The only other person in the fourth?floor corridor who seems to be here is the crazy woman in 402, Mrs. Zabritski, a widow with wild white hair, pinned up by two old tortoise?shell combs that just add to the confusion. The Golds have told him she survived one of the concentration camps when a girl. She looks at Harry as if he's crazy too, to be here.
He explains to her one day, since they meet at the elevator and she looks at him funny, "I had this sudden impulse to come down early this year. My wife's just starting up in the real?estate business and I got bored hanging around the house."
Mrs. Zabritski's little neckless head is screwed around at an angle on her shoulder, as if she's bracing8 an invisible telephone against her ear. She stares up at him furiously, her lips baring her long false teeth in a taut9 oval that reminds him of that Batman logo you saw everywhere this summer. Her eyes have veiny10 reds to them, stuck hot and round in their skeletal sockets11, that wasting?away look Lyle had. "It's hell," the tiny old lady seems to pronounce, her lips moving stiffly, trying to keep her teeth in.
"It's what? What is?"
"This weather," she says. "Your wife -" She halts, her lips working.
"My wife what?" Rabbit tries to curb12 his tendency to shout, since hearing doesn't seem to be one of her problems, regardless of that pained way her head is cocked.
"Is a cute little thing," she finishes, but looks angry saying it. Her hair sticks up in wisps as if it was moussed and abandoned.
"She'll be down soon," he almost shouts, embarrassed as much by his secrets, his hopeful lies, as by her dwarfish13 warped14 craziness. This is the kind of woman he's ended up with, after Mary Ann and then Janice and Ruth's silky?sack heaviness and Peggy Fosnacht's splayed eyes and Jill's adolescent breasts and stoned compliance16 and Thelma with her black casket and Pru glowing dimly in the dark like a tough street in blossom, not to mention that tired whore in Texas with the gritty sugar in her voice and that other paid lay in his life, a girl he once in a great while remembers, at a Verity17 Press outing in the Brewer18 Polish?American Club, she was skinny and had a cold and kept her bra and sweater on, there in this room off to the side, where she was waiting on a mattress19 like a kind of prisoner, young, her belly20 and thighs21 sweaty from the cold she had but pure and pale, a few baby?blue veins22 where the skin molded around the pelvic bones, her pussy23 an oldfashioned natural dark ferny triangle, flourishing, not shaved at the sides to suit a bathing suit the way you see in the skin magazines. You paid the guy who stood outside the door, ten dollars for ten minutes, he hadn't shaved very recently, Rabbit assumed he was her brother, or maybe her father. He assumed the girl was Polish because of the name of the club, she might have been eighteen, Mrs. Zabritski would have been that age after getting out of the concentration camp, smooth?skinned, lithe24, a young survivor25. What time does to people; her face is broken into furrows26 that crisscross each other like a checkerboard of skin.
"She should wait," Mrs. Zabritski says.
"I'll tell her you said so," he says loudly, fighting the magnetism27 sucking at him out of the unspoken fact that she is a woman and he is a man and both are alone and crazy, a few doors apart in this corridor like a long peach?colored chute glinting with silver lines in the embossed wallpaper. All his life seems to have been a journey into the bodies of women, why should his journey end now? Say she was eighteen when the war ended, he was twelve, she is only six years older. Sixty?two. Not so bad, can still work up some juice. Beu Gold is older, and sexy.
He tries to watch TV but it makes him restless. The last of the summer reruns are mixed in with previews of new shows that don't look that much different: families, laugh tracks, zany dropins, those three?sided living?room sets with the stairs coming down in the background like in Cosby, and front doors on the right through which the comical good?natured grandparents appear, bearing presents and presenting problems. The door is on the right in Cosby and on the left in Roseanne. That fat husband's going to have his cardiovascular problems too. TV families and your own are hard to tell apart, except yours isn't interrupted every six minutes by commercials and theirs don't get bogged29 down into nothingness, a state where nothing happens, no skit30, no zany visitors, no outburst on the laugh track, nothing at all but boredom31 and a lost feeling, especially when you get up in the morning and the moon is still shining and men are making noisy bets on the first tee.
At first he thinks Janice has tried so hard to reach him those four days before the phone got connected on Thursday that she's lost faith in their old number. Then he begins to accept her silence as a definite statement. I'll never forgive you. O.K., he'll be damned if he'll call her. Dumb mutt. Rich bitch. Working girl yet. Thinks she's so fucking hot running everybody's lives with those accountants and lawyers Charlie put her on to, he's known her so drunk she couldn't get herself to the bathroom to pee. The few times Harry has weakened, impulsively33, usually around four or five when he can't stand the sound of the golf games beginning up again and it's still hours to dinner, the telephone in the little limestone34 house in Penn Park rings and rings without an answer. He hangs up in a way relieved. Nothingness has a purity. Like running. He showed her he still had some kick in his legs and now she's showing him she can still be stubborn. Her silence frightens him. He fights off images of some accident she might have, slipping in the bathtub or driving the Camry off the road, having had too much to drink over at Nelson's or at some Vietnamese restaurant with Charlie, without him knowing. Police frogmen finding her drowned in the back seat like that girl from Wilkes?Barre twenty years ago. But no, he'd be notified, if anything were to happen, somebody would call him, Nelson or Charlie or Benny at the lot, if there still is a lot. Each day down here, events in Pennsylvania seem more remote. His whole life seems, as he rotates through the empty condo rooms, each with its view across the parallel fairways to a wilderness36 of Spanish?tile roofs, to have been unreal, or no realer than the lives on TV shows, and now it's too late to make it real, to be serious, to reach down into the earth's iron core and fetch up a real life for himself.
The local air down here this time of year is full of violence, as if the natives are on good behavior during the winter season. Hurricane alarms (Gabrielle packs punch), head?on car crashes, masked holdups at Publix. The day after Labor37 Day, lightning kills a young football player leaving the field after practice; the story says Florida has more deaths by lightning than any other state. In Cape38 Coral, a Hispanic police officer is charged with beating his cocker spaniel to death with a crowbar. Sea turtles are dying by the thousands in shrimp39 nets. A killer41 called Petit whose own mother says he looks like Charles Manson is pronounced mentally fit to stand trial. That Deion Sanders is still making the front page of the Fort Myers News?Press: one day he knocks in four runs and a homer playing baseball for the Yankees, the next he signs for millions to play football for the Atlanta Falcons42, and the very next he's being sued by the auxiliary43 cop he hit last Christmas at that shopping mall, and on Sunday he bobbles a punt return for the Falcons but runs it back for a touchdown anyway, the only man in human history to hit a home run and score a touchdown in pro ball the same week.
Deion has
right stuff
Enjoy it while he can. He calls himself Prime Time and is always on the TV news wearing sunglasses and gold chains. Rabbit watches that big kid Becker beat Lendl in the U.S. Tennis Open final and gets depressed45, Lendl seemed old and tired and stringy, though he's only twenty?eight.
He talks to nobody, except for Mrs. Zabritski when she catches him in the hall, and the teenage Florida?cracker46 salesclerks when he buys his food and razor blades and toilet paper, and the people who feel obliged to make chitchat, the other retirees, in the Valhalla dining room; they always ask about Janice so it gets to be embarrassing and he more and more just heats up something frozen and stays in the condo, ransacking47 the cable channels for something worthy48 to kill time with. In his solitude49, his heart becomes his companion. He listens to it, tries to decipher its messages. It has different rhythms at different times of the day, a thorrumph thorrumph sluggish50 slightly underwater beat in the morning, and toward evening, when the organism gets tired and excited at once, a more skittish51 thudding, with the accent on the first beat and grace notes added, little trips and pauses now and then. It twinges when he gets up out of bed and then again when he lies down and whenever he thinks too hard about his situation, having set himself adrift like this. He could have gone over that night and faced the music but how much music is a man supposed to face? So he and Pru did fuck, once. What are we put here in the first place for? These women complain about men seeing nothing but tits and ass2 when they look at them but what are we supposed to see? We've been programmed to tits and ass. Except guys like Slim and Lyle, the tits got left out of their program. One thing he knows is if he had to give parts of his life back the last thing he'd give back is the fucking, even that sniffly girl in the PolishAmerican Club, she hardly said two words, and wiped her nose with a handkerchief while he was on top of her, but nevertheless she showed him something, a flourishing bush, and took him in, where it mattered. A lot of this other stuff you're supposed to be grateful for isn't where it matters. When he gets up from the deep wicker chair indignantly ? he can't stand Cheers now that Shelley Long is gone, that guy with the Cro?Magnon brow he never did like ? and goes into the kitchen to refill his bowl of Keystone Corn Chips, which not all of the stores down here carry but you can get over at the Winn Dixie on Pindo Palm Boulevard, Harry's heart confides52 to him a dainty little gallop53, the kind of lacy riff the old swing drummers used to do, hitting the rims54 as well as the skins and ending with a tingling55 pop off the high hat, the music of his life. When this happens he gets an excited, hurried, full feeling in his chest. It doesn't hurt, it's just there, muffled56 inside that mess inside himself he doesn't like to think about, just like he never cared for rare roast beef, as it used to come on the take?out subs from the Chuck Wagon57 across Route 111 before it became the Pizza Hut. Any sudden motion now, he feels a surge of circulation, a tilt58 of surprise in the head that makes one leg feel shorter than the other for a second. And the pains, maybe he imagines it, but the contractions59 of the bands across his ribs60, the feeling of something having been sewn there from the inside, seems to cut deeper, more burningly, as though the thread the patch was sewn with is growing thicker, and red hot. When he turns off the light at night, he doesn't like feeling his head sink back onto a single pillow, his head seems sunk in a hole then, it's not that he can't breathe exactly, he just feels more comfortable, less full, if he has his head up on the two pillows and lies facing the ceiling. He can turn on his side but his old way of sleeping, flat on his stomach with his feet pointing down over the edge, has become impossible; there is a nest of purple slithering half?dead thoughts he cannot bear to put his face in. There is a whole host of goblins, it turns out, that Janice's warm little tightly knit body, even snoring and farting as it sometimes did, protected him from. In her absence he sleeps with his heart, listening to it race and skip when his rest is disturbed, when kids who have climbed the fence yell on the empty moonlit golf course, when a siren bleats61 somewhere in downtown Deleon, when a big jet from the north heads in especially low to the Southwest Florida Regional Airport, churning the air. He awakes in lavender light and then lets his heart's slowing beat drag him back under.
His dreams are delicious, like forbidden candy ? intensely colored overpopulated rearrangements of old situations stored in his brain cells, rooms like the little living room at 26 Vista62 Crescent, with the fireplace they never used and the lamp with the driftwood base, or the old kitchen at 303 Jackson, with the wooden ice box and the gas stove with its nipples of blue flame and the porcelain63 table with the worn spots, skewed and new and crowded with people at the wrong ages, Mim with lots of green eye makeup64 at the age Mom was when they were kids, or Nelson as a tiny child sliding out from under a car in the greasy65 service section of Springer Motors, looking woebegone and sickly with his smudged face, or Marty Tothero and Ruth and even that nitwit Margaret Kosko, he hasn't thought of her name for thirty years, but there she was in his brain cells, just as clear with her underfed city pallor as she was that night in the booth of the Chinese restaurant, Ruth next to him and Margaret next to Mr. Tothero whose head looks lopsided and gray like that of a dying rhinoceros66, the four of them eating now in the Valhalla dining room with its garbled67 bas?relief of Vikings and sumptuous68 salad bar where the dishes underneath69 the plastic sneeze guard are bright and various as jewels, arranged in rainbow order like the crayons in the Crayola boxes that were always among his birthday presents in February, a little stadium of waxy70?smelling pointed71 heads there in the bright February window?light, filtered through icicles and the stunned72 sense of being a year older. Harry wakes from these dreams reluctantly, as if their miniaturized visions are a substance essential to his nutrition, or a whirring finely fitted machine he needs to reinsert himself into, like poor Thelma and her dialysis machine. He awakes always on his stomach, and only as his head clears and re?creates present time, establishing the felt?gray parallel lines he sees as the dawn behind the curved slats of Venetian blinds and the insistent73 pressure on his face as the cool Gulf74 breeze coming in where he left the sliding door ajar, does his solitude begin to gnaw75 again, and his heart to talk to him. At times it seems a tiny creature, a baby, pleading inside him for attention, for rescue, and at others a sinister76 intruder, a traitor77 muttering in code, an alien parasite78 nothing will expel. The pains, when they come, seem hostile and deliberate, the knives of a strengthening enemy.
He makes an appointment with Dr. Morris. He is able to get one surprisingly soon, the day after next. These doctors are scrambling79 down here, a glut80 of them, too many miners at the gold rush, the geriatric immigrants still hanging up north this time of year. The office is in one of those low stucco clinics along Route 41. Soothing81 music plays constantly in the waiting room, entwining with the surf?sound of traffic outside. The doctor has aged82 since the last appointment. He is bent83?over and shufliy, with arthritic84 knuckles85. His shrivelled jaw86 looks not quite clean?shaven; his nostrils88 are packed with black hair. His son, young Tom, pink and sleek89 in his mid?forties, gives Harry a freckled90 fat hand in the hall, and is wearing his white clinical smock over kelly?green golf slacks. He is established in an adjacent office, primed to take over the full practice. But for now the old doctor clings to his own patients. Harry tries to describe his complex sensations. Dr. Morris, with an impatient jerk of his arthritic hand, waves him toward the examination room. He has him strip to his jockey undershorts, weighs him, tut?tuts. He seats him on the examination table and listens to his chest through his stethoscope, and taps his naked back with a soothing, knobby touch, and solemnly, silently takes Harry's hands in his. He studies the fingernails, turns them over, studies the palms, grunts91. Close up, he gives off an old man's sad leathery, moldy92 smell.
"Well," Harry asks, "what do you think?"
"How much do you exercise?"
"Not much. Not since I got down here. I do a little gardening up north. Golf-but I've kind of run out of partners."
Dr. Morris ponders him through rimless93 glasses. His eyes, once a sharp blue, have that colorless sucked look to the irises94. His eyebrows95 are messy tangled96 tufts of white and reddish?brown, his forehead and cheeks are flecked with small blotches98 and bumps. His projecting eyebrows lift, like turrets99 taking aim. "You should walk."
"Walk?"
"Briskly. Several miles a day. What sorts of food are you eating?"
"Oh ? stuff you can heat up. TV?dinner kind of thing. My wife is still up north but she doesn't cook that much even when she's here. Now, my daughter?in?law -"
"You ever eat any of this salty junk that comes in bags?"
"Well ? once in a great while."
"You should watch your sodium100 intake101. Snack on fresh vegetables if you want to snack. Read the labels. Stay away from salt and animal fats. I think we've been through all this, when you were in the hospital" ? he lifts his forearm and checks his record ? "nine months ago."
"Yeah, I did for a while, I still do, it's just that day to day, it's easier -"
"To poison yourself. Don't. Don't be lazy about it. And you should lose forty pounds. Without the salt in your diet you'd lose ten in retained water in two weeks. I'll give you a diet list, if you've lost the one I gave you before. You may get dressed."
The doctor has grown smaller, or his desk has grown bigger, since Harry's last visit here. He sits down, dressed, at the desk and begins, "The pains -"
"The pains will moderate with better conditioning. Your heart doesn't like what you're feeding it. Have you been under any special stress lately?"
"Not really. Just the normal flack. A couple family problems, but they seem to be clearing up."
The doctor is writing on his prescription102 pad. "I want you to have blood tests and an EKG at the Community General. Then I want to consult with Dr. Olman. Depending on how the results look, it may be time for another catheterization."
"Oh Jesus. Not that again."
The messy eyebrows go up again, the prim44 dry lips pinch in. Not a clever generous Jewish mouth. A crabby Scots economy in the way he thinks and talks, on the verge103 of impatience104, having seen so many hopelessly deteriorating105 patients in his life. "What didn't you like? Were the hot flashes painful?"
"It just felt funny," Harry tells him, "having that damn thing inside me. It's the idea of it."
"Well, do you prefer the idea of a life?threatening restenosis of your coronary artery106? It's been, let's see, nearly six months since you had the angioplasty at" ?he reads his records, with difficulty ? "St. Joseph's Hospital in Brewer, Pennsylvania."
"They made me watch," Harry tells him. "I could see my own damn heart on TV, full of like Rice Krispies."
A tiny Scots smile, dry as a thistle. "Was that so bad?"
"It was" ? he searches for the word ? "insulting." In fact when you think about it his whole life from here on in is apt to be insulting. Pacemakers, crutches107, wheelchairs. Impotence. Once in the Valhalla locker108 room a very old tall guy ? somebody's guest, he never saw him again ? came out of the shower and his muscles were so shrivelled his thighs from the back blended right up into his buttocks so his asshole seemed to flow down into the entire long space between his legs. His ass had lost its cheeks and Harry couldn't stop staring at the fleshly chasm110.
Dr. Morris is making, in a deliberate, tremulous hand, notes to add to his folder111. Without looking up, he says, "There are a number of investigative instruments now that don't involve a catheter. Scans using IV technetium 99 can identify acutely damaged heart muscle. Then there is echocardiography. We won't rush into anything. Let's see what you can do on your own, with a healthier regimen."
"Great."
"I want to see you in four weeks. Here are slips for the blood tests and EKG, and prescriptions112 for a diuretic and a relaxant for you at night. Don't forget the diet lists. Walk. Not violently, but vigorously, two or three miles a day."
"O.K.," Rabbit says, beginning to rise from his chair, feeling as light as a boy called into the principal's office and dismissed with a light reprimand.
But Dr. Morris fixes him with those sucked?out old blue eyes and says, "Do you have any sort of a job? According to my last information here, you were in charge of a car agency."
"That's gone. My son's taken over and my wife wants me to stay out of the kid's way. The agency was founded by her father. They'll probably wind up having to sell it off."
"Any hobbies?"
"Well, I read a lot of history. I'm a kind of a buff, you could say."
"You need more than that. A man needs an occupation. He needs something to do. The best thing for a body is a healthy interest in life. Get interested in something outside yourself, and your heart will stop talking to you."
The smell of good advice always makes Rabbit want to run the other way. He resumes rising from the chair and takes Dr. Morris' many slips of paper out into the towering heat. The few other people out on the parking lot seem tinted113 smoke rising from their shadows, barely cxisting. The radio in the Celica is full of voices yammering about Deion Sanders, about Koch losing the New York Democratic primary to a black, about the SAT scores dropping in Lee County, about President Bush's televised appeal to America's schoolchildren yesterday. "The man's not doing anything!" one caller howls.
Well, Rabbit thinks, doing nothing works for Bush, why not for him? On the car seat next to him Dr. Morris' prescriptions and medical slips and Xeroxed diet sheets lift and scatter114 in the breeze from the car air?conditioning. On another station he hears that the Phillies beat the Mets last night, two to one. Dickie Thon homered with one out in the ninth, dropping the pre?season pennant115 favorites five and a half games behind the once?lowly Chicago Cubs116. Harry tries to care but has trouble. Ever since Schmidt retired117. Get interested is the advice, but in truth you are interested in less and less. It's Nature's way.
But he does begin to walk. He even drives to the Palmetto Palm Mall and buys a pair of walking Nikes, with a bubble of special hi?tech air to cushion each heel. He sets out between nine and ten in the morning, after eating breakfast and digesting the News?Press, and then again between four and five, returning to a nap and then dinner and then television and a page or two of his book and a sound sleep, thanks to the walking. He explores Deleon. First, he walks the curving streets of low stucco houses within a mile of Valhalla Village, with unfenced front yards of tallish tough grass half?hiding bits of dried palm frond118, a Florida texture119 in that, a cozy120 sere121 Florida scent15. Encountering a UPS man delivering or a barking small dog ? a flat?faced Pekinese with its silky long hair done up in ribbons ? is like finding life on Mars. Then, growing ever fonder of his Nikes (that bubble in the heel, he thought at first it was just a gimmick122 but maybe it does add bounce), he makes his way to the downtown and the river, where the town first began, as a fort in the Seminole wars and a shipping123 point for cattle and cotton.
He discovers, some blocks back from the beachfront and the green glass hotels, old neighborhoods where shadowy big spicy125 gentle trees, live oaks and gums and an occasional banyan126 widening out on its crutches, overhang wooden houses once painted white but flaking127 down to gray bareness, with louvered windows and roofs of corrugated128 tin. Music rises from within these houses, scratchy radio music, and voices raised in argument or jabbery jubilation129, bright fragments of overheard life. The sidewalks are unpaved, small paths such as cats make have been worn diagonally between the trees, in and out of private property, the parched130 grass growing in patches, packed dirt littered with pods and nuts. It reminds Harry of those neighborhoods he blundered into trying to get out of Savannah, but also of the town of his childhood, Mt. Judge in the days of Depression and distant war, when people still sat on their front porches, and there were vacant lots and oddshaped cornfields, and men back from work in the factories would water their lawns in the evenings, and people not long off the farm kept chickens in back?yard pens, and peddled132 the eggs for odd pennies. Chickens clucking and pecking and suddenly squawking: he hasn't heard that sound for forty years, and hasn't until now realized what he's been missing. For chicken coops tucked here and there dot this sleepy neighborhood he has discovered.
In the daytime here, under the heavy late?summer sun, there are few people moving, just women getting in and out of cars with pre?school children. The slams of their car doors carry a long way down the dusty straight streets, under the live oaks. At some corners there are grocery stores that also sell beer and wine in the permissive Southern way, and pastel?painted bars with the door open on a dark interior, and video rental133 places with horror and kung?fu tapes displayed in the window, the boxes' colors being bleached134 by the sun. One day he passes an old?fashioned variety store, in a clapboarded one?story building, displaying all sorts of innocent things ? erector sets, model airplane kits135, Chinese?checker boards and marbles ? that he hadn't known were still being sold. He almost goes in but doesn't dare. He is too white.
Toward late afternoon, when he takes his second walk of the day, the neighborhood begins to breathe, a quickness takes hold, men and boys return to it, and Rabbit walks more briskly, proclaiming with his stride that he is out for the exercise, just passing through, not spying. These blocks are black, and there are miles of them, a vast stagnant136 economic marsh137 left over from Deleon's Southern past, supplying the hotels and condos with labor, with waiters and security guards and chambermaids. To Harry, whose Deleon has been a glitzy community of elderly refugees, these blocks feel like a vast secret, and as the shadows lengthen138 under the trees, and the chickens cease their day?long clucking, his senses widen to grasp the secret better, as when in whispering knickers he would move through Mt. Judge unseen, no taller than a privet hedge, trying to grasp the unspeakable adult meaning of the lit windows, of the kitchen noises filtering across the yards mysterious and damp as jungles. An unseen child would cry, a dog would bark, and he would tingle139 with the excitement of simply being himself, at this point of time and space, with worlds to know and forever to live, Harold C. Angstrom, called Hassy in those lost days never to be relived. He prolongs his walks, feeling stronger, more comfortable in this strange city where he is at last beginning to exist as more than a visitor; but as darkness approaches, and the music from the glowing slatted windows intensifies140, he begins to feel conspicuous141, his whiteness begins to glimmer142, and he heads back to the car, which he has taken to parking in a lot or at a meter downtown, as base for his widening explorations.
Coming back one day around six?thirty, just in time for a shower and a look at the news while his TV dinner heats in the oven, he is startled by the telephone's ringing. He has ceased to listen for it as intensely as in that first lonely week. When it does ring, it has been one of those recordings143 ("Hello there, this is Sandra") selling health insurance or a no?frills burial plan or reduced?fee investment services, going through all the numbers by computer, you wonder how it pays, Harry always hangs up and can't imagine who would listen and sign up for this stuff. But this time the caller is Nelson, his son.
"Dad?"
"Yes," he says, gathering144 up his disused voice, trying to imagine what you can say to a son whose wife you've boffed. "Nellie," he says, "how the hell is everybody?"
The distant voice is gingerly, shy, also not sure what is appropriate. "We're fine, pretty much."
"You're staying clean?" He didn't mean to take the offensive so sharply; the other voice, fragile in its distance, is stunned into silence for a moment.
"You mean the drugs. Sure. I don't even think about coke, except at NA meetings. Like they say, you give your life over to a higher power. You ought to try it, Dad."
"I'm working on it. Listen, no kidding, I am. I'm proud ofyou, Nelson. Keep taking it a day at a time, that's all anybody can do."
Again, the boy seems momentarily stuck. Maybe this came over as too preachy. Who is he to preach? Shit, he was just trying to share, like you're supposed to. Harry holds his tongue.
"There's been so much going on around here," Nelson tells him, "I really haven't thought about myself that much. A lot of my problem, I think, was idleness. Hanging around the lot all day waiting for some action, for the customers to show up, really preys145 on your selfconfidence. I mean, you have no control. It was degrading."
"I did it, for fifteen years I did it, every day."
"Yeah, but you have a different sort of temperament146. You're more happy?go?lucky."
"Stupid, you mean."
"Hey Dad, I didn't call up to quarrel. This isn't exactly fun for me, I've been putting it off. But I got some things to say."
"O.K., say 'em." This isn't working out. He doesn't want to be this way, he is putting his anger at Janice onto the kid. Her silence has hurt him. He can't stop, adding, "You've sure taken your time saying anything, I've been down here all by myself for two weeks. I saw old Dr. Morris and he thinks I'm so far gone I should stop eating."
"Well," Nelson says back, "if you were so crazy to talk you could have come over that night instead of getting in the car and disappearing. We weren't going to kill you, we just wanted to talk it through, to understand what had happened, really, in terns of family dynamics147. Pru's as good as admitted it was a way of getting in touch with her own father."
"With Blubberlips Lubell? Tell her thanks a lot." But he is not displeased148 to hear Nelson taking a firmer tone with him. You're not a man in this world until you've got on top of your father. In his own case, it was easier, the system had beaten Pop so far down already. "Coming over there that night felt like a set?up," he explains to Nelson.
"Well, Mom didn't think any of us should try to get in touch if that's the kind of cowardly trick you were going to pull. She wasn't too happy you telephoned Pru instead of her, either."
"I kept trying our number but she's never home."
"Well, whatever. She wanted me to let you know a couple things. One, she has an offer on the house, not as much as she'd hoped for, one eighty?five, but the market's pretty flat right now and she thinks we should take it. It would reduce the debt to Brewer Trust to the point where we could manage it."
"Let me get this straight. This is the Penn Park house you're talking about? The little gray stone house I've always loved?"
"What other house could you think? We can't tell the Mt. Judge house ?where would we all live?"
"Tell me, Nelson,. I'm just curious. How does it feel to have smoked up your parents' house in crack?"
The boy begins to sound more like himself. He whines149, "I keep telling you, I was never that much into crack. The crack just came into it toward the end, it was so much more convenient than freebasing. I'm sorry, Jesus. I went to rehab, I took the vows150, I'm trying to make amends151 like they say. Who are you to still be on my case?"
Who indeed? "O.K.," Rabbit says. "Sorry to mention it. What else did your mother tell you to tell me?"
"Hyundai is interested in the lot, the location is just what they want and don't have. They'd enlarge the building out toward the back like I always wanted to do." Goodbye, Paraguay, Rabbit thinks. "They'd keep the service people on, with a little retraining, and some of the sales force, Elvira might go over to Rudy's on 422. Hyundai's made her a counteroffer. But they don't want me. No way. Word gets around, I guess, among these Oriental companies."
"I guess," Harry says. Too much ninjó not enough giri. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, Dad. It frees me up. I'm thinking of becoming a social worker."
"A social worker!"
"Sure, why not? Help other people instead of myself for a change. It's a two?year course at the Penn State extension, I could still get in for this October."
"Sure, why not, come to think of it," Rabbit agrees. He is beginning to dislike himself, for being so agreeable, for wanting to worm back into everybody's good graces.
"Me and the lawyers all think if it goes through we should lease to Hyundai rather than sell; if we sell the house in Penn Park we wouldn't need any more capital and should keep the lot as an investment, Mom says it's going to be worth millions by the year 2000."
"Wow," Harry says unenthusiastically. "You and your mom are quite a team. Anything else to hit me with?"
"Well, this maybe isn't any of your business, but Pru thought it was. We're trying to get pregnant."
"We?"
"We want to have a third child. All this has made us realize how much we've been neglecting our marriage and how much really we have invested in making it work. Not only for Judy and Roy, but for ourselves. We love each other, Dad."
Maybe this is supposed to make him feel jealous, and there is a pang152, just under the right ventricle. But Rabbit's basic emotion is relief, at being excused from having to keep any kind of candle burning at Pru's shrine153. Good luck to her, her and her sweet slum hunger. "Great," he tells the boy. He can't resist adding, "Though I'm not so sure social workers make enough to support three kids." And, getting mad, feeling squeezed, he goes on, "And tell your mother I'm not so sure I want to sign our house away. It's not like the lot, we're co?owners, and she needs my signature on the sales agreement. Ifwe split up, my signature ought to be worth quite a bit, tell her."
"Split up?" The boy sounds frightened. "Who's saying anything about splitting up?"
"Well," Harry says, "we seem split up now. At least I don't see her down here, unless she's under the bed. But don't you worry about it, Nelson. You've been through this before and I felt lousy about it. You get on with your own life. It sounds like you're doing fine. I'm proud of you. Or did I say that?"
"But everything kind of depends on selling the Penn Park house."
"Tell her I'll think about it. Tell Judy and Roy I'll give 'em a call one of these days."
"But, Dad -"
"Nelson, I got this low?cal frozen dinner in the oven and the buzzer154 went off five minutes ago. Tell your mother to call me sometime if she wants to talk about it. Must run. Terrific to talk to you. Really." He hangs up.
He has been buying low?cal frozen meals, raw vegetables like cabbage and carrots, and no more sodium?laden155 munchies. He has lost three pounds on the bathroom scale, if he weighs himself naked and right in the morning after taking a crap. At night, to keep himself away from the TV and the breadbox in the kitchen drawer and the beer in the refrigerator, he gets into bed and reads the book Janice gave him for last Christmas. Its author has joined Roy Orbison and Bart Giamatti in that beyond where some celebrities156 like Elvis and Marilyn expand like balloons and become gods but where most shrivel and shrink into yellowing obituaries157 not much bigger than Harry's will be in the Brewer Standard. In the News?Press he doesn't expect to get an inch. He read in her obituary158 that the author had been a niece of Roosevelt's Secretary of the Treasury159 Henry Morgenthau, Jr. Harry remembers Morgenthau: the pointy?nosed guy who kept urging him and his schoolmates to buy war stamps with their pennies. It's a small world, and a long life in a way.
He has reached the exciting part of the book, where, after years of frustration160 and starvation and lousy support from his fellow would?be Americans, Washington has hopes of joining up with a French fleet sailing from the Caribbean to trap Cornwallis and his army at York in the Chesapeake Bay. It seems impossible that it will work. The logistics of it need perfect timing161, and the com-munications take weeks, ships to land and back. Anyway, what's in it for France? Instead of an aggressive ally, they were tied to a depen- dent35 client, unable to establish a strong government and requiring trans-fusions of men?at?arms and money to keep its war effort alive. The war, like all wars, was proving more expensive for the Bourbons than planned. What was in it for the soldiers? The American troops, for too long orphans162 of the battle, unkempt, underfed and unpaid163 while Congress rode in carriages and dined at well?laid tables, would not march without pay. What was in it for Washington? He couldn't even have known he'd get his face on the dollar bill. But he hangs in there, patch-ing, begging, scrambling, his only assets the fatheadedness of the British commanders, all gouty noblemen wishing they were home in their castles, and the fact that, just like in Vietnam, the natives weren't basically friendly. Washington gets his troops across the Hudson while Clinton cowers164 defensively in New York. DeGrasse gets his fleet heading north because Admiral Rodney cau-tiously chooses the defense165 of Barbados over pursuit. But, still, the odds131 of the troops and the ships arriving at the Chesapeake at the same time and Cornwallis remaining a sitting duck in Yorktown are preposterous166. All that transport, all those men trudging167 and horses galloping168 along the New World's sandy, woodsy roads, winding169 through forests, past lonely clearings, among bears and wolves and chipmunks170 and Indians and passenger pigeons, it makes Harry sleepy to think about. The tangle97 of it all, the trouble. He reads ten pages a night; his is a slow march.
He does not always gravitate in his health walks to the black section of Deleon; he discovers and explores posh streets he never dreamed were there, long roads parallel to the beach, giving the passerby171 glimpses of backs of houses that front on the ocean, wooden back stairs and sundecks, three?car garages at the end of driveways surfaced in crushed seashells, plantings of hibiscus and jacaranda, splashing sounds coming from a fenced?in swimming pool, the purr of air?conditioners lost amid the retreating and advancing shush of the surf. Posh, shoosh. Some people have it made; not for them a condo where they steal your view of the Gulf from the balcony. No matter how hard you climb, there are always the rich above you, who got there without effort. Lucky stiffs, holding you down, making you discontent so you buy more of the crap advertised on television.
Occasional breaks in the developed oceanfront property permit a look at the Gulf, its striped sails and scooting jet skis, its parachutes being pulled by powerboats, its far gray stationary172 freighters. Bicyclers in bathing suits pass him with a whirr; a beefy young mailman in blue?gray shorts and socks to match pushes along one of these pouches173 on rubber wheels they have now, like baby strollers. We're getting soft. A nation of couch potatoes. The man who brought the mail to Jackson Road, he forgets his name, an iron?haired man with a handsome unhappy face, Mom said his wife had left him, used to carry this scuffed175 leather pouch174, leaning to one side against its pull especially on Fridays when the maga-zines came to the houses, Life and the Post. Mr. Abendroth. That was his name. Left by his wife: Harry as a boy used to try to imag-ine what could have been so terribly wrong with him, to earn such a disgrace in life.
His Nikes with the bubbles of air in the heels take him along crushed?shell sidewalks, so white they hurt his eyes when the sun is high. And he walks through an area of marinas cut into coral shell, neat straight streets of water sliced out, full of powerboats tied up obedient and empty, their rub rails tapping the sliced coral, their curved sides seeming to tremble and twitch176 in the sunlight reflected in bobbling stripes off the calm water as it lightly kicks and laps. Tap. Lap. No Trespassing177 signs abound178, but not so much for him, a respectable?looking white man past middle age. Each boat ties up as much money as a house used to cost and a number of them no doubt are involved in cocaine179 smuggling180, put?putting out in the dead of the night when the moon is down, crime and the sea have always mixed, pirates ever since there have been ships, law ends with the land, man is nothing out there, a few bubbles as he goes down under the mindless waves: that must be why Harry has always been afraid of it, the water. He loves freedom but a grassy181 field is his idea of enough. People down here are crazy about boats but not him. Give him terra firma. Away from the water he walks miles of plain neighborhoods, glorified182 cabins put up after the war for people without much capital who yet wanted a piece of the sun Washington won for them or else were born here, this strange thin vacation?land their natural home, their houses shedding paint like a sunbather's clothes, surrounded not by barberry and yew184 bushes but spiky185 cactuses fattening186 in the baking heat, America too hot and dry really for European civilization to take deep root.
But it is the widespread black section that draws him back, he doesn't quite know why, whether because he is exerting his national right to go where he pleases or because this ignored part of Deleon is in some way familiar, he's been there before, before his life got too soft. On the Monday after a pretty good weekend for blacks ? a black Miss America got elected, and Randall Cunningham brought the Eagles back from being down to the Redskins twenty to nothing ? Rabbit ventures several blocks farther than he has dared walk before and comes upon, beyond an abandoned high school built about when Brewer High was, an ochre?brick edifice187 with tall gridded windows and a piece of Latin in cement over the main entrance, a recreation field ? a wide tan emptiness under the sun, with a baseball diamond and backstop at the far end, a pair of soccer goals set up in the outfield, and, nearer the street, two pitted clay tennis courts with wire nets slack and bent from repeated assaults and, also of pale tamped189 earth, a basketball court. A backboard and netless hoop190 lifted up on pipe legs preside at either end. A small pack of black boys are scrimmaging around one basket. Legs, shouts. Puffs191 of dust rise from their striving, stop?and?starting feet. Some benches have been placed in an unmowed strip of seedy blanched192 weeds next to the cement sidewalk. The benches are backless so you can sit facing the street or facing the field. Rabbit seats himself on the end of one, facing neither way, so he can watch the basketball while seeming to be doing something else, just resting a second on his way through, not looking at anything, minding his own business.
The kids, six of them, in shorts and tank tops, vary in heights and degrees of looseness, but all have that unhurried look he likes to see, missing shots or making them, passing back out and then crossing over in a screen, dribbling193 as if to drive in and then stopping dead to pass off in a droll194 behind?the?back toss, imitating the fancy stuff they see on television, all together making a weave, nobody trying too hard, it's a long life, a long afternoon. Their busy legs are up to their knees in a steady haze195 of pink dust lifting from the clay, their calves196 dulled but for where sweat makes dark rivulets197, their sneakers solidly coated a rosy198 earth color. There is a breeze here, stirred up by the empty space stretching to the baseball backstop. Rabbit's watch says four o'clock, school is over, but the brick high school has been abandoned, the real action is elsewhere, at some modern low glassy high school you take a bus to, out on the bulldozed edges of the city. Rabbit is happy to think that the world isn't yet too crowded to have a few of these underused pockets left. Grass, he observes, has crept onto the dirt court, in the middle, where the pounding, pivoting199 feet rarely come. Shallow semicircular troughs have been worn around the baskets at either end.
Though he is sitting some distance away ? a good firm chip shot, or a feathered wedge ? the players eye him. They're doing this for themselves, not as a show for some fat old honky walking around where he shouldn't be. Where's his car? Feeling heat from their sidelong glances, not wanting so delicate a relation to turn awkward, Harry sighs ostentatiously and heaves himself up from the bench and walks away the way he came, taking note of the street signs so he can find this peaceful place again. If he comes every day he'll blend in. Blacks don't have this racist200 thing whites do, about keeping their neighborhoods pure. They can't be too angry these days, with their third Miss America just elected. The funny thing about the final judges' panel, it held two celebrities he feels he knows, has taken into himself, loves, actually: Phylicia Rashad, who for his money is the real star of The Cosby Show, with those legs and that nice loose smile, and Mike Schmidt, who had the grace to pack it in when he could no longer produce. So there is life after death of a sort. Schmidt judges. Skeeter lives. And the weekend before last, a young black girl beat Chrissie Evert in the last U.S. Open match she'll ever play. She packed it in too. There comes a time.
Now the News?Press wears daily banner headlines tracking Hurricane Hugo ?Deadly Hugo roars into islands, Hugo rips into Puerto Rico. Tuesday, he walks in the expensive beachfront areas and scans the sky for hurricane signs, for clouds God's finger might write, and reads none. In the hall that evening, happening to be standing201 with him at the elevators, Mrs. Zabntski turns those veiny protuberant202 eyes up at him out of her skeletal face and pronounces, "Terrible thing."
"What is?"
"The thing coming," she says, her white hair looking already wind?tossed, lifted out from her skull203 in all directions.
"Oh, it'll never get here," Harry reassures204 her. "It's all this media hype. You know, hype, phony hullabaloo. They have to make news out of something, every night."
"Yeah?" Mrs. Zabritski says, coyly. The way her neck twists into her hunched205 shoulders gives her head a flirtatious206 tilt she may not mean. But then again she may. Didn't he hear on some TV show that even in the Nazi207 death camps there were romances? This windowless corridor, with its peach?and?silver wallpaper, is an eerie208 cryptlike space he is always anxious to get out of. The big vase on the marble half?moon table, with green glaze209 running into golden, could be holding someone's ashes. Still the elevator refuses to arrive. His female companion clears her throat and volunteers, "Wednesday buffet210 tomorrow. I like extra much the buffet."
"Me too," he tells her. "Except I can't choose and then I wind up taking too much and then eating it all." What is she suggesting, that they go together? That they have a date? He's stopped telling her that Janice is coming down.
"Do you do the kosher?"
"I don't know. Those scallops wrapped in bacon, are they kosher?"
She stares at him as if he were the crazy one, stares so hard her eyeballs seem in danger of snapping the bloody211 threads that hold them fast in their sockets. Then she must have decided212 he was joking, for a careful stiff smile slowly spreads across the lower half of her face, crisscrossed by wrinkles like a quilt sewn of tiny squares of skin. He thinks of that little sniffly slut in the Polish?American Club, her silken skin below the waist, below the sweater, and feels bitter toward Janice, for leaving him at his age at the mercy of women. He eats at his table alone but is so disturbed by Mrs. Zabritski's making a pass at him that he takes two Nitrostats to quell213 his heart.
After dinner, in bed, on September 1, 1781, the French troops make a dazzling impression upon the citizens of Philadelphia. Ecstatic applause greeted the dazzling spectacle of the French as they passed in review in their bright white uniforms and white plumes214. Wearing colored lapels and collars of pink, green, violet or blue identifying their regiments215, they were the most brilliantly appointed soldiers in Europe. Joseph Reed, the President of the State of Pennsylvania, entertained the French officers at a ceremonial dinner of which the main feature was an immense ninety pound turtle with soup served in its shell. Talk about cholesterol216. Didn't seem to bother them, but, then, how old did those poor devils get to be? Not fifty?six, most of them. The troops are scared to march south for fear of malaria217. Rochambeau has talked Washington out of attacking New York, and at this point seems to be the brains of the Revolution. He wants to rendezvous218 with De Grasse at the head of the Chesapeake. De Grasse has evaded219 Hood124 by sailing the back?alley220 route between the Bahamas and Cuba. It will never work.
Hugo headingfor U.S., the News?Press headline says next morning. For breakfast now, Harry has switched from Frosted Flakes221 to Nabisco Shredded222 Wheat 'n' Bran, though he forgets exactly why, something about fiber223 and the bowels225. He does hope he never reaches the point where he has to think all the time about shitting. Ma Springer, toward the end, got to talking about her bowel224 movements like they were family heirlooms, each one precious. On the evening news half the commercials are for laxatives and the other half for hemorrhoid medicine, as if only assholes watch the news. That walking corpse226 in the locker room. After breakfast Harry walks along Pindo Palm Boulevard and brings back a bag of groceries from Winn Dixie, passing up the Keystone Corn Chips and going heavy on the low?cal frozen dinners. The day's predicted showers come at noon but seem over by three and in a kind of trance Rabbit drives into downtown Deleon, parks at a two?hour meter, and walks the mile to the playing field he discovered Monday. Today two sets of boys are on the dirt court, each using one basket. One set is energetically playing a two?on?two, but the other consists of three boys at a desultory227 game of what he used to call Horse. You take a shot, and if it goes in the next guy has to make the same shot, and if he misses he's an H, or an H?O, and when he's a HORSE he's out. Rabbit takes the bench within a chip shot of this group and frankly228 watches ? after all, is it a free country or not?
The three are in their early teens at best, and don't know what to make of this sudden uninvited audience. One of these old ofays after some crack or a black boy's dick? Their languid motions stiffen229, they jostle shoulders and pass each other sliding silent messages that make one another giggle230. One of them perhaps deliberately231 lets a pass flip232 off his hands and bounce Harry's way. He leans off his bench end and stops it left?handed, not his best hand but it remembers. It remembers exactly. That taut pebbled233 roundness, the smooth seams between, the little circlet for taking the air valve. A big pebbled ball that wants to fly. He flips234 it back, a bit awkwardly, sitting, but still with a little zing to show he's handled one before. Somewhat satisfied, the trio resume Horse, trying skyhooks, under?the?basket layups, fall?back jumpers, crazy improvised235 underhanded or sidearm shots that now and then go in, by accident or miracle. One such wild toss rockets off the rim40 and comes Rabbit's way. This time he stands up with the ball and advances with it toward the boys. He feels himself big, a big shape with the sun behind him. His shadow falls across the face of the nearest boy, who wears an unravelling236 wool cap of many colors. Another boy has the number 8 on his tank top. "What's the game?" Harry asks them. "You call it Horse?"
"We call it Three," the wool cap answers reluctantly. "Three misses, you out." He reaches for the ball but Rabbit lifts it out of his reach.
"Lemme take a shot, could I?"
The boys' eyes consult, they figure this is the way to get the ball back. "Go 'head," Wool Cap says.
Harry is out on an angle to the left maybe twenty feet and as his knees dip and his right arm goes up he feels the heaviness of the years, all those blankets of time, since he did this last. A bank shot. He has the spot on the backboard in his sights, but the ball doesn't quite have the length and, instead of glancing off and in, jams between the wood and hoop and kicks back into the hands of Number 8.
"Hey man," the third one, the one who looks most Hispanic and most sullen237, taunts238 him, "you're history!"
"I'm rusty," Rabbit admits. "The air down here is different than I'm used to."
"You want to see somebody sink that shot?" Number 8, the tallest, asks him. He stands where Harry stood, and opens his mouth and lets his pink tongue dangle239 the way Michael Jordan does. He gently paws the air above his forehead so the ball flies from his long loose brown hand. But he misses also, hitting the rim on the right. This breaks some of the ice. Rabbit holds still, waiting to see what they will do with him.
The boy in the hat of concentric circles, a Black Muslim hat, Harry imagines, takes the rebound240 and now says, "Let me sink that mother," and indeed it does go in, though the boy kind of flings it and, unlike Number 8, will never be a Michael Jordan.
Now or never. Harry asks, "Hey, how about letting me play one game of, whaddeya call it, Three? One quick game and I'll go. I'm just out walking for exercise."
The sullen Hispanic?looking boy says to the others, "Why you lettin' this man butt109 in? This ain't for my blood," and goes off and sits on the bench. But the other two, figuring perhaps that one white man is the tip of the iceberg241 and the quickest way around trouble is through it, oblige the interloper and let him play. He goes a quick two misses down ? a floating double?pump Number 8 pulls off over the stretched hands of an imaginary crowd of defenders242, and a left?handed pop the wool hat establishes and Number 8 matches ? but then Rabbit finds a ghost of his old touch and begins to dominate. Take a breath of oxygen, keep your eye on the front of the rim, and it gets easy. The distance between your hands and the hoop gets smaller and smaller. You and it, ten feet off the ground, above it all. He even shows them a stunt243 he perfected in the gravel244 alleys245 of Mt. Judge, the two?handed backwards246 set, the basket sighted upside, the head bent way back.
Seen upside down, how blue and stony247?gray the cloudy sky appears ? an abyss, a swallowing, upheaving kind of earth! He sinks the backwards set shot and all three of them laugh. These kids never take two?handed set shots, it's not black style, and by doing nothing else from five steps out Rabbit might have cleaned up. But, since they were good sports to let him in, he lets himself get sloppysilly on a few one?handers, and Number 8 gains back control.
"Here you see a Kareem sky?hook," the boy says, and does sink a hook from about six feet out, on the right.
"When I was a kid," Rabbit tells them, "a guy called Bob Pettit, played for St. Louis, used to specialize in those." Almost on purpose, he misses. "That gives me three. I'm out. Thanks for the game, gentlemen."
They murmur248 wordlessly, like bees, at this farewell. To the boy sitting on the bench out of protest, he says, "All yours, amigo." Bending down to pick up the furled golf umbrella he brought along in case it rained again, Harry smiles to see that his walking Nikes are coated with a pink?tan dust just like these black boys' sneakers.
He walks back to his car at the meter feeling lightened, purged249 like those people on the Milk of Magnesia commercials who drift around in fuzzy focus in their bathrobes ecstatic at having become "regular." His bit of basketball has left him feeling cocky. He stops at a joy Food Store on the way back to Valhalla Village and buys a big bag of onion?flavored potato chips and a frozen lasagna to heat up in the oven instead of going down to the buffet and risking running into Mrs. Zabritski. He's beginning to think he owes her something, for keeping him company on the floor, for being another lonely refugee.
In the condo, the phone is silent. The evening news is all Hugo and looting in St. Croix and St. Thomas in the wake of the devastation250 and a catastrophic health?plan repeal251 in Washington that gets big play down here because of all the elderly and a report on that French airliner252 that disappeared on the way from Chad to Paris. The wreckage253 has been found, scattered254 over a large area of the Sahara desert. From the wide distribution of the debris255 it would appear to have been a bomb. Just like that plane over Lockerbie, Rabbit thinks. His cockiness ebbs256. Every plane had a bomb ticking away in its belly. We can explode any second.
The rooms and furniture of the condo in these days he's been living here alone have taken on the tension and menace of a living person who is choosing to remain motionless. At night he can feel the rooms breathe and think. They are thinking about him. The blank TV, the blond sofa, the birds made of small white shells, the taut bedspread in the room where Nelson and Pru stayed last New Year's, the aqua kitchen cabinets that seemed too intense once they were painted and still do, the phone that refuses to ring all have a certain power, the ability to outlast257 him. He is flesh, they are inanimate things. The well?sealed hollow space that greeted his arrival seventeen days ago now does brim with fear, with a nervous expectancy258 that the babble259 of the TV, the headlines in the paper, the ticking warmth of the oven and the minutes ticking down on the timer panel, even the soft scuffle and rustle260 of his body's own movements hold at bay for their duration; but when these small commotions261 are over the silence comes back, the presence of absence, the unanswerable question that surrounds his rustling262 upright stalk of warm blood. The lasagna is gluey and like napalm on the tongue but he eats it all, a portion for two, while flipping263 channels between Jennings and Brokaw looking for the best clips of hurricane damage and wind, wild wet wind screaming through rooms just like this one, knocking out entire glass sliding doors and skimming them around like pie plates. Everything flies loose, the world is crashing, nothing in life can be nailed down. Terrific.
He suddenly needs, as suddenly as the need to urinate comes upon a man taking diuretics, to talk to his grandchildren. He is a grandfather, they can't deny him that. He has to look up Nelson's number in the address book on the fake?bamboo desk, it was changed last winter, he's forgotten it already, your mind at Harry's age lets all sorts of things slip. He finds the book, kept in Janice's half?formed schoolgirl hand, in a variety of slants264. He dials, hav-ing to hang up once when he thinks he might have dialled an 8 for a 9. Pru answers. Her voice is casual, light, tough. He almost hangs up again.
"Hi," he says. "It's me."
"Harry, you really shouldn't be -"
"I'm not. I don't want to talk to you. I want to talk to my grandchildren. Isn't it about time for Roy's birthday?"
"Next month."
"Just think. He'll be four."
"He is four. He'll be five."
"Time for kindergarten," Harry says. "Incredible. I understand you and little Nellie are working on a third. Terrific."
"Well, we're just seeing what happens."
"No more condoms, huh? What about him and AIDS?"
"Harry, please. This is none of your business. But he was tested, if you must know, and is HIV?negative."
"Terrific. One more thing off my mind. The kid's straight, and the kid's clean. Pru, I think I'm going crazy down here. My dreams ? they're like cut?up comic strips."
He can picture her smiling wryly265 at this, her mouth tugging266 down on one side, her free hand pushing back from her forehead with two fingers stray strands267 of carrot?colored hair. Sexy; but what has it got her? A would?be social worker for a husband, liv-ing space in another woman's house, and a future of drudging and watching her looks fade away in the mirror. Her voice in his ear is like a periscope268 glimpse, blurred269 by salt spray, of the upper world. She is up there, he is down here.
Her tone is changing, sinking toward friendliness270. Once you've fucked them, their voices ever hold these warm grainy traces. "Harry, what are you doing down there for amusement?"
"Oh, I walk around a lot, getting to know the town. Nice old town, Deleon. Tell Janice if you ever see her that there's a rich Jewish widow giving me the eye."
"She's right here for dinner, actually. We're celebrating because she sold a house. Not your house, she can't sell that until you agree, but a house for the real?estate company, for Pearson and Schrack. She's showing houses for them weekends, till she gets her license271."
"That's fantastic! Put her on and I'll congratulate her."
Pru hesitates. "I'll have to ask her if she wants to talk to you."
His stomach feels hollow suddenly, scared. "You don't have to do that. I called to talk to the kids, honest."
"I'll put Judy on, she's right at my elbow, all excited about the hurricane. You take care of yourself, Harry."
"Sure. You know me. Careful."
"I know you," she says. "A crazy man." She sounded Dutch, the cozy settled way she said that. She's assimilating. One more middle?aged Brewer broad.
There is a clatter272 and whispering and now Judy has the phone and cries, "Oh Grandpa, we're all so worried about you and the hurricane!"
He says, "Who's all so worried? Not my Judy. Not after she brought me in on that crippled Sunfish. The TV says Hugo is going to hit the Carolinas. That's six hundred miles away. It was sunny here today, mostly. I played a little basketball with some kids not much older than you."
"It rained here. All day."
"And you're having Grandma to dinner tonight," he tells her.
Judy says, "She says she doesn't want to talk to you. What did you do to make her so mad?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe I channel?surfed too much. Hey, Judy, know what? On the way down I drove right by Disney World, and I promised myself that the next time you're here we'll all go."
"You don't have to. A lot of the kids at school have been, and they say it gets boring."
"How's school going?"
"I like the teachers and all but I can't stand the other kids. They're all assholes."
"Don't say that. Such language. What's the matter, do they ignore you?"
"I wish they would. They tease me about my freckles273. They call me Carrottop." Her little voice breaks.
"Well, then. They like you. They think you're terrific. Just don't wear too much lipstick274 until you're fifteen. Remember what I told you last time we talked?"
"You said don't force it."
"Right. Don't force it. Let nature do its work. Do what your mommy and daddy tell you. They love you very much."
She wearily sighs, "I know."
"You're the light of their lives. You ever hear that expression before, `the light of their lives'?"
"No."
"Well then, you've learned something. Now go do your thing, honey. Could you put Roy on?"
"He's too dumb to talk."
"No he's not. Put him on. Tell him his grandpa wants to give him some words of wisdom."
The phone clatters275 down and in the background there is a kind of shredded wheat of family noises ? he thinks he even hears Janice's voice, sounding decisive the way Ma Springer's used to. Footsteps approach through the living room he knows so well ? the Barcalounger, the picture windows with the drawn276 curtains, the piecrust?edged knickknack table, though the green glass egg, with the teardrop of emptiness inside, that used to sit on it is now on the shelves here, a few feet from his eyes. Pru's voice says, "Janice says she doesn't want to talk to you, Harry, but here's Roy."
"Hi, Roy," Harry says.
Silence. God on the line again.
"How's it going up there? I hear it rained all day."
More silence.
"Are you being a good boy?"
Silence, but with a touch of breathing in it.
"You know," Harry says, "it may not feel like much to you right now, but these are important years."
"Hi, Grandpa," the child's voice at last pronounces.
"Hi," Harry has to respond, though it puts him back to the beginning. "I miss you down here," he says.
Silence.
"A little birdie comes to the balcony every morning and asks, `Where's Roy? Where's Roy?"'
Silence, which is what this lie deserves. But then the child comes out with the other thing he's perhaps been coached to say: "I love you, Grandpa."
"Well, I love you, Roy. Happy Birthday, by the way, for next month. Five years old! Think of it."
"Happy Birthday," the child's voice repeats, in that oddly deep, manlike way it sometimes has.
Harry finds himself waiting for more but then realizes there is no more. "O.K.," he says, "I guess that does it, Roy. I've loved talking with you. Give everybody my love. Hang up now. You can hang up."
Silence, and then a clumsy soft clatter, and the buzz of a dead line. Strange, Rabbit thinks, hanging up his own receiver, that he had to make the child do it first. Chicken in a suicide pact277.
Alone, he is terrified by the prospect278 of an entire evening in these rooms. It is seven?thirty, plenty of time to still make the buffet, though his mouth feels tender from all that hot lasagna and the bagful of onion potato chips, full of sharp edges and salt. He will just go down and pick a few low?cal items off the buffet table. Talking to his family has exhilarated him; he feels them all safely behind him. Without showering, he puts on a shirt, coat, and tie. Mrs. Zabritski isn't at the elevator. In the half?empty Mead279 Hall, under the berserk gaze of the Viking warriors280 in the big ceramic281 mural, he helps himself generously to, among other items, the scallops wrapped in bacon. The mix of textures282, of crisp curved bacon and rubbery yielding scallops, in his sensitive mouth feels so delicious his appetite becomes bottomless. He goes back for more, and more creamed asparagus and potato pancakes, then suddenly is so full his heart feels squeezed. He takes a Nitrostat and skips dessert and coffee, even decal Carefully he treads back across the alien texture of that Florida grass and the carpeted traffic island beneath the warm dome283 of stars, really a deep basin we are looking down into, he saw that this afternoon when he did the upside?down set shot, we are stuck fast to the Earth like flies on a ceiling. He feels stuffed and dizzy. The air is thick, the Milky284 Way just barely shows, like the faint line of fair hair up the middle of some women's bellies285.
He gets back into the condo in time for the last fifteen minutes of Grouting Pains, the only show on TV where every member of the family is repulsive286, if you count Roseanne's good?old?boy husband as not repulsive. Then he flips back and forth287 between Unsolved Mysteries on Channel 20 and an old Abbott and Costello on 36 that must have been funnier when it came out, the same year he graduated from high school. Costello's yips seem mechanical and aggravating288, and Abbott looks old, and cruel when he slaps his fat buddy289. People yelled and snapped at one another like animals then. Maybe the Sixties did some good after all. Among the commercials that keep interrupting is that Nissan Infiniti one of crickets and lily ponds, no car at all, just pure snob290 Nature. The Lexus commercials he's seen are almost as vague ? an idyllic291 road shiny with rain. They're both skirting the issue: can the Japanese establish a luxury image? Or will people with thirty?five thousand to burn prefer to buy European? Thank God, Harry no longer has to care. Jake down toward Pottstown has to care, but not Harry.
He brushes his teeth, taking care to floss and rinse292 with Peridex. Without Janice here he is becoming staid in his habits, another old?fogey bachelor fussing with his plumbing293 and nostril87 hairs. Nostril hairs: he never wants to look like Dr. Morris. His double dinner burns in his stomach but when he sits on the toilet noth-ing comes out. Phillips' Milk of Magnesia, he should get some. Another of their commercials has a black man talking about MOM and that was unfortunate, his color made the shit too real. In bed, on the march to Yorktown, the allied294 armies come upon British atrocities295 around Williamsburg. De Grasse's Swedish aide Karl Gustaf Tomquist, a latter?day Viking, noted296 in his journal, On a beautiful estate a pregnant woman was found murdered in her bed through several bayonet stabs; the barbarians297 had opened both of her breasts and written above the bed canopy298: "Thou shalt nevergive birth to a rebel. " In another room, was just as horrible a sight ?five cut?off heads arranged on a cupboard in place of plaster?cast?figures which lay broken to pieces on the floor. Dumb animals were no less spared. The pastures were in many places covered with dead horses, oxen, and cows. Harry tries to fall asleep through a screen of agitation299 bred by these images. He has always thought of the Revolution as a kind of gentlemen's war, without any of that Vietnam stuff. He begins to have those slippery half?visions, waking dreams that only upon reflection make no sense. He sees a woman's round stomach, with smooth seams and a shining central fuzz, split open and yield yards and yards of red string, like the inside of a baseball. Then he is lying beside a body, a small man dressed all in black, a body limp and without muscle, a ventriloquist's dummy300, wearing sunglasses. He awakes in the dark, too early for the sound of lawnmowers, for the cheep of the dull brown bird in the Norfolk pine, for the chatter301 of the young businessmen's dawn foursomes. He makes his way to the bathroom amid motionless glossy302 shapes and slants of dim light ? the blue oven?timer numerals, the yellowish guard lights on the golfcourse fence. He urinates sitting down, like a woman, and returns to bed. Always he sleeps on his old side of the bed, as if Janice is still on her side. He dreams now of the portal with the round top, but this time it pushes open easily, on noiseless unresistant hinges, upon a bustling303 brightness within. It is somehow Ma Spnnger's downstairs, only you step down into it, a kind of basement, brighter than her house ever was, with a many?colored carnival304 gaudiness305, like something in Latin America, like the cruise?ship commercial they keep playing in the middle of the news, and full of welcoming people he hardly knows, or can barely remember: Mrs. Zabritski as a slender young girl, though still with that inviting306 inquisitive307 crick in her neck, and wearing a racily short fringed skirt like they wore in the Sixties, and Marty Tothero carrying a mailman's pouch that matches his lopsided face, and Mom and Pop in their prime, looking tall and rangy in their Sunday best, bringing a baby girl home from the hospital wrapped in a pink blanket, just its tiny tipped?up nose and a single tiny closedeyelid eye showing, and a tall soberly staring dark?eyed man with lacquered black hair like an old ad for Kreml, who gives him a manly308 handshake, while Janice at his side whispers to him that this of course is Roy, Roy all grown up, and as tall as he. Awaking, Rabbit can still feel the pressure on his hand, and a smile of greeting dying on his face.
Hugo aims at SE coast. USAir jet crashes in N. Y. river. Bomb probably caused crash of French DC?10. Lee slows boaters in manatee309 territory. Harry feeds himself oat bran and digests the News?Press. Chaos310 reigned311 on St. Croix, as police and National Guardsmen joined machetearmed mobs on a post?Hugo looting spree. Tourists pleaded with reporters landing on the island to get them off: What fucking crybabies. It occurs to him that his dream might relate to all this Caribbean news, the pre?weekend party they have at resort hotels, to welcome the new arrivals and jolly everybody into a melting pot. He steps out onto his narrow balcony to seize the day. The paper said today would be sunny despite Hugo and so it is. The distant blue?green skyscrapers312 hurl313 back blobs of light from the morning sun at his back. The Gulf cannot be seen but he can smell it out there. He tries to remember who all was at the party but can't; dream people don't stick to the ribs. The plane in New York skidded314 off the end of the runway and two people were killed. Just two. One hundred seventy?one died in the Sahara. A caller in London gave all the credit to Allah. Harry doesn't mind that one as much as the Lockerbie Pan Am bomb. Like everything else on the news, you get bored, disasters get to seem a gimmick, like all those TV timeouts in football.
While other, younger men shout and kid on the golf course behind the curtained sliding doors, Harry makes the bed and sweeps the kitchen floor, and adds his orange juice glass and cereal bowl to the orderly array in the dishwasher waiting to add up to a load's worth. Not quite there yet. When Janice shows up at last he wants the state of the place to give her an object lesson in housekeeping.
At ten, he goes out for his morning walk. He looks at the northeast sky, toward the hurricane that is snubbing Florida, and is struck by the clouds, how intricate they are, tattered315, gray on white on blue, with tilted316 sheets of fishscales and rows of long clouds shaggy underneath but rounded on top as if by action of swiftly running water, like the rhythmic317 ribs of sand the tide leaves. A glassy wind blows through the sunlight. There is something in the air that makes it slightly difficult to breathe. Lack of ozone318? Or too much ozone? It may be his imagination, but the sky seems clean of airplanes. Usually you can see them layered in their slow circling slants, coming in to land at the Southwest Florida Regional Airport. The planes have been chased from the sky. Under the sun a kind of highway of haze in bars recedes319 to the northeast horizon like the reflections the moon stacks up in a calm ocean.
On an impulse he decides to take the Celica and drive downtown and park at a meter near the First Federal Bank and walk toward the black section. This afternoon, he thinks, he might feel like trying to get in some holes of golf. The pro shop called up a few days ago and said they found his shoes.
At the recreation field beyond the empty ochre high school, a lone28 tall boy in denim320 cutoffs is shooting baskets by himself. His tank top is an electric turquoise321 stencilled322 with a snarling324 tiger head ? orange?and?white?striped fur, yellow eyes, the tongue and end of the nose an unreal violet. On this boy, though, the outfit325 has a certain propriety326, the dignity of a chosen uniform. Older than the kids yesterday, eighteen at least, he is a deliberate performer, making good serious economical moves, dribbling in, studying the ground, staring at the hoop, sizing up the shot with two hands on the ball, letting go with the left hand underneath only at the last while shooting. He wears ankle?high black sneakers and no socks; his haircut is one of those muffin?shapes on the top of the skull, with a series of X's along the sides and back where the shaved part begins. Sitting on the bench, the opposite end from a small red knapsack the boy has evidently left there, Rabbit watches him a good while, while the sun shines and the glassy wind blows and passing clouds dip the dirt field and the surrounding frame houses in shadow. The houses have the colors of sun?faded wash and seem remote and silent. You don't see people going in and out.
To vary his attitude Harry sometimes tips his white face back as if to sunbathe183, coating his vision in red, letting photons burn through his translucent327 eyelids328. One time when he opens his eyes the boy is standing close, darker than a cloud. There is something matte about his blackness, and his high cheekbones and the thinness of his lips hint at Indian blood.
"You want sumpin'?" His voice is light, level, unsmiling. It seems to come out of the tiger's snarling violet mouth.
"No, nothing," Rabbit says. "My sitting here bother you?"
"You after no Scotty?" With the hand not holding the basketball against his hip4 he makes the smallest, most delicate little motion of cracking a whip. Rabbit darts329 his eyes at the knapsack and brings them back to the tiger's mouth.
"No, thanks," he says. "Never touch it. How about a little one?on?one, though? Since you seem to be out here alone."
"I heard some cheesecake come here yesterday was foolin' around."
`Just foolin', that's what I do. I'm retired."
"How come you come out here to do your foolin'? Lot of foolin'?around places over there in your end of Deleon." He pronounces it the local way, Dealya?in.
"It's pretty boring over there," Harry tells him. "I like it here, where there isn't so much glitz. D'ya mind?"
The boy, taken a bit off balance, thinks for an answer, and Rabbit's hands dart330 out and rest on the basketball, a more worn one than the boys yesterday had, and not leather?colored but scuffed red, white, and blue. Its rough?smooth surface feels warm. "Come on," he begs, growling331 the "on." "Gimme the ball."
Tiger's expression doesn't change, but the ball comes loose. With it, Harry strides onto the packed dirt. He feels precariously332 tall, as when this summer he stepped out alone onto the macadam street. He put on Bermuda shorts this morning, in case he got to play. Dust and reflected sun caress333 his bare calves, his chalky old man's calves that never had much hair and now have almost none ? actually none, where socks have rubbed for over fifty years.
He goes for a jumper from pretty far out and it lucks in. He and Tiger take shots alternately, careful not to touch and bouncing their passes to each other. "You played once," the tall boy says.
"Long time ago. High school. Never got to college. Different style then than you guys have now. But if you feel like practicing your moves one?on?one, I'm game. Play to twenty?one. Honor system ? call fouls334 on yourself."
There seems a leaden sadness in Tiger's stare, but he nods, and takes the ball bounced to him. He walks with a cocky slump336 shoulders down, butt out ?out to the half?court line scratched in the dirt with the heels of sneakers. From the back, the kid is all bones and tendons, polished by sweat but not too much, the sloped shoulders matte beneath the turquoise straps337.
"Wait," Harry says. "I better take a pill first. Don't mind me."
The Nitrostat burns under his tongue, and by the time Tiger has come in and has his layup blocked, and Rabbit has dribbled338 out and missed a twenty?footer, the pill's little kick has reached his other end. He feels loose and deeply free at first. Tiger has some good herky-jerky moves, and can get a step on the heavier older man whenever he wants, but he wastes a lot of shots. The stopand?pop style doesn't give you quite the time to get in harmony with the target, and there isn't enough height to Tiger's arc. The ball comes off his hands flat and turns the hoop's circle into a slot. And he is giving Harry an inch or two in height; Rabbit lifts a few close?in jumpers over the boy's fingertips ? soft, high, in, just like that, air balls only right through the netless hoop, a scabby orange circle bent awry340 by too many show offs practicing slam?dunks and hanging on imitating Darryl Dawkins ? and Tiger begins to press tighter, inviting a turn around the corner and a break for the basket if Harry can find the surge. Tiger's elbows and sharp knees rattle341 off his body and he has to laugh at the old sensation, the jostle and press. He is aware of his belly being slung342 up and down by the action and of a watery343 weariness entering into his knees, but adrenaline and nostalgia344 overrule. Tiger begins to exploit his opponent's slowness more cruelly, more knifingly, slipping and slashing345 by, and Rabbit kicks himself up a notch346, feeling his breath come harder, through a narrower passage. Still, the sun feels good, springing sweat from his pores like calling so many seeds into life. The nature of this exertion347 is to mix him with earth and sky: earth, the packed pink?tan glaring dust printed over and over with the fanned bars of his Nikes and the cagelike grid188 of Tiger's black sneakers, stamped earth in the rim of his vision as he dribbles348; and sky, wide white sky when he looks up to follow his shot or the other's. The clouds have gathered in an agitated349 silvery arena350 around the blinding sun, a blue bullring. Rabbit accidentally in one twist of upward effort stares straight into the sun and can't for a minute brush away its blinking red moon of an afterimage. His chest feels full, his head dizzy; his pulse rustles351 in his ears, the soaked space between his shoulder blades holds a jagged pain. Tiger retrieves352 his own rebound and holds the ball against his hip in his graceful353 way and gives Harry a deliberate stare. His skin is like a grinding stone of fine black grits354. His ears are small and flat to his head and his hair above the row of X's is kinked as tight as nature can make it; sun glints from every circular particle.
"Hey man, you all right?"
"I'm. Fine."
"You puffin' pretty bad."
"You wait. Till you're my age."
"How about coolin' it? No big deal."
This is gracious, Rabbit sees, through the sweat in his eyebrows and the pounding of his blood. He feels as if his tree of veins and arteries355 is covered with big pink blossoms. No big deal. No big deal you're too out of shape for this. No big deal you aren't good even for a little one?on?one. His sweat is starting to cake on his legs, with the dust. He's afraid he's going to lose the rhythm, the dance, the whatever it is, the momentum356, the grace. He asks, "Aren't you. Having fun?" He is enjoying scaring Tiger with his big red face, his heaving cheesecake bulk, his berserk icy blue eyes.
Tiger says, "Sure, man. Medium fun." At last he smiles. Wonderful even teeth, in lavender gums. Even the ghetto357 kids get orthodontia now.
"Let's keep our bargain. Play to twenty?one. Like we said. Eighteen up, right?"
"Right." Neither player has called a foul335.
"Go. Your ball, Tiger." The pain in Harry's back is spreading, like clumsy wings. The young black man whips around him for a quick under?the?basket layup. Harry takes the ball out and stops short a step inside the half?court line and, unguarded, lets fly an old?fashioned two?handed set shot. He knows as it leaves his hands it will drop; a groove358 in the shape of the day guides it down.
"Man," Tiger says admiringly, "that is pure horseshit," and he tries to imitate it with a long one?hander that rockets straight back off the rim, its arc is too low. Rabbit grabs the rebound but then can't move with it, his body weighs a ton, his feet have lost their connection to his head. Tiger knifes in between him and the basket, leans right in his face with a violet snarl323, then eases back a little, so Rabbit feels a gap, a moment's slackness in the other in which to turn the corner; he takes one slam of a dribble339, carrying his foe359 on his side like a bumping sack of coal, and leaps up for the peeper. The hoop fills his circle of vision, it descends360 to kiss his lips, he can't miss.
Up he goes, way up toward the torn clouds. His torso is ripped by a terrific pain, elbow to elbow. He bursts from within; he feels something immense persistently361 fumble362 at him, and falls unconscions to the dirt. Tiger catches the ball on its fall through the basket and feels a body bump against him as if in purposeful foul. Then he sees the big old white man, looking choked and kind of sleepy in the face, collapse363 soundlessly, like a rag doll being dropped. Tiger stands amazed above the fallen body ? the plaid Bermuda shorts, the brand?new walking Nikes, the blue golf shirt with a logo of intertwined V's. Adhesive364 dust of fine clay clings to one cheek of the unconscious flushed face like a shadow, like half of a clown's mask of paint. Shocked numb32, the boy repeats, "Pure horseshit."
The impulse to run ripples365 through him, draining his head of practical thoughts. He doesn't want to get mixed up with nobody. From the end of the bench he retrieves the knapsack, the kind very small Boy Scouts366 might use on a one?night camping trip, and, holding it and the basketball close to his chest, walks deliberately away. In the middle of the block, he begins to run, under the high excited sky. An airplane goes over, lowering on a slow diagonal.
Seen from above, his limbs splayed and bent, Harry is as alone on the court as the sun in the sky, in its arena of clouds. Time passes. Then the social net twitches367; someone who in the houses bordering the lonely recreation field has been watching through a curtained window calls 911. Minutes later, several of the elderly poor battened down against danger in their partitioned little rooms, with only television for a friend, mistake the approaching sirens for a hurricane alert, and believe that the storm has veered368 back from South Carolina toward them.
点击收听单词发音
1 harry | |
vt.掠夺,蹂躏,使苦恼 | |
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2 ass | |
n.驴;傻瓜,蠢笨的人 | |
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3 squint | |
v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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4 hip | |
n.臀部,髋;屋脊 | |
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5 mid | |
adj.中央的,中间的 | |
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6 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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7 pro | |
n.赞成,赞成的意见,赞成者 | |
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8 bracing | |
adj.令人振奋的 | |
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9 taut | |
adj.拉紧的,绷紧的,紧张的 | |
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10 veiny | |
adj.纹理状的 | |
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11 sockets | |
n.套接字,使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 );孔( socket的名词复数 );(电器上的)插口;托座;凹穴 | |
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12 curb | |
n.场外证券市场,场外交易;vt.制止,抑制 | |
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13 dwarfish | |
a.像侏儒的,矮小的 | |
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14 warped | |
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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15 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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16 compliance | |
n.顺从;服从;附和;屈从 | |
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17 verity | |
n.真实性 | |
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18 brewer | |
n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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19 mattress | |
n.床垫,床褥 | |
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20 belly | |
n.肚子,腹部;(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分,膛 | |
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21 thighs | |
n.股,大腿( thigh的名词复数 );食用的鸡(等的)腿 | |
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22 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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23 pussy | |
n.(儿语)小猫,猫咪 | |
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24 lithe | |
adj.(指人、身体)柔软的,易弯的 | |
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25 survivor | |
n.生存者,残存者,幸存者 | |
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26 furrows | |
n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 );(脸上的)皱纹v.犁田,开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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27 magnetism | |
n.磁性,吸引力,磁学 | |
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28 lone | |
adj.孤寂的,单独的;唯一的 | |
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29 bogged | |
adj.陷于泥沼的v.(使)陷入泥沼, (使)陷入困境( bog的过去式和过去分词 );妨碍,阻碍 | |
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30 skit | |
n.滑稽短剧;一群 | |
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31 boredom | |
n.厌烦,厌倦,乏味,无聊 | |
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32 numb | |
adj.麻木的,失去感觉的;v.使麻木 | |
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33 impulsively | |
adv.冲动地 | |
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34 limestone | |
n.石灰石 | |
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35 dent | |
n.凹痕,凹坑;初步进展 | |
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36 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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37 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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38 cape | |
n.海角,岬;披肩,短披风 | |
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39 shrimp | |
n.虾,小虾;矮小的人 | |
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40 rim | |
n.(圆物的)边,轮缘;边界 | |
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41 killer | |
n.杀人者,杀人犯,杀手,屠杀者 | |
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42 falcons | |
n.猎鹰( falcon的名词复数 ) | |
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43 auxiliary | |
adj.辅助的,备用的 | |
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44 prim | |
adj.拘泥形式的,一本正经的;n.循规蹈矩,整洁;adv.循规蹈矩地,整洁地 | |
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45 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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46 cracker | |
n.(无甜味的)薄脆饼干 | |
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47 ransacking | |
v.彻底搜查( ransack的现在分词 );抢劫,掠夺 | |
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48 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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49 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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50 sluggish | |
adj.懒惰的,迟钝的,无精打采的 | |
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51 skittish | |
adj.易激动的,轻佻的 | |
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52 confides | |
v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的第三人称单数 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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53 gallop | |
v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔;飞速发展 | |
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54 rims | |
n.(圆形物体的)边( rim的名词复数 );缘;轮辋;轮圈 | |
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55 tingling | |
v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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56 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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57 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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58 tilt | |
v.(使)倾侧;(使)倾斜;n.倾侧;倾斜 | |
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59 contractions | |
n.收缩( contraction的名词复数 );缩减;缩略词;(分娩时)子宫收缩 | |
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60 ribs | |
n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 );(船或屋顶等的)肋拱;肋骨状的东西;(织物的)凸条花纹 | |
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61 bleats | |
v.(羊,小牛)叫( bleat的第三人称单数 );哭诉;发出羊叫似的声音;轻声诉说 | |
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62 vista | |
n.远景,深景,展望,回想 | |
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63 porcelain | |
n.瓷;adj.瓷的,瓷制的 | |
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64 makeup | |
n.组织;性格;化装品 | |
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65 greasy | |
adj. 多脂的,油脂的 | |
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66 rhinoceros | |
n.犀牛 | |
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67 garbled | |
adj.(指信息)混乱的,引起误解的v.对(事实)歪曲,对(文章等)断章取义,窜改( garble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68 sumptuous | |
adj.豪华的,奢侈的,华丽的 | |
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69 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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70 waxy | |
adj.苍白的;光滑的 | |
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71 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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72 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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73 insistent | |
adj.迫切的,坚持的 | |
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74 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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75 gnaw | |
v.不断地啃、咬;使苦恼,折磨 | |
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76 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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77 traitor | |
n.叛徒,卖国贼 | |
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78 parasite | |
n.寄生虫;寄生菌;食客 | |
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79 scrambling | |
v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 );攀登;争夺;(军事飞机)紧急起飞 | |
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80 glut | |
n.存货过多,供过于求;v.狼吞虎咽 | |
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81 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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82 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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83 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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84 arthritic | |
adj.关节炎的 | |
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85 knuckles | |
n.(指人)指关节( knuckle的名词复数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝v.(指人)指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝 | |
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86 jaw | |
n.颚,颌,说教,流言蜚语;v.喋喋不休,教训 | |
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87 nostril | |
n.鼻孔 | |
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88 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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89 sleek | |
adj.光滑的,井然有序的;v.使光滑,梳拢 | |
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90 freckled | |
adj.雀斑;斑点;晒斑;(使)生雀斑v.雀斑,斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91 grunts | |
(猪等)作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 ); (指人)发出类似的哼声; 咕哝着说; 石鲈 | |
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92 moldy | |
adj.发霉的 | |
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93 rimless | |
adj.无边的 | |
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94 irises | |
n.虹( iris的名词复数 );虹膜;虹彩;鸢尾(花) | |
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95 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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96 tangled | |
adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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97 tangle | |
n.纠缠;缠结;混乱;v.(使)缠绕;变乱 | |
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98 blotches | |
n.(皮肤上的)红斑,疹块( blotch的名词复数 );大滴 [大片](墨水或颜色的)污渍 | |
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99 turrets | |
(六角)转台( turret的名词复数 ); (战舰和坦克等上的)转动炮塔; (摄影机等上的)镜头转台; (旧时攻城用的)塔车 | |
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100 sodium | |
n.(化)钠 | |
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101 intake | |
n.吸入,纳入;进气口,入口 | |
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102 prescription | |
n.处方,开药;指示,规定 | |
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103 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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104 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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105 deteriorating | |
恶化,变坏( deteriorate的现在分词 ) | |
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106 artery | |
n.干线,要道;动脉 | |
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107 crutches | |
n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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108 locker | |
n.更衣箱,储物柜,冷藏室,上锁的人 | |
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109 butt | |
n.笑柄;烟蒂;枪托;臀部;v.用头撞或顶 | |
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110 chasm | |
n.深坑,断层,裂口,大分岐,利害冲突 | |
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111 folder | |
n.纸夹,文件夹 | |
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112 prescriptions | |
药( prescription的名词复数 ); 处方; 开处方; 计划 | |
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113 tinted | |
adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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114 scatter | |
vt.撒,驱散,散开;散布/播;vi.分散,消散 | |
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115 pennant | |
n.三角旗;锦标旗 | |
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116 cubs | |
n.幼小的兽,不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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117 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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118 frond | |
n.棕榈类植物的叶子 | |
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119 texture | |
n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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120 cozy | |
adj.亲如手足的,密切的,暖和舒服的 | |
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121 sere | |
adj.干枯的;n.演替系列 | |
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122 gimmick | |
n.(为引人注意而搞的)小革新,小发明 | |
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123 shipping | |
n.船运(发货,运输,乘船) | |
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124 hood | |
n.头巾,兜帽,覆盖;v.罩上,以头巾覆盖 | |
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125 spicy | |
adj.加香料的;辛辣的,有风味的 | |
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126 banyan | |
n.菩提树,榕树 | |
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127 flaking | |
刨成片,压成片; 盘网 | |
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128 corrugated | |
adj.波纹的;缩成皱纹的;波纹面的;波纹状的v.(使某物)起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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129 jubilation | |
n.欢庆,喜悦 | |
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130 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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131 odds | |
n.让步,机率,可能性,比率;胜败优劣之别 | |
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132 peddled | |
(沿街)叫卖( peddle的过去式和过去分词 ); 兜售; 宣传; 散播 | |
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133 rental | |
n.租赁,出租,出租业 | |
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134 bleached | |
漂白的,晒白的,颜色变浅的 | |
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135 kits | |
衣物和装备( kit的名词复数 ); 成套用品; 配套元件 | |
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136 stagnant | |
adj.不流动的,停滞的,不景气的 | |
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137 marsh | |
n.沼泽,湿地 | |
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138 lengthen | |
vt.使伸长,延长 | |
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139 tingle | |
vi.感到刺痛,感到激动;n.刺痛,激动 | |
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140 intensifies | |
n.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的名词复数 )v.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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141 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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142 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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143 recordings | |
n.记录( recording的名词复数 );录音;录像;唱片 | |
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144 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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145 preys | |
v.掠食( prey的第三人称单数 );掠食;折磨;(人)靠欺诈为生 | |
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146 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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147 dynamics | |
n.力学,动力学,动力,原动力;动态 | |
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148 displeased | |
a.不快的 | |
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149 whines | |
n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 );哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 );哀诉,诉怨 | |
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150 vows | |
誓言( vow的名词复数 ); 郑重宣布,许愿 | |
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151 amends | |
n. 赔偿 | |
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152 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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153 shrine | |
n.圣地,神龛,庙;v.将...置于神龛内,把...奉为神圣 | |
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154 buzzer | |
n.蜂鸣器;汽笛 | |
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155 laden | |
adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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156 celebrities | |
n.(尤指娱乐界的)名人( celebrity的名词复数 );名流;名声;名誉 | |
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157 obituaries | |
讣告,讣闻( obituary的名词复数 ) | |
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158 obituary | |
n.讣告,死亡公告;adj.死亡的 | |
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159 treasury | |
n.宝库;国库,金库;文库 | |
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160 frustration | |
n.挫折,失败,失效,落空 | |
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161 timing | |
n.时间安排,时间选择 | |
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162 orphans | |
孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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163 unpaid | |
adj.未付款的,无报酬的 | |
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164 cowers | |
v.畏缩,抖缩( cower的第三人称单数 ) | |
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165 defense | |
n.防御,保卫;[pl.]防务工事;辩护,答辩 | |
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166 preposterous | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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167 trudging | |
vt.& vi.跋涉,吃力地走(trudge的现在分词形式) | |
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168 galloping | |
adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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169 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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170 chipmunks | |
n.金花鼠( chipmunk的名词复数 ) | |
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171 passerby | |
n.过路人,行人 | |
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172 stationary | |
adj.固定的,静止不动的 | |
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173 pouches | |
n.(放在衣袋里或连在腰带上的)小袋( pouch的名词复数 );(袋鼠等的)育儿袋;邮袋;(某些动物贮存食物的)颊袋 | |
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174 pouch | |
n.小袋,小包,囊状袋;vt.装...入袋中,用袋运输;vi.用袋送信件 | |
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175 scuffed | |
v.使磨损( scuff的过去式和过去分词 );拖着脚走 | |
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176 twitch | |
v.急拉,抽动,痉挛,抽搐;n.扯,阵痛,痉挛 | |
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177 trespassing | |
[法]非法入侵 | |
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178 abound | |
vi.大量存在;(in,with)充满,富于 | |
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179 cocaine | |
n.可卡因,古柯碱(用作局部麻醉剂) | |
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180 smuggling | |
n.走私 | |
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181 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
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182 glorified | |
美其名的,变荣耀的 | |
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183 sunbathe | |
n.日光浴 | |
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184 yew | |
n.紫杉属树木 | |
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185 spiky | |
adj.长而尖的,大钉似的 | |
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186 fattening | |
adj.(食物)要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 );养肥(牲畜);使(钱)增多;使(公司)升值 | |
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187 edifice | |
n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿,教室) | |
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188 grid | |
n.高压输电线路网;地图坐标方格;格栅 | |
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189 tamped | |
v.捣固( tamp的过去式和过去分词 );填充;(用炮泥)封炮眼口;夯实 | |
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190 hoop | |
n.(篮球)篮圈,篮 | |
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191 puffs | |
n.吸( puff的名词复数 );(烟斗或香烟的)一吸;一缕(烟、蒸汽等);(呼吸或风的)呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 );喷着汽(或烟)移动;吹嘘;吹捧 | |
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192 blanched | |
v.使变白( blanch的过去式 );使(植物)不见阳光而变白;酸洗(金属)使有光泽;用沸水烫(杏仁等)以便去皮 | |
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193 dribbling | |
n.(燃料或油从系统内)漏泄v.流口水( dribble的现在分词 );(使液体)滴下或作细流;运球,带球 | |
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194 droll | |
adj.古怪的,好笑的 | |
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195 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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196 calves | |
n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子,腓;腿肚子( calf的名词复数 );牛犊;腓;小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 );(冰川)崩解;生(小牛等),产(犊);使(冰川)崩解 | |
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197 rivulets | |
n.小河,小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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198 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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199 pivoting | |
n.绕轴旋转,绕公共法线旋转v.(似)在枢轴上转动( pivot的现在分词 );把…放在枢轴上;以…为核心,围绕(主旨)展开 | |
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200 racist | |
n.种族主义者,种族主义分子 | |
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201 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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202 protuberant | |
adj.突出的,隆起的 | |
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203 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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204 reassures | |
v.消除恐惧或疑虑,恢复信心( reassure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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205 hunched | |
(常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦)耸肩弓身的,伏首前倾的 | |
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206 flirtatious | |
adj.爱调情的,调情的,卖俏的 | |
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207 Nazi | |
n.纳粹分子,adj.纳粹党的,纳粹的 | |
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208 eerie | |
adj.怪诞的;奇异的;可怕的;胆怯的 | |
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209 glaze | |
v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞,毫无表情 | |
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210 buffet | |
n.自助餐;饮食柜台;餐台 | |
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211 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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212 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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213 quell | |
v.压制,平息,减轻 | |
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214 plumes | |
羽毛( plume的名词复数 ); 羽毛饰; 羽毛状物; 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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215 regiments | |
(军队的)团( regiment的名词复数 ); 大量的人或物 | |
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216 cholesterol | |
n.(U)胆固醇 | |
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217 malaria | |
n.疟疾 | |
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218 rendezvous | |
n.约会,约会地点,汇合点;vi.汇合,集合;vt.使汇合,使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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219 evaded | |
逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 ); 避开; 回避; 想不出 | |
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220 alley | |
n.小巷,胡同;小径,小路 | |
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221 flakes | |
小薄片( flake的名词复数 ); (尤指)碎片; 雪花; 古怪的人 | |
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222 shredded | |
shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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223 fiber | |
n.纤维,纤维质 | |
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224 bowel | |
n.肠(尤指人肠);内部,深处 | |
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225 bowels | |
n.肠,内脏,内部;肠( bowel的名词复数 );内部,最深处 | |
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226 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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227 desultory | |
adj.散漫的,无方法的 | |
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228 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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229 stiffen | |
v.(使)硬,(使)变挺,(使)变僵硬 | |
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230 giggle | |
n.痴笑,咯咯地笑;v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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231 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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232 flip | |
vt.快速翻动;轻抛;轻拍;n.轻抛;adj.轻浮的 | |
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233 pebbled | |
用卵石铺(pebble的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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234 flips | |
轻弹( flip的第三人称单数 ); 按(开关); 快速翻转; 急挥 | |
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235 improvised | |
a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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236 unravelling | |
解开,拆散,散开( unravel的现在分词 ); 阐明; 澄清; 弄清楚 | |
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237 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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238 taunts | |
嘲弄的言语,嘲笑,奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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239 dangle | |
v.(使)悬荡,(使)悬垂 | |
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240 rebound | |
v.弹回;n.弹回,跳回 | |
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241 iceberg | |
n.冰山,流冰,冷冰冰的人 | |
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242 defenders | |
n.防御者( defender的名词复数 );守卫者;保护者;辩护者 | |
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243 stunt | |
n.惊人表演,绝技,特技;vt.阻碍...发育,妨碍...生长 | |
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244 gravel | |
n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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245 alleys | |
胡同,小巷( alley的名词复数 ); 小径 | |
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246 backwards | |
adv.往回地,向原处,倒,相反,前后倒置地 | |
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247 stony | |
adj.石头的,多石头的,冷酷的,无情的 | |
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248 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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249 purged | |
清除(政敌等)( purge的过去式和过去分词 ); 涤除(罪恶等); 净化(心灵、风气等); 消除(错事等)的不良影响 | |
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250 devastation | |
n.毁坏;荒废;极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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251 repeal | |
n.废止,撤消;v.废止,撤消 | |
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252 airliner | |
n.客机,班机 | |
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253 wreckage | |
n.(失事飞机等的)残骸,破坏,毁坏 | |
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254 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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255 debris | |
n.瓦砾堆,废墟,碎片 | |
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256 ebbs | |
退潮( ebb的名词复数 ); 落潮; 衰退 | |
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257 outlast | |
v.较…耐久 | |
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258 expectancy | |
n.期望,预期,(根据概率统计求得)预期数额 | |
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259 babble | |
v.含糊不清地说,胡言乱语地说,儿语 | |
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260 rustle | |
v.沙沙作响;偷盗(牛、马等);n.沙沙声声 | |
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261 commotions | |
n.混乱,喧闹,骚动( commotion的名词复数 ) | |
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262 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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263 flipping | |
讨厌之极的 | |
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264 slants | |
(使)倾斜,歪斜( slant的第三人称单数 ); 有倾向性地编写或报道 | |
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265 wryly | |
adv. 挖苦地,嘲弄地 | |
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266 tugging | |
n.牵引感v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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267 strands | |
n.(线、绳、金属线、毛发等的)股( strand的名词复数 );缕;海洋、湖或河的)岸;(观点、计划、故事等的)部份v.使滞留,使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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268 periscope | |
n. 潜望镜 | |
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269 blurred | |
v.(使)变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 );(使)难以区分;模模糊糊;迷离 | |
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270 friendliness | |
n.友谊,亲切,亲密 | |
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271 license | |
n.执照,许可证,特许;v.许可,特许 | |
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272 clatter | |
v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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273 freckles | |
n.雀斑,斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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274 lipstick | |
n.口红,唇膏 | |
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275 clatters | |
盘碟刀叉等相撞击时的声音( clatter的名词复数 ) | |
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276 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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277 pact | |
n.合同,条约,公约,协定 | |
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278 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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279 mead | |
n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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280 warriors | |
武士,勇士,战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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281 ceramic | |
n.制陶业,陶器,陶瓷工艺 | |
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282 textures | |
n.手感( texture的名词复数 );质感;口感;(音乐或文学的)谐和统一感 | |
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283 dome | |
n.圆屋顶,拱顶 | |
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284 milky | |
adj.牛奶的,多奶的;乳白色的 | |
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285 bellies | |
n.肚子( belly的名词复数 );腹部;(物体的)圆形或凸起部份;腹部…形的 | |
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286 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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287 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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288 aggravating | |
adj.恼人的,讨厌的 | |
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289 buddy | |
n.(美口)密友,伙伴 | |
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290 snob | |
n.势利小人,自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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291 idyllic | |
adj.质朴宜人的,田园风光的 | |
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292 rinse | |
v.用清水漂洗,用清水冲洗 | |
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293 plumbing | |
n.水管装置;水暖工的工作;管道工程v.用铅锤测量(plumb的现在分词);探究 | |
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294 allied | |
adj.协约国的;同盟国的 | |
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295 atrocities | |
n.邪恶,暴行( atrocity的名词复数 );滔天大罪 | |
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296 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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297 barbarians | |
n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 );外国人;粗野的人;无教养的人 | |
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298 canopy | |
n.天篷,遮篷 | |
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299 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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300 dummy | |
n.假的东西;(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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301 chatter | |
vi./n.喋喋不休;短促尖叫;(牙齿)打战 | |
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302 glossy | |
adj.平滑的;有光泽的 | |
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303 bustling | |
adj.喧闹的 | |
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304 carnival | |
n.嘉年华会,狂欢,狂欢节,巡回表演 | |
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305 gaudiness | |
n.华美,俗丽的美 | |
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306 inviting | |
adj.诱人的,引人注目的 | |
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307 inquisitive | |
adj.求知欲强的,好奇的,好寻根究底的 | |
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308 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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309 manatee | |
n.海牛 | |
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310 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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311 reigned | |
vi.当政,统治(reign的过去式形式) | |
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312 skyscrapers | |
n.摩天大楼 | |
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313 hurl | |
vt.猛投,力掷,声叫骂 | |
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314 skidded | |
v.(通常指车辆) 侧滑( skid的过去式和过去分词 );打滑;滑行;(住在)贫民区 | |
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315 tattered | |
adj.破旧的,衣衫破的 | |
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316 tilted | |
v. 倾斜的 | |
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317 rhythmic | |
adj.有节奏的,有韵律的 | |
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318 ozone | |
n.臭氧,新鲜空气 | |
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319 recedes | |
v.逐渐远离( recede的第三人称单数 );向后倾斜;自原处后退或避开别人的注视;尤指问题 | |
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320 denim | |
n.斜纹棉布;斜纹棉布裤,牛仔裤 | |
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321 turquoise | |
n.绿宝石;adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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322 stencilled | |
v.用模板印(文字或图案)( stencil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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323 snarl | |
v.吼叫,怒骂,纠缠,混乱;n.混乱,缠结,咆哮 | |
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324 snarling | |
v.(指狗)吠,嗥叫, (人)咆哮( snarl的现在分词 );咆哮着说,厉声地说 | |
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325 outfit | |
n.(为特殊用途的)全套装备,全套服装 | |
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326 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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327 translucent | |
adj.半透明的;透明的 | |
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328 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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329 darts | |
n.掷飞镖游戏;飞镖( dart的名词复数 );急驰,飞奔v.投掷,投射( dart的第三人称单数 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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330 dart | |
v.猛冲,投掷;n.飞镖,猛冲 | |
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331 growling | |
n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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332 precariously | |
adv.不安全地;危险地;碰机会地;不稳定地 | |
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333 caress | |
vt./n.爱抚,抚摸 | |
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334 fouls | |
n.煤层尖灭;恶劣的( foul的名词复数 );邪恶的;难闻的;下流的v.使污秽( foul的第三人称单数 );弄脏;击球出界;(通常用废物)弄脏 | |
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335 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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336 slump | |
n.暴跌,意气消沉,(土地)下沉;vi.猛然掉落,坍塌,大幅度下跌 | |
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337 straps | |
n.带子( strap的名词复数 );挎带;肩带;背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 );用皮带抽打;包扎;给…打绷带 | |
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338 dribbled | |
v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 );(使液体)滴下或作细流;运球,带球 | |
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339 dribble | |
v.点滴留下,流口水;n.口水 | |
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340 awry | |
adj.扭曲的,错的 | |
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341 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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342 slung | |
抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 ); 吊挂; 遣送; 押往 | |
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343 watery | |
adj.有水的,水汪汪的;湿的,湿润的 | |
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344 nostalgia | |
n.怀乡病,留恋过去,怀旧 | |
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345 slashing | |
adj.尖锐的;苛刻的;鲜明的;乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 );鞭打;割破;削减 | |
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346 notch | |
n.(V字形)槽口,缺口,等级 | |
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347 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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348 dribbles | |
n.涓滴( dribble的名词复数 );细滴;少量(液体)v.流口水( dribble的第三人称单数 );(使液体)滴下或作细流;运球,带球 | |
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349 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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350 arena | |
n.竞技场,运动场所;竞争场所,舞台 | |
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351 rustles | |
n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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352 retrieves | |
v.取回( retrieve的第三人称单数 );恢复;寻回;检索(储存的信息) | |
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353 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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354 grits | |
n.粗磨粉;粗面粉;粗燕麦粉;粗玉米粉;细石子,砂粒等( grit的名词复数 );勇气和毅力v.以沙砾覆盖(某物),撒沙砾于( grit的第三人称单数 );咬紧牙关 | |
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355 arteries | |
n.动脉( artery的名词复数 );干线,要道 | |
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356 momentum | |
n.动力,冲力,势头;动量 | |
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357 ghetto | |
n.少数民族聚居区,贫民区 | |
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358 groove | |
n.沟,槽;凹线,(刻出的)线条,习惯 | |
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359 foe | |
n.敌人,仇敌 | |
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360 descends | |
v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 );下去;下降;下斜 | |
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361 persistently | |
ad.坚持地;固执地 | |
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362 fumble | |
vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等,摸索 | |
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363 collapse | |
vi.累倒;昏倒;倒塌;塌陷 | |
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364 adhesive | |
n.粘合剂;adj.可粘着的,粘性的 | |
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365 ripples | |
逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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366 scouts | |
侦察员[机,舰]( scout的名词复数 ); 童子军; 搜索; 童子军成员 | |
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367 twitches | |
n.(使)抽动, (使)颤动, (使)抽搐( twitch的名词复数 ) | |
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368 veered | |
v.(尤指交通工具)改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 );(指谈话内容、人的行为或观点)突然改变;(指风) (在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向)逐渐转向;风向顺时针转 | |
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