Orson Scott Card - Lost Boys

VIP免费

2024-12-02 0 0 612.04KB 249 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

LOST BOYS

Orson Scott Card

[21 may feb 2001 - scanned for #bookz, proofread and released - v1]

0: Boy

This is what his father always called him whenever he'd done something bad:

"Where were you when this happened, Boy? What did you think you were doing,

Boy?"

He took that word inside himself and it became the name for all his bad

desires. It was Boy who made him play pranks that weren't funny to anybody Boy

who made him cheat on tests when he felt like it in school, even though he

always knew the answers and didn't have to cheat. It was Boy who made him

stand and watch from the closet when his parents thought he was in bed and he

saw them do the dog thing, Father's belly so loose and jiggly, Mother so white

and weak and dead while it happened, her breasts flopped out flat to either

side like fish. It was the worst thing Boy had ever made him do, to watch

that, and to his surprise Boy didn't like it, no, Boy hated it even worse than

he did, to see Father be so bad.

I will never do that, said Boy inside him. It's ugly to kill a woman like that

and then make her still be alive afterward so you can do it all again.

From then on when he looked at big women with their breasts and their secrets

and their faces that could turn dead looking at a man, Boy went away. Boy

didn't want to be part of that game.

But that didn't mean that Boy was gone, no, nor silent neither. Boy was still

there, and he got his way sometimes, yes; and he found new things to want.

Only Boy wasn't careful. Boy only wanted what he wanted until he got it and

then he went back into hiding and left him to take care of everything, to take

all the blame for what Boy had done even though he hadn't wanted to do it in

the first place.

Now none of his people would let him near their children because of the things

Boy had decided he had to do. Damn you Boy! Die and damn you!

But they promised not to tell, says Boy. The children said they wouldn't tell

but then they did.

What do you expect, you stupid ugly Boy? What do you expect, you evil Boy?

Didn't you ever think maybe there's another Boy inside them that makes them

lie to you and promise not to tell but then they break their word because

their Boy made them? And now here you are, and that'll show you, Boy, because

nobody will let you near their children anymore so you'll just have to chew on

yourself when you get hungry and drink yourself when you get dry.

No I won't, says Boy. I'll make a place and I'll take them there and I won't

ever believe them when they promise not to tell. I'll take them there and

nobody will know where they are and they'll never come back and so they'll

never tell.

You won't do anything like that, Boy, because I won't let you.

And Boy just laughed and laughed inside him, and he knew that he would do it

all, he would prepare the hiding place and then he would go and find them for

Boy and bring them back, and Boy would do what he wanted. Boy would not be

afraid. Boy would do everything he thought of doing, because he knew that they

would never leave and they would never tell.

That was why those little boys in Steuben started disappearing, and why not

one of them was found till Christmas Eve in 1983.

1: Junk Man

This is the car they drove from Vigor, Indiana, to Steuben, North Carolina: a

silvery-grey Renault 18i deluxe wagon, an '81 model with about forty thousand

miles on it, twenty-five thousand of which they had put on it themselves. The

paint was just beginning to get tiny rust-colored pockmarks in it, but the

wiring had blown about fifteen fuses and they'd had to put three new drive

axles in it because it was designed so that when a ball bearing wore out you

had to replace the whole assembly. It couldn't climb a hill at fifty-five, but

it could seat two adults in the leather bucket seats and three kids across the

back. Step Fletcher was driving, had been driving since they finally got away

from the house well after noon. Empty house. He was still hearing echoes all

the way to Indianapolis. Somewhere along the way he must have passed the

moving van, but he didn't notice it or didn't recognize it or maybe the driver

had pulled into a McDonald's somewhere or a gas station as they drove on by.

The others all fell asleep soon after they crossed the Ohio River. After Step

had talked so much about flatboats and Indian wars, the kids were disappointed

in it. It was the bridge that impressed them. And then they fell asleep.

DeAnne stayed awake a little longer, but then she squeezed his hand and

nestled down into the pillow she had jammed into the corner between the seat

back and the window.

Just how it always goes, thought Step. She stays awake the whole time I'm wide

awake and then, just as I get sleepy and maybe need to have her spell me for a

while at the wheel, she goes to sleep.

He pushed the tape the rest of the way into the player. It was the sweet junky

sound of "The E Street Shuffle." He hadn't listened to that in a while. DeAnne

must have had it playing while she ran the last-minute errands in Vigor. Step

had played that album on their second date. It was kind of a test. DeAnne was

so serious about religion, he had to know if she could put up with his

slightly wild taste in music. A lot of Mormon girls would have missed the

sexual innuendos entirely, of course, but DeAnne was probably smarter than

Step was, and so she not only noticed the bit about girls promising to unsnap

their jeans and the fairies in a real bitch fight, she also got the part about

hooking onto the midnight train, but she didn't get upset, she just laughed,

and he knew it was going to be OK, she was religious but not a prig and that

meant that he wouldn't have to pretend to be perfect in order to be with her.

Ten years ago, 1973. Now they had three kids in the back of the Renault 18i

wagon, probably the worst car ever sold in America, and they were heading for

Steuben, North Carolina, where Step had a job.

A good job. Thirty thousand a year, which wasn't bad for a brand new history

Ph.D. in a recession year. Except that he wasn't teaching history, he wasn't

writing history, the job was putting together manuals for a computer software

company. Not even programming-he couldn't even get hired for that, even though

Hacker Snack was the best-selling game for the Atari back in '81. For a while

there it had looked like his career was made as a game designer. They had so

much money they figured they could afford for him to go back to school and

finish his doctorate. Then the recession came, and the lousy Commodore 64 was

killing the Atari in the stores, and suddenly his game was out of print and

nobody wanted him except as a manual writer.

So Springsteen played along to his semi-depressed mood asStep wound the car up

into the mountains, the sun setting in the west as the road angled them mostly

east into the darkness. I should be happy, he told himself. I got the degree,

I got a good job, and nothing says I can't do another game in my spare time,

even if I have to do it on the stupid 64. It could be worse. I could have got

a job programming Apples.

Despite what he said to encourage himself, the words still tasted like failure

in his mouth. Thirty-two years old, three kids, and I'm on the downhill slope.

Used to work for myself, and now I have to work for somebody else. Just like

my dad with his sign company that went bust. At least he had the scar on his

back from the operation that took out a vertebra. Me, I got no visible wounds.

I was riding high one day, and then the next day we found out that our

royalties would be only $7,000 instead of $40,000 like the last time, and we

scrambled around looking for work and we've got debts coming out of our ears

and I'm going to be just as broke as my folks for the rest of my life and it's

my own damned fault. Wage slave like my dad.

Just so I don't have the shame of my wife having to take some lousy swingshift

job like Mom did. Fine if she wants to get a job, that's fine, but not if she

has to.

Yet he knew even as he thought of it that that was what would happen next-they

wouldn't be able to sell the house in Vigor and she'd have to get a job just

to keep up the payments on it. We were fools to buy a house, but we thought it

would be a good investment. There wasn't a recession when we moved there, and

I had a good royalty income. Fools, thinking it could just go on forever.

Nothing lasts.

Feeling sorry for himself kept him awake enough to keep driving for an hour.

The tape was on its second time through when he started down the steep descent

toward Frankfort. Good thing. Bound to be a motel in the state capital. I can

make it that far, and DeAnne won't have to wake up till we get there.

"Dad," said Stevie from the back seat.

"Yes?" said Step-softly, so he'd know not to talk loudly enough to waken the

others.

"Betsy threw up," said Stevie.

"Just a little bit, or is it serious?"

"Just a little," said Stevie.

Then a vast, deep urping sound came from the back seat.

"Now it's serious," said Stevie.

Damn damn damn, said Step silently. "Thanks for telling me, Steve."

The sound came again, even as he pulled off the road, and now he could smell

the bitter tang of gastric juices. One of the kids almost always threw up on

every long trip they took, but usually they did it in the first hour.

"Why are we stopping?" DeAnne, just waking up, had a hint of panic in her

voice. She didn't like it when something unexpected happened, and always

feared the worst.

Springsteen had just sung about the fish lady and the junk man, so for the

first time in a long time, Step remembered where his pet name for DeAnne had

come from. "Hey, Fish Lady, take a sniff and see."

"Oh, no, which one of them?"

"Betsy Wetsy" said Stevie from the back. Another old joke -- DeAnne used to

get impatient with him for the irreverent nicknames he gave the kids. She

hated the nickname Betsy, but because of the joke, the name had stuck and now

that was what Betsy called herself.

"More like Betsy Pukesy," said Step. Stevie laughed.

Stevie had a good laugh. It made Step smile, and suddenly it was no big deal

that he was about to be up to his elbows in toddler vomit.

Step had parked on the shoulder, well off, so that he could open Betsy's door

without putting his butt out into traffic. Even so, he didn't like feeling the

wind of the cars as they whooshed past. What a way to die-smeared like pate on

the back door of the car, a sort of roadkill canape. For a moment he thought

of what it would mean for the kids, if he died on the road right in front of

their eyes. The little ones would probably not remember him, or how he died.

But Stevie would see, Stevie would remember. It was the first time Step had

really thought of it that way -- Stevie was now old enough that he would

remember everything that happened. Almost eight years old, and his life was

now real, because he would remember it.

He would remember how Dad reacted when Betsy threw up, how Dad didn't swear or

get mad or anything, how Dad helped clean up the mess instead of standing

there helplessly while Mom took care of it. That was a sort of vow he made

before he got married, that there would be no job in their family that was so

disgusting or difficult that DeAnne could do it and he couldn't. He had

matched her, diaper for diaper, with all three kids, and a little vomit in the

car would never faze him.

Actually, a lot of vomit. Betsy, white-faced and wan, managed a smile.

By now DeAnne was outside and around the car, pulling baby wipes out of the

plastic jar. "Here," she said. "Hand her out to me and I'll change her clothes

while you clean up the car."

In a moment DeAnne was holding a dripping Betsy out in front of her, taking

her around the car to her seat, where she had already spread a cloth diaper to

protect the leather.

Robbie, the four-year-old, was awake now, too, holding out his arm. He had

been sitting in the middle, right next to Betsy, and there was a streak of

vomit on his sleeve. "Wasn't that sweet of your sister, to share with you,"

said Step. He wiped down Robbie's sleeve. "There you go, Road Bug."

"It stinks."

"I'm not surprised," said Step: "Bear it proudly, like a wound acquired in

battle."

"Was that a joke, Daddy?" said Robbie.

"It was wit," said Step. Robbie was trying to learn how to tell jokes. Step

had given him the funny-once lecture recently, so Robbie wasn't telling the

same joke over and over again, but the different kinds of humor still baffled

him and he was trying to sort them out. If Stevie's experience was a fair

sample, it would take years.

DeAnne spoke to Robbie from the front seat. "We'll change your shirt as soon

as your father has finished wiping up Betsy's booster seat."

Step wasn't having much success cleaning down inside the buckle of Betsy's

seat belt. "The only way our seat belts will ever match again," he said, "is

if Betsy contrives to throw up on all the rest of them."

"Move her around in the car and maybe she'll have it all covered by the time

we get to North Carolina," said Stevie.

"She doesn't throw up that often," said DeAnne.

"It was a joke, Mom," said Stevie.

"No, it was wit," said Robbie.

So he was getting it.

The baby wipes were no match for Betsy's prodigious output. They ran out long

before the seat was clean enough for occupancy.

"When they hear you're pregnant for the fourth time," said Step, "I think

Johnson & Johnson's stock will go up ten points."

"There's more wipes in the big grey bag in the back," said DeAnne. "Make sure

you buy the stock before you announce it."

Step walked around to the back of what the Renault people called a "deluxe

wagon," unlocked the swing-up door, and swung it up. Even with the bag zipped

open he couldn't find the baby wipes. "Hey, Fish Lady, where'd you pack the

wipes?"

"In the bag somewhere, probably deep," she called. "While you're in there, I

need a Huggie for Betsy. She's wet and as long as I've got her undressed I

might as well do the whole job."

He gave the diaper to Stevie to pass forward, and then finally found the baby

wipes. He was just stepping back so he could close the wagon when he realized

that there was somebody standing behind and to the left of him. A man, with

big boots. A cop. Somehow a patrol car had managed to pull up behind them and

Step hadn't heard it, hadn't even noticed it was there.

"What's the trouble here?" asked the patrolman.

"My two-year-old threw up all over the back seat," said Step.

"You know the shoulder of the freeway is only to be used for emergencies,"

said the cop.

For a moment it didn't register on Step what the cop's remark implied. "You

mean that you don't think that a child throwing up in the back seat is an

emergency?"

The patrolman fixed him with a steady gaze for a moment. Step knew the look.

It meant, Ain't you cute, and he had seen it often back when he used to get

speeding tickets before his license was suspended back in '74 and DeAnne had

to drive them everywhere. Step knew that he shouldn't say anything, because no

matter what he said to policemen, it always made things worse.

DeAnne came to his rescue. She came around the car carrying Betsy's soaked and

stinking clothes. "Officer, I think if you had these in your car for about

thirty seconds you'd pull off the road, too."

The cop looked at her, surprised, and then grinned. "Ma'am, I guess you got a

point. Just hurry it up. It's not safe to be stopped here. People come down

this road too fast sometimes, and they take this curve wide."

"Thanks for your concern, Officer," said Step.

The patrolman narrowed his eyes. "Just doing my job," he said, rather nastily,

and walked back to his car.

Step turned to DeAnne. "What did I say?"

"Get me a Ziploc bag out of there, please," she said. "If I have to smell

these any longer I'm going to faint."

He handed her the plastic bag and she stuffed the messy clothes into it. "All

I said to him was 'Thanks for your concern,' and he acted like I told him his

mother had never been married."

She leaned close to him and said softly, affectionately, "Step, when you say

'Thank you for your concern' it always sounds like you're just accidently

leaving off the word butthead."

"I wasn't being sarcastic," said Step. "Everybody always thinks I'm being

sarcastic when I'm not."

"I wouldn't know," said DeAnne. "I've never been there when you weren't being

sarcastic."

"You think you know too much, Fish Lady"

"You don't know anywhere near enough, Junk Man."

He kissed her. "Give me a minute and I'll be ready to put our Betsy Wetsy doll

back in her place."

He heard her muttering as she went back to her door: "Her name is Elizabeth."

He grinned.

Step got back to wiping down Betsy's seat.

"I didn't even hear that cop come up," said Stevie.

"Cop?" asked Robbie.

"Go back to sleep, Road Bug," said Step.

"Did we get a ticket, Daddy?" asked Robbie.

"He just wanted to make sure we were all right," said Step.

"He wanted us to move our butts out of here," said Stevie.

"Step!" said DeAnne.

"It was Stevie who said it, not me," said Step.

"He wouldn't talk that way if he didn't learn it from you," said DeAnne.

"Is he still there?" asked Step.

Stevie half-stood in order to see over the junk on the back deck. "Yep," he

said.

"I didn't hear him either," said Step. "I just turned around and there he

was."

"What if it wasn't a cop and you just turned around and it was a bad guy?"

asked Stevie.

"He gets his morbid imagination from you," said DeAnne.

"Nobody would do anything to us out on the open highway like this where

anybody passing by could see."

"It's dark," said Stevie. "People drive by so fast."

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

LOSTBOYSOrsonScottCard[21mayfeb2001-scannedfor#bookz,proofreadandreleased-v1]0:BoyThisiswhathisfatheralwayscalledhimwheneverhe'ddonesomethingbad:"Wherewereyouwhenthishappened,Boy?Whatdidyouthinkyouweredoing,Boy?"Hetookthatwordinsidehimselfanditbecamethenameforallhisbaddesires.ItwasBoywhomadehimplayp...

展开>> 收起<<

Orson Scott Card - Lost Boys.pdf

共249页,预览5页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Orson Scott Card - Lost Boys

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: