绿里奇迹(英文版)-第5部分

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rue　John　Coffey　was　somewhere　else；　looking　out　on　some　other　landscape　where　murdered　little　girls　were　nothing　to　get　all　worked　up　about　…never　left　Deputy　McGee's。　〃That's　just　a　little　lunch　I　have。〃　
〃Oh；　now；　a　little　lunch；　is　that　right？〃　McGee　asked；　and　Coffey　nodded　and　said　yessir　with　his　eyes　running　and　dear　snot…runners　hanging　out　of　his　nose。　〃And　where　did　the　likes　of　you　get　a　little　lunch；　John　Coffey？〃　Forcing　himself　to　be　calm；　although　he　could　smell　the　girls　by　then；　and　could　see　the　flies　lighting　and　sampling　the　places　on　them　that　were　wet。　It　was　their　hair　that　was　the　worst；　he　said　later　。。。　and　this　wasn't　in　any　newspaper　story；　it　was　considered　too　grisly　for　family　reading。　No；　this　I　got　from　the　reporter　who　wrote　the　story；　Mr。　Hammersmith。　I　looked　him　up　later　on；　because　later　on　John　Coffey　became　sort　of　an　obsession　with　me。　McGee　told　this　Hammersmith　that　their　blonde　hair　wasn't　blonde　anymore。　It　was　auburn。　Blood　had　run　down　their　cheeks　out　of　it　like　it　was　a　bad　dye…job；　and　you　didn't　have　to　be　a　doctor　to　see　that　their　fragile　skulls　had　been　dashed　together　with　the　force　of　those　mighty　arms。　Probably　they　had　been　crying。　Probably　he　had　wanted　to　make　them　stop。　If　the　girls　had　been　lucky；　this　had　happened　before　the　rapes。　
Looking　at　that　made　it　hard　for　a　man　to　think；　even　a　man　as　determined　to　do　his　job　as　Deputy　McGee　was。　Bad　thinking　could　cause　mistakes；　maybe　more　bloodshed。　McGee　drew　him　in　a　deep　breath　and　calmed　himself。　Tried；　anyway。　
'Wellsir；　I　don't　exactly　remember；　be　dog　if　I　do；〃　Coffey　said　in　his　tear…choked　voice；　〃but　it's　a　little　lunch；　all　right；　sammidges　and　I　think　a　swee'　pickle。〃　
I　might　just　have　a　look　for　myself；　it's　all　the　same　to　you；〃　McGee　said。　〃Don't　you　move　now；　John　Coffey。　Don't　do　it；　boy；　because　there　are　enough　guns　aimed　at　you　to　make　you　disappear　from　the　waist　up　should　you　so　much　as　twitch　a　finger。〃　
Coffey　looked　out　across　the　river　and　didn't　move　as　McGee　gently　reached　into　the　chest　pocket　of　those　biballs　and　pulled　out　something　wrapped　in　newspaper　and　tied　with　a　hank　of　butcher's　twine。　MeGee　snapped　the　string　and　opened　the　paper；　although　he　was　pretty　sure　it　was　just　what　Coffey　said　it　was；　a　little　lunch。　There　was　a　bacon…tomato　sandwich　and　a　jelly　fold…over。　There　was　also　a　pickle；　wrapped　in　its　own　piece　of　a　funny　page　John　Coffey　would　never　be　able　to　puzzle　out。　There　were　no　sausages。　Bowser　had　gotten　the　sausages　out　of　John　Coffey's　little　lunch。　
McGee　handed　the　lunch　back　over　his　shoulder　to　one　of　the　other　men　without　taking　his　eyes　off　Coffey。　Hunkered　down　like　that；　he　was　too　close　to　want　to　let　his　attention　stray　for　even　a　second。　The　lunch；　wrapped　up　again　and　tied　for　good　measure；　finally　ended　up　with　Bobo　Marchant；　who　put　it　in　his　knapsack；　where　he　kept　treats　for　his　dogs　（and　a　few　fishing　lures；　I　shouldn't　wonder）。　It　wasn't　introduced　into　evidence　at　the　trial　…　justice　in　this　part　of　the　world　is　swift；　but　not　as　swift　as　a　bacon…tomato　sandwich　goes　over　…　though　photographs　of　it　were。　
'What　happened　here；　John　Coffey？〃　McGee　asked　in　his　low；　earnest　voice。　〃You　want　to　tell　me　that？〃　
And　Coffey　said　to　McGee　and　the　others　almost　exactly　the　same　thing　he　said　to　me；　they　were　also　the　last　words　the　prosecutor　said　to　the　jury　at　Coffey's　trial。　〃I　couldn't　help　it；〃　John　Coffey　said；　holding　the　murdered；　violated　girls　naked　in　his　arms。　The　tears　began　to　pour　down　his　cheeks　again。　〃I　tried　to　take　it　back；　but　it　was　too　late！'　
〃Boy；　you　are　under　arrest　for　murder；〃　McGee　said；　and　then　he　spit　in　John　Coffey's　face。　
The　jury　was　out　forty…five　minutes。　Just　about　time　enough　to　eat　a　little　lunch　of　their　own。　I　wonder　they　had　any　stomach　for　it。　
5。　
I　think　you　know　I　didn't　find　all　that　out　during　one　hot　October　afternoon　in　the　soon…to…be…defunct　prison　library；　from　one　set　of　old　newspapers　stacked　in　a　pair　of　Pomona　orange　crates；　but　I　learned　enough　to　make　it　hard　for　me　to　sleep　that　night。　When　my　wife　got　up　at　two　in　the　morning　and　found　me　sitting　in　the　kitchen；　drinking　buttermilk　and　smoking　home…rolled　Bugler；　she　asked　me　what　was　wrong　and　I　lied　to　her　for　one　of　the　few　times　in　the　long　course　of　our　marriage。　I　said　I'd　had　another　run…in　with　Percy　Wetmore。　I　had；　of　course；　but　that　wasn't　the　reason　she'd　found　me　sitting　up　late。　I　was　usually　able　to　leave　Percy　at　the　office。　
'Well；　forget　that　rotten　apple　and　e　on　back　to　bed；〃　she　said。　〃I've　got　something　that'll　help　you　sleep；　and　you　can　have　all　you　want。〃　
〃That　sounds　good；　but　I　think　we'd　better　not；〃　I　said。　〃I've　got　a　little　something　wrong　with　my　waterworks；　and　wouldn't　want　to　pass　it　on　to　you。〃　
She　raised　an　eyebrow。　〃Waterworks；　huh；〃　she　said。　〃I　guess　you　must　have　taken　up　with　the　wrong　streetcorner　girl　the　last　time　you　were　in　Baton　Rouge。〃　I've　never　been　in　Baton　Rouge　and　never　so　much　as　touched　a　streetcorner　girl；　and　we　both　knew　it。　
〃It's　just　a　plain　old　urinary　infection；〃　I　said。　〃My　mother　used　to　say　boys　got　them　from　taking　a　leak　when　the　north　wind　was　blowing。〃　
〃Your　mother　also　used　to　stay　in　all　day　if　she　spilled　the　salt；〃　my　wife　said。　〃Dr　Sadler…〃　
〃No；　sir；〃　I　said；　raising　my　hand。　〃He'll　want　me　to　take　sulfa；　and　I'll　be　throwing　up　in　every　er　of　my　office　by　the　end　of　the　week。　It'll　run　its　course；　but　in　the　meantime；　I　guess　we　best　stay　out　of　the　playground。〃　
She　kissed　my　forehead　right　over　my　left　eyebrow；　which　always　gives　me　the　prickles　。。。　as　Janice　well　knew。　〃Poor　baby。　As　if　that　awful　Percy　Wetmore　wasn't　enough。　e　to　bed　soon！'　
I　did；　but　before　I　did；　I　stepped　out　onto　the　back　porch　to　empty　out　（and　checked　the　wind　direction　with　a　wet　thumb　before　I　did　…　what　our　parents　tell　us　when　we　are　small　seldom　goes　ignored；　no　matter　how　foolish　it　may　be）。　Peeing　outdoors　is　one　joy　of　country　living　the　poets　never　quite　got　around　to；　but　it　was　no　joy　that　night；　the　water　ing　out　of　me　burned　like　a　line　of　lit　coal…oil。　Yet　I　thought　it　had　been　a　little　worse　that　afternoon；　and　knew　it　had　been　worse　the　two　or　three　days　before。　I　had　hopes　that　maybe　I　had　started　to　mend。　Never　was　a　hope　more　ill…founded。　No　one　had　told　me　that　sometimes　a　bug　that　gets　up　inside　there；　where　it's　warm　and　wet；　can　take　a　day　or　two　off　to　rest　before　ing　on　strong　again。　I　would　have　been　surprised　to　know　it。　I　would　have　been　even　more　surprised　to　know　that；　in　another　fifteen　or　twenty　years；　there　would　be　pills　you　could　take　that　would　smack　that　sort　of　infection　out　of　your　system　in　record　time　。。。　and　while　those　pills　might　make　you　feel　a　little　sick　at　your　stomach　or　loose　in　your　bowels；　they　almost　never　made　you　vomit　the　way　Dr。　Sadler's　sulfa　pills　did。　Back　in　'32；　there　wasn't　much　you　could　do　but　wait；　and　try　to　ignore　that　feeling　that　someone　had　spilled　coal…oil　inside　your　works　and　then　touched　a　match　to　it。　
I　finished　my　butt；　went　into　the　bedroom；　and　finally　got　to　sleep。　I　dreamed　of　girls　with　shy　smiles　and　blood　in　their　hair。　
6。　
The　next　morning　there　was　a　pink　memo　slip　on　my　desk；　asking　me　to　stop　by　the　warden's　office　as　soon　as　I　could。　I　knew　what　that　was　about　…　there　were　unwritten　but　very　important　rules　to　the　game；　and　I　had　stopped　playing　by　them　for　awhile　yesterday　…　and　so　I　put　it　off　as　long　as　possible。　Like　going　to　the　doctor　about　my　waterworks　problem；　I　suppose。　I've　always　thought　this　〃get…it…over…with〃　business　was　overrated。　
Anyway；　I　didn't　hurry　to　Warden　Moores's　office。　I　stripped　off　my　wool　uniform　coat　instead；　hung　it　over　the　back　of　my　chair；　and　turned　on　the　fan　in　the　corner　…　it　was　another　hot　one。　Then　I　sat　down　and　went　over　Brutus　Howell's　night…sheet。　There　was　nothing　there　to　get　alarmed　about。　Delacroix　had　wept　briefly　after　turning　in　…　he　did　most　nights；　and　more　for　himself　than　for　the　folks　he　had　roasted　alive；　I　am　quite　sure　…　and　then　had　take　Mr。　Jingles；　the　mouse；　out　of　the　cigar　box　he　slept　in。　That　had　calmed　Del；　and　he　had　slept　like　a　baby　the　rest　of　the　night。　Mr。　Jingles　had　most　likely　spent　it　on　Delacroix's　stomach；　with　his　tail　curled　over　his　paws；　eyes　unblinking。　It　was　as　if　God　had　decided　Delacroix　needed　a　guardian　angel；　but　had　decreed　in　His　wisdom　that　only　a　mouse　would　do　for　a　rat　like　our　homicidal　friend　from　Louisiana。　Not　all　that　was　in　Brutal's　report；　of　course；　but　I　had　done　enough　night　watches　myself　to　fill　in　the　stuff　between　the　lines。　There　was　a　brief　note　about　Coffey：　〃Laid　aay　have　cried　some。　I　tried　to　get　some　talk　started；　but　after　a　few　grunted　replies　from　Coffey；　gave　up。　Paul　or　Harry　may　have　better　luck。〃　
〃Getting　the　talk　started〃　was　at　the　center　of　our　job；　really。　I　didn't　know　it　then；　but　looking　back　from　the　vantage　point　of　this　strange　old　age　（I　think　all　old　ages　seem　strange　to　the　folk　who　must　endure　them）；　I　understand　that　it　was；　and　why　I　didn't　see　it　then　…　it　was　too　big；　as　central　to　our　work　as　our　respiration　was　to　our　lives。　It　wasn't　important　that　the　floaters　be　good　at　〃getting　the　talk　started；〃　but　it　was　vital　for　me　and　Harry　and　Brutal　and　Dean。。。　and　it　was　one　reason　why　Percy　Wetmore　was　such　a　disaster。　The　inmates　hated　him；　the　guards　hated　him　。。。　everyone　hated　him；　presumably；　except　for　his　political　connections；　Percy　himself；　and　maybe　（but　only　maybe）　his　mother。　He　was　like　a　dose　of　white　arsenic　sprinkled　into　a　wedding　cake；　and　I　think　I　knew　he　spelled　disaster　the　start。　He　was　an　accident　waiting　to　happen。　As　for　the　rest　of　us；　we　would　have　scoffed　at　the　idea　that　we　functioned　most　usefully　not　as　the　guards　of　the　condemned　but　as　their　psychiatrists　part　of　me　still　wants　to　scoff　at　that　idea　today　…　but　we　knew　about　getting　the　talk　started　。　。　。　and　without　the　talk；　men　facing　Old　Sparky　had　a　nasty　habit　of　going　insane。　
I　made　a　note　at　the　bottom　of　Brutal's　report　to　talk　to　John　Coffey　…　to　try；　at　least　…　and　then　passed　on　to　a　note　from　Curtis　Anderson；　the　warden's　chief　assistant。　It　said　that　he；　Anderson；　expected　a　DOE　order　for　Edward　Delacrois　（Anderson's　misspelling；　the　man's　name　was　actually　Eduard　Delacroix）　very　soon。　DOE　stood　for　date　of　execution；　and　according　to　the　note；　Curtis　had　been　told　on　good　authority　that　the　little　Frenchman　would　take　the　walk　shortly　before　Halloween　…　October　27th　was　his　best　guess；　and　Curtis　Anderson's　guesses　were　very　informed。　But　before　then　we　could　expect　a　new　resident；　name　of　William　Wharton。　〃He's　what　you　like　to　call　'a　problem　child；'　〃　Curtis　had　written　'　in　his　backslanting　and　somehow　prissy　script。　〃Crazy…wild　and　proud　of　it。　Has　rambled　all　over　the　state　for　the　last　year　or　so；　and　has　hit　the　big　time　at　last。　Killed　three　people　in　a　holdup；　one　a　pregnant　woman；　killed　a　fourth　in　the　getaway。　State　Patrolman。　All　he　missed　was　a　nun　and　a　blind　man！'　I　smiled　a　little　at　that。　〃Wharton　is　19　years　old；　has　Billy　the　Kid　tattooed　on　upper　l。　forearm。　You　will　have　to　slap　his　nose　a　time　or　two；　I　guarantee　you　that；　but　be　careful　when　you　do　it。　This　man　just　doesn't　care。〃　He　had　underlined　this　last　sentiment　twice；　then　finished：　〃Also；　he　may　be　a　hang…arounder。　He's　working　appeals；　and　there's　the　fact　that　he　is　a　minor。〃　
A　crazy　kid；　working　appeals；　apt　to　be　around　for　awhile。　Oh；　that　all　sounded　just　fine。　Suddenly　the　day　seemed　hotter　than　ever；　and　I　could　no　longer　put　off　seeing　Warden　Moores。　
I　worked　for　three　wardens　during　my　years　as　a　Cold　Mountain　guard；　Hal　Moores　was　the　last　and　best　of　them。　In　a　walk。　Honest；　straightforward；　lacking　even　Curtis　Anderson's　rudimentary　wit；　but　equipped　with　just　enough　political　savvy　to　keep　his　job　during　those　grim　years　。。。　and　enough　integrity　to　keep　from　getting　seduced　by　the　game。　He　would　not　rise　any　higher；　but　that　seemed　all　right　with　him。　He　was　fifty…eight　or　…nine　back　then；　with　a　deeply　lined　bloodhound　face　that　Bobo　Marchant　probably　would　have　felt　right　at　home　with。　He　had　white　hair　and　his　hands　shook　with　some　sort　of　palsy；　but　he　was　strong。　The　year　before；　when　a　prisoner　had　rushed　him　in　the　exercise　yard　with　a　shank　whittled　out　of　a　crate…slat；　Moores　had　stood　his　ground；　grabbed　the　skatehound's　wrist；　and　had　twisted　it　so　hard　that　the　snapping　bones　had　sounded　like　dry　twigs　burning　in　a　hot　fire。　The　skatehound；　all　his　grievances　forgotten；　had　gone　down　on　his　knees　in　the　dirt　and　begun　screaming　for　his　mother。　〃I'm　not　her；〃　Moores　said　in　his　cultured　Southern　voice；　〃But　if　I　was；　I'd　raise　up　my　skirts　and　piss　on　you　from　the　loins　that　gave　you　birth。〃　
When　I　came　into　his　office；　he　started　to　get　up　and　I　waved　him　back　down。　I　took　the　seat　across　the　desk　from　him；　and　began　by　asking　about　his　wife　。。。　except　in　our　part　of　the　world；　that's　not　how　you　do　it。　〃How's　that　pretty　gal　of　yours〃　is　what　I　asked；　as　if　Melinda　had　seen　only　seventeen　summers　instead　of　sixty…two　or　…three。　My　concern　was　genuine　he　was　a　woman　I　could　have　loved　and　married　myself；　if　the　lines　of　our　lives　had　coincided　…　but　I　didn't　mind　diverting　him　a　little　from　his　main　business；　either。　
He　sighed　deeply。　〃Not　so　well；　Paul。　Not　so　well　at　all。〃　
〃More　headaches？〃　
〃Only　one　this　week；　but　it　was　the　worst　yet　…　put　her　flat　on　her　back　for　most　of　the　day　before　yesterday。　And　now　she's　developed　this　weakness　in　her　right　hand…〃　He　raised　his　own　liverspotted　right　hand。　We　both　watched　it　tremble　above　his　blotter　for　a　moment　or　two；　and　then　he　lowered　it　again。　I　could　tell　he　would　have　given　just　about　anything　not　to　be　telling　me　what　he　was　telling　me；　and　I　would　have　given　just　about　anything　not　to　be　hearing　it。　Melinda's　headaches　had　started　in　the　spring；　and　all　that　summer　her　doctor　had　been　saying　they　were　〃nervous…tension　migraines；〃　perhaps　caused　by　the　stress　of　Hal's　ing　retirement。　Except　that　neither　of　them　could　wait　for　his　retirement；　and　my　own　wife　had　told　me　that　migraine　is　not　a　disease　of　the　old　but　the　young；　by　the　time　its　sufferers　reached　Melinda　Moores's　age；　they　were　usually　getting　better；　not　worse。　And　now　this　weakness　of　the　hand。　It　didn't　sound　like　nervous　tension　to　me；　it　sounded　like　a　damned　stroke。　
〃Dr。　Haverstrom　wants　her　to　go　in　hospital　up　to　Indianola；〃　Moores　said。　〃Have　some　tests。　Head　X…rays；　he　means。　Who　knows　what　else。　She　is　scared　to　death！'　He　paused；　then　added；　〃Truth　to　tell；　so　am　I。〃　
〃Yeah；　but　you　see　she　does　it；〃　I　said。　〃Don't　wait。　If　it　turns　out　to　be　something　they　can　see　with　an　X…ray；　it　may　turn　out　to　be　something　they　can　fix。〃　
〃Yes；〃　he　agreed；　and　then；　for　just　a　moment　…　the　only　one　during　that　part　of　our　interview；　as　I　recall　…　our　eyes　met　and　locked。　There　was　the　sort　of　nakedly　perfect　understanding　between　us　that　needs　no　words。　It　could　be　a　stroke；　yes。　It　could　also　be　a　cancer　growing　in　her　brain；　and　if　it　was　that；　the　chances　that　the　doctors　at　Indianola　could　do　anything　about　it　were　slim　going　on　none。　This　was　'32；　remember；　when　even　something　as　relatively　simple　as　a　urinary　infection　was　either　sulfa　and　stink　or　suffer　and　wait。　
〃I　thank　you