厕所。
　　我想安迪也在努力克服这种体制化症候群——同时，他内心也有深深的恐惧，深怕经过多年努力，一切都成空。
　　想象有多少个夜晚，他清醒地躺在床头贴着的海报下，思索着污水管的问题，心里很清楚这是他惟一的机会？他手上的蓝图只能告诉他这条管子有多大和多长，但无法告诉他管子里面会是什么状况——他能否一路爬过去，而不会窒息？里面的老鼠是否又肥又大，会毫无惧色地攻击他？蓝图更不会告诉他污水管的尽头是什么状况。比安迪获准假释更滑稽的情况是：万一安迪钻进污水管，在黑暗和恶臭中几乎不能呼吸地爬了五百码后，却发现尽头是一堵厚实的铁栅栏的话，哈，哈，不是太好笑了吗！
　　他一定曾经设想过这种情况。如果他确实费尽千辛万苦爬出去，他有办法换上平常人的衣服，逃离监狱附近而不被发现吗？最后，假定他爬出了管子，在警报响起之前逃离肖申克，到了巴克斯登，找到了那块石头……结果发现底下空无一物呢？情况倒不一定像终于找到正确地点，却发现那儿已矗立一幢高大的公寓，或变成超级市场的停车场这么戏剧化；可能是一些喜欢寻宝的孩子看到了这块火山岩玻璃，把它翻过来，看到保险箱钥匙，把钥匙和火山岩都带回家当纪念品了；也可能十一月的猎人踢到那块石头，让钥匙露了出来，喜欢闪亮东西的松鼠或乌鸦把它叼走了；或是某年春水暴涨，把那堵墙冲走了，连带的钥匙也流失了。总而言之，任何一种意外都可能发生。
　　所以不管我是不是乱猜，有一段时间，安迪不敢轻举妄动。毕竟如果你根本不下注，你就不会输。你问，他还有什么东西可输呢？图书馆是其中一样，监狱中那种受到制约、仿佛中了毒般的平静生活是另外一样。还有，他可能因此丧失了未来得以靠新身份再出发的机会。
　　不过他终于成功了，正如同我前面告诉你的。他终于大胆尝试了……而且，我的天！他成功的方式真叫人赞叹哪！　　???
　　但是，你问，他真的逃脱了吗？后来发生了什么事？当他抵达那片牧草地把石头翻过来后……假定石头还在那儿，发生了什么事？
　　我没有办法描述当时的情况，因为我这体制化的人还活在监狱的体制中，而且预计还要过好几年的牢狱生活。
　　但我可以告诉你，一九七五年夏末，其实就在九月十五日那天，我收到了从德州一个名叫麦克纳里的小镇寄来的明信片。麦克纳里就位于美墨边境。卡片背后写讯息的地方是一片空白，但我一看就明白了，我打心里头知道那是谁寄来的，就好像我知道每个人终有一天都会死去一样。
　　他就从麦克纳里越过边境。德州的麦克纳里。
　　好了，这就是我的故事。我简直无法相信，把这个故事写下来，竟然要花这么多时间，写满这么多页。我收到明信片后，开始把整个故事写下来，一直写到一九七六年一月十四日才停笔。我用掉三枝铅笔，还有一整本簿子。我小心藏起稿子，不过也没有多少人认得出我鬼画符的笔迹。