Some time later that afternoon, Mort donned the extra-large red flannel1 shirt he used as a jacket in the early fall and took the walk he should have taken earlier. Bump the cat followed him long enough to ascertain2 that Mort was serious, then returned to the house.
He walked slowly and deliberately3 through an exquisite4 afternoon which seemed to be all blue sky, red leaves, and golden air. He walked with his hands stuffed into his pockets, trying to let the lake's quiet work through his skin and calm him down, as it had always done before - he supposed that was the reason he had come here instead of staying in New York, as Amy had expected him to do, while they trundled steadily6 along toward divorce. He had come here because it was a magic place, especially in autumn, and he had felt, when he arrived, that if there was a sad sack anywhere on the planet who needed a little magic, he was that person. And if that old magic failed him now that the writing had turned so sour, he wasn't sure what he would do.
It turned out that he didn't need to worry about it. After awhile the silence and that queer atmosphere of suspension which always seemed to possess Tashmore Lake when fall had finally come and the summer people had finally gone began to work on him, loosening him up like gently kneading hands. But now he had something besides John Shooter to think about; he had Amy to think about as well.
'Of course I'm all right,' he'd said, speaking as carefully as a drunk trying to convince people that he's sober. In truth, he was still so muzzy that he felt a little bit drunk. The shapes of words felt too big in his mouth, like chunks7 of soft, friable8 rock, and he had proceeded with great care, groping his way through the opening formalities and gambits of telephone conversation as if for the first time. 'How are you?'
'Oh, fine, I'm fine,' she said, and then trilled the quick little laugh which usually meant she was either flirting9 or nervous as hell, and Mort doubted that she was flirting with him - not at this point. The realization10 that she was nervous, too, set him a little more at ease. 'It's just that you're alone down there, and almost anything could happen and nobody would know - ' She broke off abruptly11.
'I'm really not alone,' he said mildly. 'Mrs Gavin was here today and Greg Carstairs is always around.'
'Oh, I forgot about the roof repairs,' Amy said, and for a moment he marvelled12 at how natural they sounded, how natural and undivorced. Listening to us, Mort thought, you'd never guess there's a rogue13 real-estate agent in my bed ... or what used to be my bed. He waited for the anger to come back - the hurt, jealous, cheated anger - but only a ghost stirred where those lively if unpleasant feelings had been.
'Well, Greg didn't forget,' he assured her. 'He came down yesterday and crawled around on the roof for an hour and a half.'
'How bad is it?'
He told her, and they talked about the roof for the next five minutes or so, while Mort slowly woke up; they talked about that old roof as if things were just the same as they always had been, talked about it as if they would be spending next summer under the new cedar14 shingles15 just as they had spent the last nine summers under the old cedar shingles. Mort thought: Gimme a roof, gimme some shingles, and I'll talk to this bitch forever.
As he listened to himself holding up his side of the conversation, he felt a deepening sense of unreality settling in. It felt as if he were returning to the half-waking, half-sleeping zombie state in which he had answered the phone, and at last he couldn't stand it anymore. If this was some sort of contest to see who could go the longest pretending that the last six months had never happened, then he was willing to concede. More than willing.
She was asking where Greg was going to get the cedar shakes and if he would be using a crew from town when Mort broke in. 'Why did you call, Amy?'
There was a moment's silence in which he sensed her trying on responses and then rejecting them, like a woman trying on hats, and that did cause the anger to stir again. It was one of the things - one of the few things, actually - that he could honestly say he detested16 in her. That totally unconscious duplicity.
'I told you why,' she said at last. 'To see if you were all right.' She sounded flustered17 and unsure of herself again, and that usually meant she was telling the truth. When Amy lied, she always sounded as if she was telling you the world was round. 'I had one of my feelings - I know you don't believe in them, but I think you do know that I get them, and that I believe in them ... don't you, Mort?' There was none of her usual posturing18 or defensive19 anger, that was the thing -she sounded almost as if she were pleading with him.
'Yeah, I know that.'
'Well, I had one. I was making myself a sandwich for lunch, and I had a feeling that you ... that you might not be all right. I held off for awhile - I thought it would go away, but it didn't. So I finally called. You are all right, aren't you?'
'Yes,' he said.
'And nothing's happened?'
'Well, something did happen,' he said, after only a moment of interior debate. He thought it was possible, maybe even likely, that John Shooter (if that's really his name, his mind insisted on adding) had tried to make contact with him in Derry before coming down here. Derry, after all, was where he usually was at this time of year. Amy might even have sent him down here.
'I knew it,' she said. 'Did you hurt yourself with that goddam chainsaw? Or - '
'Nothing requiring hospitalization,' he said, smiling a little. 'Just an annoyance20. Does the name John Shooter ring a bell with you, Amy?'
'No, why?'
He let an irritated little sigh escape through his closed teeth like steam. Amy was a bright woman, but she had always had a bit of a dead-short between her brain and her mouth. He remembered once musing21 that she should have a tee-shirt reading SPEAK NOW, THINK LATER. 'Don't say no right off the bat. Take a few seconds and really think about it. The guy is fairly tall, about six feet, and I'd guess he's in his mid-forties. His face looked older, but he moved like a man in his forties. He has a country kind of face. Lots of color, lots of sun-wrinkles. When I saw him, I thought he looked like a character out of Faulk - '
'What's this all about, Mort?'
Now he felt all the way back; now he could understand again why, as hurt and confused as he had been, he had rejected the urges he felt - mostly at night - to ask her if they couldn't at least try to reconcile their differences. He supposed he knew that, if he asked long enough and hard enough, she would agree. But facts were facts; there had been a lot more wrong with their marriage than Amy's real-estate salesman. The drilling quality her voice had taken on now - that was another symptom of what had killed them. What have you done now? the tone under the words asked ... no, demanded. What kind of a mess have you gotten yourself into now? Explain yourself.
He closed his eyes and hissed22 breath through his closed teeth again before answering. Then he told her about John Shooter, and Shooter's manuscript, and his own short story. Amy clearly remembered 'Sowing Season,' but said she had never heard of a man named John Shooter - it wasn't the kind of name you forget, she said, and Mort was inclined to agree - in her life. And she certainly hadn't seen him.
'You're sure?' Mort pressed.
'Yes, I am,' Amy said. She sounded faintly resentful of Mort's continued questioning. 'I haven't seen anyone like that since you left. And before you tell me again not to say no right off the bat, let me assure you that I have a very clear memory of almost everything that's happened since then.'
She paused, and he realized she was speaking with an effort now, quite possibly with real pain. That small, mean part of him rejoiced. Most of him did not; most of him was disgusted to find even a small part of him happy about any of this. That had no effect on the interior celebrant, however. That guy might be outvoted, but he also seemed impervious23 to Mort's - the larger Mort's - attempts to root him out.
'Maybe Ted5 saw him,' he said. Ted Milner was the real-estate agent. He still found it hard to believe she had tossed him over for a real-estate agent, and he supposed that was part of the problem, part of the conceit24 which had allowed things to progress to this point in the first place. He certainly wasn't going to claim, especially to himself, that he had been as innocent as Mary's little lamb, was he?
'Is that supposed to be funny?' Amy sounded angry, ashamed, sorrowful, and defiant25 all at the same time.
'No,' he said. He was beginning to feel tired again.
'Ted isn't here,' she said. 'Ted hardly ever comes here. I ... I go to his place.'
Thank you for sharing that with me, Amy, he almost said, and choked it off. It would be nice to get out of at least one conversation without a swap26 of accusations27. So he didn't say thanks for sharing and he didn't say that'll change and most of all he didn't ask what in the hell's the matter with you, Amy?
Mostly because she might then have asked the same thing of him.
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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2
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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friable
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| adj.易碎的 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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posturing
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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swap
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| n.交换；vt.交换，用...作交易 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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