My boss didn't like me. He was a young guy, twenty-six or -seven, and I could see that I sort of disgusted him, the way a cringing, servile old dog that crawls up to you on its belly to be petted will disgust a man. Christ, I disgusted myself. But ... I couldn't make myself stop. I wanted to tell him. That's what a whole life in prison does for you, young man. It turns everyone in a position of authority into a master, and you into every master's dog. Maybe you know you've become a dog, even in prison, but since everyone else in grey is a dog, too, it doesn't seem to matter so much. Outside, it does. But I couldn't tell a young guy like him. He would never understand. Neither would my P.O., a big, bluff ex-Navy man with a huge red beard and a large stock of Polish jokes. He saw me for about five minutes every week. 'Are you staying out of the bars, Red?' he'd ask when he'd run out of Polish jokes. I'd say yeah, and that would be the end of it until next week.
Music on the radio. When I went in, the big bands were just getting up a good head of steam. Now every song sounds like it's about fucking. So many cars. At first I felt like I was taking my life into my hands every time I crossed the street.
There was more - everything was strange and frightening -but maybe you get the idea, or can at least grasp a corner of it I began to think about doing something to get back in. When you're on parole, almost anything will serve. I'm ashamed to say it, but I began to think about stealing some money or shoplifting stuff from the FoodWay, anything, to get back in where it was quiet and you knew everything that was going to come up in the course of the day.
If I had never known Andy, I probably would have done that, but I kept thinking of him, spending all those years chipping patiently away at the cement with his rock-hammer so he could be free. I thought of that and it made me ashamed and I'd drop the idea again. Oh, you can say he had more reason to be free than I did - he had a new identity and a lot of money. But that's not really true, you know. Because he didn't know for sure that the new identity was still there, and without the new identity, the money would always be out of reach. No, what he needed was just to be free, and if I kicked away what I had, it would be like spitting in the face of everything he had worked so hard to win back.
So what I started to do on my time off was to hitchhike a ride down to the little town of Buxton. This was in the early April of 1977, the snow just starting to melt off the fields, the air just beginning to be warm, the baseball teams coming north to start a new season playing the only game I'm sure God approves of. When I went on these trips, I carried a Silva compass in my pocket.
There's a big hayfield in Buxton, Andy had said, and at the north end of that hayfield there's a rock wall, right out of a Robert Frost poem. And somewhere along the base of that wall is a rock that has no earthly business in a Maine hayfield.
A fool's errand, you say. How many hayfields are there in a small rural town like Buxton? Fifty? A hundred? Speaking from personal experience, I'd put it at even higher than that, if you add in the fields now cultivated which might have been haygrass when Andy went in. And if I did find the right one, I might never know it because I might overlook that black piece of volcanic glass, or, much more likely, Andy put it into his pocket and took it with him.
So I'd agree with you. A fool's errand, no doubt about it. Worse, a dangerous one for a man on parole, because some of those fields were clearly marked with NO TRESPASSING signs. And, as I've said, they're more than happy to slam your ass back inside if you get out of line. A fool's errand ... but so is chipping at a blank concrete wall for twenty-eight years. And when you're no longer the man who can get it for you and just an old bag-boy, it's nice to have a hobby to take your mind off your new life. My hobby was looking for Andy's rock.
So I'd hitchhike to Buxton and walk the roads. I'd listen to the birds, to the spring runoff in the culverts, examine the bottles the retreating snows had revealed - all useless non-returnables, I am sorry to say; the world seems to have gotten awfully spendthrift since I went into the slam - and looking for hayfields.
Most of them could be eliminated right off. No rock walls. Others had rock walls, but my compass told me they were facing the wrong direction. I walked these wrong ones anyway. It was a comfortable thing to be doing, and on those outings I really felt free, at peace. An old dog walked with me one Saturday. And one day I saw a winter-skinny deer.
Then came 23 April, a day I'll not forget even if I live another fifty-eight years. It was a balmy Saturday afternoon, and I was walking up what a little boy fishing from a bridge told me was called The Old Smith Road. I had taken a lunch in a brown FoodWay bag, and had eaten it sitting on a rock by the road. When I was done I carefully buried my leavings, as my dad had taught me before he died, when I was a sprat no older than the fisherman who had named the road for me.
Around two o'clock I came to a big field on my left. There was a stone wall at the far end of it, running roughly northwest I walked back to it, squelching over the wet ground, and began to walk the wall. A squirrel scolded me from an oak tree.
Three-quarters of the way to the end, I saw the rock. No mistake. Black glass and as smooth as silk. A rock with no earthly business in a Maine hayfield. For a long time I just looked at it, feeling that I might cry, for whatever reason. The squirrel had followed me, and it was still chattering away. My heart was beating madly.
When I felt I had myself under control, I went to the rock, squatted beside it - the joints in my knees went off like a double-barrelled shotgun - and let my hand touch it. It was real. I didn't pick it up because I thought there would be anything under it; I could just as easily have walked away without finding what was beneath. I certainly had no plans to take it away with me, because I didn't fed it was mine to take - I had a feeling that taking that rock from the field would have been the worst kind of theft. No, I only picked it up to feel it better, to get the heft of the thing, and, I suppose, to prove its reality by feeling its satiny texture against my skin.

　　我的上司不喜欢我，他是个年轻人，二十六、七岁。我可以看出在他眼中，我像只爬到面前乞怜、惹人厌的老癞皮狗，其实连我自己都厌恶自己。但是……我无法控制自己，我真想告诉他：年轻人，这是在监狱里过了大半辈子的结果。在牢里，每个有权的人都变成你的主子，而你就成为主子身边的一条狗。或许你也知道自己是一条狗，但是反正其他犯人也都是狗，似乎就没有什么差别了，然而在外面世界的差别可大了。但我无法让这么年轻的人体会我的感受。他是绝不会了解的，连我的假释官都无法了解我的感受。我每周都要向假释官报到，他是个退伍军人，有把大红胡子，一箩筐的波兰人笑话，每周见我五分钟，每次说完波兰人笑话后，他就问：“雷德，没去酒吧鬼混吧？”我答说没有，咱们便下周再见了。
　　还有收音机播的音乐。我入狱前，大乐团演奏的爵士乐才刚刚开始流行，而现在每首歌仿佛都在谈性爱。路上车子这么多，每次过街时，我都心惊肉跳，捏一把冷汗。
　　反正每件事都很奇怪，都令人害怕。我开始想，是不是应该再干点坏事，好回到原本熟悉的地方去。如果你是假释犯，几乎任何一点小错都可能把你再送进监牢。我很不好意思这么说，但我的确开始想，要不要在超市偷点钱或顺手牵羊，然后就可以回到那个安静的地方，在那里，至少一天下来，你很清楚什么时候该做什么事情。
　　如果不是认识安迪的话，我很可能就这么做了，但一想到他花了那么大的工夫，多年来很有耐性地用个小石锤在水泥上敲敲打打，只是为了换取自由，我就不禁感到惭愧，于是便打消那个念头。或是你也可以说，他想重获自由的理由比我丰富——他拥有一个新身份，他也有很多钱。但是你也知道，这么说是不对的，因为他并不能确定新身份依然存在，如果他没有办法换个新身份，自然也拿不到那笔钱了。不，他追求的单纯是那份自由。如果我把得之不易的自由随便抛弃，那无疑是当着安迪的面，唾弃他辛辛苦苦换回来的一切。
　　于是我开始在休假时搭便车来到巴克斯登小镇，那是一九七七年四月初的事了。初春的田野，雪刚刚开始融化，天气也刚暖和起来，棒球队北上展开新球季。我每次去的时候，口袋中都带着一个罗盘。
　　我想起了安迪说的话：在巴克斯登镇北边有一大片牧草地，在牧草地的北边有一面石墙，石墙底部有一块石头，那块石头和缅因州的牧草地一点关系也没有，那是一块火山岩玻璃。
　　你会说，这还真是愚蠢的行为。像巴克斯登这样的乡下地方，会有多少牧草地？五十？一百？说不定比这还要多。即使我真的找到了，也不见得认得出来，因为我可能没有看到那块黑色的火山岩玻璃，或更可能的情况是，安迪把那块玻璃放进口袋里带走了。
　　所以我同意你的话，我这些举动还真是愚蠢行为，毫无疑问。更何况对一个假释犯来说，这趟旅行无疑是一大冒险，因为不少牧草地上都竖着“不许践踏”的牌子。你要是误踏进去一步，很可能吃不了兜着走。我真傻，但是花了二十七年的光阴在混凝土墙中敲敲打打，也同样傻。不过既然我现在不再是监狱里那个什么都弄得到手的万事通，只是个跑腿打杂的人，有件事情做做，让我暂时忘掉出狱后的新生活也好，而我的嗜好就是寻找安迪藏钥匙的石头。
　　所以，我经常搭便车来到巴克斯登，走在路上，听着鸟叫，看着潺潺流水，查看融雪后露出的空瓶子——全都是无法退瓶、没用的瓶子。我不得不遗憾地说，比起我入狱之前，现在的世界似乎变得挥霍无度——然后继续寻找那片牧草地。
　　路旁有不少牧场，大多数都立刻可以从名单中删除。有的没有石墙，有的有石墙，方向却不对。无论如何，我还是在那些牧草地上走走，在乡下走走很舒服，在这些时候，我才感受到真正的自由和宁静。有一次，有条老狗一直跟着我，还有一次，我看到了一头鹿。
　　然后到了四月二十三日，即使我再活个五十八年，都永远忘不了这一天。那是个宜人的星期六下午，我走着走着，在桥上垂钓的男孩告诉我，这条路叫老史密斯路。这时已近中午了，我打开带来的午餐袋子，坐在路旁一块大石头上吃起来。吃完后，小心把垃圾清理干净，这是爸爸在我和那个男孩差不多年纪的时候教我的规矩。
　　走到大约两点钟左右，在我左边出现一大片草地，草地尽头有一堵墙，一直往西北方延伸而去，我踩在潮湿的草地上，走向那堵墙。一只松鼠从橡树上唠唠叨叨地斥责我。
　　距离墙端还有四分之一的路时，我看见那块大石头了。一点也不错，乌黑的玻璃，光亮得像缎子一样，是不该出现在缅因州牧草地的石头，我呆呆地看了很久，有种想哭的感觉。松鼠跟在我后面，依然唠唠叨叨。我的心则怦怦跳个不停。
　　等我情绪稍稍平复后，我走向那块石头，蹲在它旁边，用手摸摸它，它是真的。我拿起石头，不是因为我认为里面还会藏着任何东西，事实上我很可能就这么走开了，没有发现石头下的任何东西。我当然也不打算把石头拿走，因为我不认为我有权利拿走石头，我觉得把这块石头从牧草地上拿走，不啻犯了最糟糕的盗窃罪。不，我只不过把石头拿起来，好好摸摸它，感觉一下它的质地，证明这块玻璃石头的确存在。