He had been a junior, and it was spring semester. The creative-writing class of which he was a part was focussing on the short story that semester. The teacher was a fellow named Richard Perkins, Jr, who had written two novels which had gotten very good reviews and sold very few copies. Mort had tried one, and thought the good reviews and bad sales had the same root cause: the books were incomprehensible. But the man hadn't been a bad teacher - he had kept them entertained, at least.
There had been about a dozen students in the class. One of them was John Kintner. Kintner was only a freshman2, but he had gotten special permission to take the class. And had deserved it, Mort supposed. Southern-fried cracker3 or not, that sucker had been good.
The course required each of them to write either six short stories or three longer ones. Each week, Perkins dittoed off the ones he thought would make for the liveliest discussion and handed them out at the end of the class. The students were supposed, to come the following week prepared to discuss and criticize. It was the usual way to run such a class. And one week Perkins had given them a story from John Kintner. It had been called ... What had it been called?
Mort had turned on the water to fill the coffeemaker, but now he only stood, looking absently out at the fog beyond the window-wall and listening to the running water.
You know damned well what It was called. 'Secret Window, Secret Garden.'
'But it wasn't!' he yelled petulantly4 to the empty house. He thought furiously, determined5 to shut the hellish little voice up once and for all ... and suddenly it came to him.
'"Crowfoot Mile!" he shrieked6. 'The name of the story was "Crowfoot Mile," and it doesn't have anything to do with anything!'
Except that was not quite true, either, and he didn't really need the little, voice hunkered down someplace in the middle of his aching head to point out the fact.
Kintner had turned in three or maybe four stories before disappearing to wherever he had disappeared to (if asked to guess, Mort would have guessed Vietnam - it was where most of them had disappeared to at the end of the sixties -the young men, anyhow). 'Crowfoot Mile' hadn't been the best of Kintner's stories ... but it had been good. Kintner was clearly the best writer in Richard Perkins, Jr's class. Perkins treated the boy almost as an equal, and in Mort Rainey's not-so-humble estimation, Perkins had been right to do so, because he thought Kintner had been quite a bit better than Richard Perkins, Jr. As far as that went, Mort believed he had been better.
But had he been better than Kintner?
'Huh-uh,' he said under his breath as he turned on the coffeemaker. 'I was second.'
Yes. He had been second, and he had hated that. He knew that most students taking writing courses were just marking time, pursuing a whim7 before giving up childish things and settling into a study of whatever it was that would be their real life's work. The creative writing most of them would do in later life would consist of contributing items to the Community Calendar pages of their local newspapers or writing advertising8 copy for Bright Blue Breeze dish detergent9. Mort had come into Perkins's class confidently expecting to be the best, because it had never been any other way with him. For that reason, John Kintner had come as an unpleasant shock.
He remembered trying to talk to the boy once ... but Kintner, who contributed in class only when asked, had proved to be almost inarticulate. When he spoke10 out loud, he mumbled11 and stumbled like a poor-white sharecropper's boy whose education had stopped at the fourth-grade level. His writing was the only voice he had, apparently12.
And you stole it.
'Shut up,' he muttered. 'Just shut up.'
You were second best and you hated it. You were glad when he was gone, because then you could be first again. Just like you always had been.
Yes. True. And a year later, when he was preparing to graduate, he had been cleaning out the back closet of the sleazy Lewiston apartment he had shared with two other students, and had come upon a pile of offprints from Perkins's writing course. Only one of Kintner's stories had been in the stack. It happened to be 'Crowfoot Mile.'
He remembered sitting on the seedy, beer-smelling rug of his bedroom, reading the story, and the old jealousy13 had come over him again.
He threw the other offprints away, but he had taken that one with him ... for reasons he wasn't sure he wanted to examine closely.
As a sophomore14, Mort had submitted a story to a literary magazine called Aspen Quarterly. It came back with a note which said the readers had found it quite good 'although the ending seemed rather jejune15.' The note, which Mort found both patronizing and tremendously exciting, invited him to submit other material.
Over the next two years, he had submitted four more stories. None were accepted, but a personal note accompanied each of the rejection16 slips. Mort went through an unpublished writer's agony of optimism alternating with deep pessimism17. He had days when he was sure it was only a matter of time before he cracked Aspen Quarterly. And he had days when he was positive that the entire editorial staff - pencil-necked geeks to a man - was only playing with him, teasing him the way a man might tease a hungry dog by holding a piece of meat up over its head and then jerking the scrap18 out of reach when it leaps. He sometimes imagined one of them holding up one of his manuscripts, fresh out of its manila envelope, and shouting: 'Here's another one from that putz in Maine! Who wants to write the letter this time?' And all of them cracking up, perhaps even rolling around on the floor underneath19 their posters of Joan Baez and Moby Grape at the Fillmore.
Most days, Mort had not indulged in this sort of sad paranoia20. He understood that he was good, and that it was only a matter of time. And that summer, working as a waiter in a Rockland restaurant, he thought of the story by John Kintner. He thought it was probably still in his trunk, kicking around at the bottom. He had a sudden idea. He would change the title and submit 'Crowfoot Mile' to Aspen Quarterly under his own name! He remembered thinking it would be a fine joke on them, although, looking back now, he could not imagine what the joke would have been.
He did remember that he'd had no intention of publishing the story under his own name ... or, if he had had such an intention on some deeper level, he hadn't been aware of it. In the unlikely event of an acceptance, he would withdraw the story, saying he wanted to work on it some more. And if they
rejected it, he could at least take some cheer in the thought that John Kintner wasn't good enough for Aspen Quarterly, either.
So he had sent the story.
And they had accepted it.
And he had let them accept it.
And they sent him a check for twenty-five dollars. 'An honorarium,' the accompanying letter had called it.
And then they had published it.
And Morton Rainey, overcome by belated guilt21 at what he had done, had cashed the check and had stuffed the bills into the poor box of St Catherine's in Augusta one day.
But guilt hadn't been all he'd felt. Oh no.
Mort sat at the kitchen table with his head propped22 in one hand, waiting for the coffee to perk1. His head ached. He didn't want to be thinking about John Kintner and John Kintner's story. What he had done with 'Crowfoot Mile' had been one of the most shameful23 events of his life; was it really surprising that he had buried it for so many years? He wished he could bury it again now. This, after all, was going to be a big day - maybe the biggest of his life. Maybe even the last of his life. He should be thinking about going to the post office. He should be thinking about his confrontation24 with Shooter, but his mind would not let that sad old time alone.
When he'd seen the magazine, the actual magazine with his name in it above John Kintner's story, he felt like a man waking from a horrible episode of sleepwalking, an unconscious outing in which he has done some irrevocable thing. How had he let it go so far? It was supposed to have been a joke, for Christ's sake, just a little giggle25
But he had let it go so far. The story had been published, and there were at least a dozen other people in the world who knew it wasn't his - including Kintner himself. And if one of them happened to pick up Aspen Quarterly
He himself told no one - of course. He simply waited, sick with terror. He slept and ate very little that late summer and early fall; he lost weight and dark shadows brushed themselves under his eyes. His heart began to triphammer every time the telephone rang. If the call was for him, he would approach the instrument with dragging feet and cold sweat on his brow, sure it would be Kintner, and the first words out of Kintner's mouth would be, You stole my story, and something has got to be done about it. I think I'll start by telling everybody what kind of thief you are.
The most incredible thing was this: he had known better. He had known the possible consequences of such an act for a young man who hoped to make a career of writing. It was like playing Russian roulette with a bazooka. Yet still ... still ...
But as that fall slipped uneventfully past, he began to relax a little. The issue of Aspen Quarterly had been replaced by a new issue. The issue was no longer lying out on tables in library periodical rooms all across the country; it had been tucked away into the stacks or transferred to microfiche. It might still cause trouble - he bleakly26 supposed he would have to live with that possibility for the rest of his life - but in most cases, out of sight meant out of mind.
Then, in November of that year, a letter from Aspen Quarterly came.
Mort held it in his hands, looking at his name on the envelope, and began to shake all over. His eyes filled with some liquid that felt too hot and corrosive27 to be tears, and the envelope first doubled and then trebled.
Caught. They caught me. They'll want me to respond to a letter they have from Kintner ... or Perkins ... or one of the others in the class ... I'm caught.
He had thought of suicide then - quite calmly and quite rationally. His mother had sleeping pills. He would use those. Somewhat eased by this prospect28, he tore the envelope open and pulled out a single sheet of stationery29. He held it folded in one hand for a long moment and considered burning it without even looking at it. He wasn't sure he could stand to see the accusation30 held baldly up in front of him. He thought it might drive him mad.
Go ahead, dammit - look. The least you can do is look at the consequences. You may not be able to stand up to them, but you can by-God look at them.
He unfolded the letter.
Dear Mort Rainey,
Your short story, 'Eye of the Crow,' was extremely well received here. I'm sorry this follow-up letter has been so slow in coming, but, frankly31, we expected to hear from you. You have been so faithful in your submissions32 over the years that your silence now that you have finally succeeded in 'making it' is a little perplexing. If there was anything about the way your story was handled - typesetting, design, placement, etc. - that you didn't like, we hope you'll bring it up. Meantime, how about another tale?
Respectfully yours,
Charlie
Charles Palmer
Assistant Editor
Mort had read this letter twice, and then began to peal33 hoarse34 bursts of laughter at the house, which was luckily empty. He had heard of side-splitting laughter, and this was surely it - he felt that if he didn't stop soon, his sides really would split, and send his guts35 spewing out all over the floor. He had been ready to kill himself with his mother's sleeping pills, and they wanted to know if he was upset with the way the story had been typeset! He had expected to find that his career was ruined even before it was fairly begun, and they wanted more! More!
He laughed - howled, actually - until his side-splitting laughter turned to hysterical36 tears. Then he sat on the sofa, reread Charles Palmer's letter, and cried until he laughed again. At last he had gone into his room and lain down with the pillows arranged behind him just the way he liked, and then he had fallen asleep.
He had gotten away with it. That was the upshot. He had gotten away with it, and he had never done anything even remotely like it again, and it had all happened about a thousand years ago, and so why had it come back to haunt him now?
He didn't know, but he intended to stop thinking about it.
'And right now, too,' he told the empty room, and walked briskly over to the coffeemaker, trying to ignore his aching head.
You know why you're thinking about it now.
'Shut up.' He spoke in a conversational37 tone which was rather cheery ... but his hands were shaking as he picked up the Silex.
Some things you can't hide forever. You might be ill, Mort.
'Shut up, I'm warning you,' he said in his cheery conversational voice.
You might be very ill. In fact, you might be having a nervous br...
'Shut up!' he cried, and threw the Silex as hard as he could. It sailed over the counter, flew across the room, turning over and over as it went, crunched38 into the window-wall, shattered, and fell dead on the floor. He looked at the window-wall and saw a long, silvery crack zig-zagging up to the top. It started at the place where the Silex had impacted. He felt very much like a man who might have a similar crack running right through the middle of his brain.
But the voice had shut up.
He walked stolidly39 into the bedroom, got the alarm clock, and walked back into the living room. He set the alarm for ten-thirty as he walked. At ten-thirty he was going to go to the post office, pick up his Federal Express package, and go stolidly about the task of putting this nightmare behind him.
In the meantime, though, he would sleep.
He would sleep on the couch, where he had always slept best.
'I am not having a nervous breakdown40,' he whispered to the little voice, but the little voice was having none of the argument. Mort thought that he might have frightened the little voice. He hoped so, because the little voice had certainly frightened him.
His eyes found the silvery crack in the window-wall and traced it dully. He thought of using the chambermaid's key. How the room had been dim, and it had taken his eyes a moment to adjust. Their naked shoulders. Their frightened eyes. He had been shouting, He couldn't remember what - and had never dared to ask Amy - but it must have been some scary shit, judging from the look in their eyes.
If I was ever going to have a nervous breakdown, he thought, looking at the lightning-bolt senselessness of the crack, it would have been then. Hell, that letter from Aspen Quarterly was nothing compared to opening a motel-room door and seeing your wife with another man, a slick real-estate agent from some shitsplat little town in Tennessee
Mort closed his eyes, and when he opened them again it was because another voice was clamoring. This one belonged to the alarm clock. The fog had cleared, the sun had come out, and it was time to go to the post office.
收听单词发音 |
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perk
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| n.额外津贴；赏钱；小费； | |
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freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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petulantly
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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detergent
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| n.洗涤剂；adj.有洗净力的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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sophomore
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| n.大学二年级生；adj.第二年的 | |
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jejune
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| adj.枯燥无味的，贫瘠的 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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paranoia
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| n.妄想狂，偏执狂；多疑症 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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confrontation
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| n.对抗，对峙，冲突 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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bleakly
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| 无望地，阴郁地，苍凉地 | |
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corrosive
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| adj.腐蚀性的；有害的；恶毒的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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submissions
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| n.提交( submission的名词复数 )；屈从；归顺；向法官或陪审团提出的意见或论据 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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