Mort stood in front of his old Royal typewriter; the screen-and-keyboard unit of his word processor lay overturned in a bouquet1 of glass on the floor. He looked strangely like a country preacher. It was partly the posture3 he had adopted, she supposed; he was standing4 almost primly5 with his hands behind his back. But most of it was the hat. The black hat, pulled down so it almost touched the tops of his ears. She thought he looked a little bit like the old man in that picture, 'American Gothic,' even though the man in the picture wasn't wearing a hat.
'Mort?' she asked. Her voice was weak and uncertain.
He made no reply, only stared at her. His eyes were grim and glittering. She had never seen Mort's eyes look this way, not even on the horrible afternoon at the motel. It was almost as if this was not Mort at all, but some stranger who looked like Mort.
She recognized the hat, though.
'Where did you find that old thing? The attic6?' Her heartbeat was in her voice, making it stagger.
He must have found it in the attic. The smell of mothballs on it was strong, even from where she was standing. Mort had gotten the hat years ago, at a gift shop in Pennsylvania. They had been travelling through Amish country. She had kept a little garden at the Derry house, in the angle where the house and the study addition met. It was her garden, but Mort often went out to weed it when he was stuck for an idea. He usually wore the hat when he did this. He called it his thinking cap. She remembered him looking at himself in a mirror once when he was wearing it and joking that he ought to have a bookjacket photo taken in it. 'When I put this on,' he'd said, 'I look like a
man who belongs out in the north forty, walking plow-furrows behind a mule's ass2.'
Then the hat had disappeared. It must have migrated down here and been stored. But...
'It's my hat,' he said at last in a rusty7, bemused voice. 'Wasn't ever anybody else's.'
'Mort? What's wrong? What's
'You got you a wrong number, woman. Ain't no Mort here. Mort's dead.' The gimlet eyes never wavered. 'He did a lot of squirming around, but in the end he couldn't lie to himself anymore, let alone to me. I never put a hand on him, Mrs Rainey. I swear. He took the coward's way out.'
'Why are you talking that way?' Amy asked.
'This is just the way I talk,' he said with mild surprise. 'Everybody down in Miss'ippi talks this way.'
'Mort, stop!'
'Don't you understand what I said?' he asked. 'You ain't deaf, are you? He's dead. He killed himself.'
'Stop it, Mort,' she said, beginning to cry. 'You're scaring me, and I don't like it.'
'Don't matter,' he said. He took his hands out from behind his back. In one of them he held the scissors from the top drawer of the desk. He raised them. The sun had come out, and it sent a starfish glitter along the blades as he snicked them open and then closed. 'You won't be scared long.' He began walking toward her.
1 bouquet | |
n.花束,酒香 | |
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2 ass | |
n.驴;傻瓜,蠢笨的人 | |
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3 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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4 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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5 primly | |
adv.循规蹈矩地,整洁地 | |
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6 attic | |
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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7 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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