"WRONG," I SAID. "Bylight-years."
Dugger smiled. "About what?"
"About you. About lots of things."
It was eleven A.M., three days after I'd watched Cheryl Duke die.
During that time Robin1 had left one message on the machine. Sorry I missed you. I'll try to call again. . . . No home number was listed for her friend Debby, and when I tried Debby's dental office, I got voice mail informing me the doctor was out for a week.
For three days my life had been stagnating3, but Ben Dugger had traveled: from the ambulance I'd called, to the E.R. at St. John's, to three and a half hours of surgery—tying together blood vessels4 in his thigh5—to recovery, then two nights in a private room at the hospital.
Now this place, bright yellow and vast and dim, the air sweet with cinnamon and antiseptic, lots of inlaid French furniture—everything ornate and antique except the bed, which was all function and much too small for the room. The IV stand, the bank of medical gizmos.
The room was on the third floor of his father's mansion6. Doting7 nurses hovered8 round the clock, but he seemed mostly to want to rest.
I'd phoned yesterday to request permission, waited half a day for the call back from a woman who identified herself as Tony Duke's personal assistant's assistant, had been allowed through the copper9 gates an hour ago.
I'd driven up, sat scrutinized10 as the closed-circuit camera rotated for several minutes, then the tentacles11 parted and a mountainous bouncer type in a fudge brown suit stepped out and showed me where to park. When I exited the car he was there. Escorted me through a fern grove12 and a pine forest to the peach-colored, blue-roofed house. Stayed with me as we entered the building, exerting the merest pressure at my elbow, propelling me across an acre of black granite13 iced by two tons of Baccarat chandelier hanging three stories above, the entry hall commodious14 enough for a presidential convention. Flemish paintings, carved, gilded15 baseboards and moldings, gold velvet16 walls, the elevator cut so seamlessly into the plush fabric17 that I could've walked past it.
Finally, this room, with its canary-colored damask walls. Bad color for recuperation. Dugger looked jaundiced.
He coughed.
I said, "Need anything?"
Smiling again, he shook his head. Pillows surrounded him, a percale halo. His thin hair was plastered across his brow, and beneath the sallow-ness his skin tone was dirty snow. The IV taped to his arm dripped, and the instruments monitoring his vitals blinked and bleeped and graphed his mortality. The ceiling above him was a trompe 1'oeil grape arbor18 painted in garish19 hues20. Silly in any context, but especially so now. If not for the way I felt, I might've smiled.
"Anyway," I said. "I just wanted to—"
"Whatever you think you did, you made up for it." He pointed21 shakily at his bandaged leg. Irving's stray bullet had passed through his thigh, nicked his femoral artery22. I'd tied back the wound, stanched23 as much of the bleeding as I could, used the cell phone in the pocket of Irving's sweatpants to call 911.
"Not even close to a tie," I said. "If you hadn't shown up—"
"Hey, it's a soft science," he said. "Psychology24. We study, we guess, sometimes we're right, other times ..." Weak smile.
The door opened, and Dr. Rene Maccaferri marched in. Those same appraising25 eyes. White lab coat over black turtleneck and slacks, pointy little lizardskin shoes on too-small feet. He looked like a goombah playing doctor, and I told myself I could be forgiven my theories.
Mr. Wrong.
Maccaferri ignored me, checked the monitors, approached Dugger's bedside. "They taking good care of you?"
"Too good, Rene."
"What's too good?"
"I'm not used to it."
"Try," Maccaferri told him. "I talked to the vascular26 surgeon. He'll be over today to look you over, monitor you for infection, make sure no thromboses. You look good to me, but better to make sure."
"Whatever you say, Rene. How's Dad?"
Maccaferri's thick, black, fuzzy-caterpillar brows knitted, and he glanced at me.
"It's okay, Rene."
"Daddy is about the same," said the doctor, turning to leave.
"Okay, Rene. Thanks. As always."
Maccaferri stopped at the door. "There's always, and there's always."
Dugger's eyes went moist.
When the door closed I said, "I'm sorry to add to your burden."
Both of us knew what I meant: Life had thrown him a double dose of grief. Anticipation27 of the loss to come, pining for the sister he'd never really gotten to know.
Meeting her, losing her.
He turned his head to the side and fought back tears. "I know the road to hell's paved with good intentions, but I'm one of those people who still takes intention into account. Whatever you did, it was because you cared about Lauren— My throat's a little dry, could you please hand me that7UP?"
I poured soda28 into a paper cup, held it to his lips.
He drank. "Thanks— How long did you actually treat her? Tell me about that—tell me anything you can."
He'd shared his story. I had no option but to reciprocate29. I recited, speaking automatically, while another lobe30 of my brain remembered.
The anxiety in his eyes when Milo had questioned him about Lauren. What I'd taken for guilt31 had been pain—a solitary32 ache.
Lauren and I agreed to do it the right way, not just spring it on everyone. There was Anita to think about—Dad's illness has plunged33 her lower than I've ever seen her, and she doesn't do well with change. And Dad, himself. I was concerned about the impact. So was Lauren, she wanted whatever happened to go smoothly34 or not at all. She said Dad knew about her—years ago, when Lauren's mother wrote to him, he called, wanted to meet Lauren, but her mother put it off, said Lauren had emotional problems, she wasn't ready. Dad tried a couple more times, then Dad backed off. That was just like him—make his offer, then not push. Maybe it's a character flaw— emotional laziness, I don't know. Sometimes, growing up, I felt Dad was too laid-back—as if he didn't care. But on balance it was better than his trying to dominate Anita and me. . . . In Lauren's case, maybe if he would've pushed . . . How can you second-guess'? By the time Lauren did build up the courage to meet me and tell me who she was, Dad was sick and weak. I was worried abut35 the shock. Maybe I— What's the use . . . ? Right from the beginning Lauren and I got along so well—clicked, as if we'd known each other our whole lives. And—this is going to sound childish—we had fun. Imagining what things would be like once we . . . Our little experiment, we called it—figuring out a way of integrating Lauren into the family.
I said, The phone booth.
He nodded, winced36. Moved his leg and his breath caught. That was part of our . . . arrangement. When we built up the courage to bring Lauren to Dad's house. She'd call me at Point Dume, and if it was okay— relatively37 quiet at the house—I'd pick her up. I told people she was my friend—childish, I know. I think we both liked the cloak-and-dagger aspect. I would have so liked to know her better—longer. . . . My little sister.
At that point he'd broken down and sobbed38, and I'd turned away, feeling low and intrusive39, until his voice drew me back.
Don't worry, I've had enough therapy not to be ashamed of my feelings. I guess what I want you to know is that Lauren had value to me—dammit, she deserves to be cried over. Maybe that's what bothers me the most. There's no one left to cry for her but me. That time you and Sturgis showed up at my apartment and told me what happened to her—it was as if my entire world was imploding40. I'm not the most spontaneous person, but right then I could've just. . .gone mad. Of course, I didn't. Too controlled . . . too much at risk . . . The thing about Lauren was that she made me feel like a kid— something I rarely felt when I actually was a kid. The two of us were planning and scheming, laughing about what we had in common. Our differences—she'd find something we just couldn't see eye to eye on and laugh and say, "So much for chromosomes41." That kind of thing— No one knew. Not Anita or the women at the office, no one. At least I thought so. . . . Then I started seeing things. Looks passing between Kent and Cheryl, and Lauren would be going off with Cheryl talking. When I asked her about it, she just said, Cheryl was nice but not too bright. I never liked Kent, but never did I imagine—how can you imagine things like that'?. . . Poor Anita— outwardly she's tough, but it's an act. She's always been frail42, has irritable43 bowel44 syndrome45, asthma46, migraines—most of her childhood was spent in doctors' offices. . . . Kent was . . . vulgar, but how could I know?... 7 keep asking myself that— Lauren going off with Cheryl, more and more— Was there some way to know ?
No, I'd told him. No one knew.
He asked for more 7UP, drank, sank back against the pillows, closed his eyes.
A controlled man. A kind man. Delivering toys to a church, with no ulterior motive47. Donating 15 percent of his trust fund, every year, to charity.
No one had a bad word to say about him because there was nothing bad to say.
I'd persisted in thinking of him as a warped48 killer49.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
I supposed I'd saved his life, but given all that and the bullet he'd taken for me, it seemed a feeble twist of reciprocity.
He'd been charitable enough to grant me another false equality: sharing Lauren. As if my stint50 as a failed therapist could come close to the bond he'd shared with her. Only to have it ripped from him.
A nice guy. In another place, another time, I wouldn't have minded shooting the breeze with him. Talking about psychology, learning what it had been like growing up Tony Duke's son.
But I had nothing more to offer him, and what he'd been through— what Lauren had been through—would stay with me for a long, long time.
So would the loose ends.
And now I had my own problems to deal with.
As I rang for his nurse, I knew that most likely I'd never see him or anyone else in the Duke family again, and that would be just fine.
收听单词发音 |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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stagnating
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| v.停滞，不流动，不发展( stagnate的现在分词 ) | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tentacles
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| n.触手( tentacle的名词复数 )；触角；触须；触毛 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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stanched
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| v.使（伤口）止血( stanch的过去式 )；止（血）；使不漏；使不流失 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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vascular
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| adj.血管的，脉管的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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lobe
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| n.耳垂，（肺，肝等的）叶 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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abut
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| v.接界，毗邻 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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imploding
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| v.（使）向心聚爆( implode的现在分词 ) | |
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chromosomes
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| n.染色体( chromosome的名词复数 ) | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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bowel
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| n.肠(尤指人肠)；内部，深处 | |
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syndrome
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| n.综合病症；并存特性 | |
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asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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48
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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50
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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