“No,” I tell her, “I think it’s just a house now.”
Like Bo knows football, my daughter knows haunted houses. She knows
Vincent Price and Peter Cushing, the films of Hammer, the works of Poe, the
chronicles of Mars and the town called ’Salem’s Lot. But she knows Alice
through the looking glass, too, and the Faithful Tin Soldier, the Ugly
Duckling, and the journeys of Stuart Little. She knows Oz and the jungles of
Tarzan, and though she is too young to fully appreciate anything but the
colors, she knows the hands of Van Gogh, Winslow Homer, and Miro. She will
listen to Duke Ellington and Count Basie, as well as to the Beach Boys. Just
last week she asked me if she could put a picture in a frame on her dresser.
She said she thought this particular dude was cool.
His name is Freddy.
“Skye,” I said, “I really think havin’ that in here is gonna give you
night—”
And then I stopped. Oh-oh, I thought. Oh-oh.
Freddy, meet Skye. Talk to her about the power of make-believe, will you?
I turn the car onto Hilltop Street, and we rise toward my house.
I’m doing all right with my writing. It’s a hard job, but I enjoy it.
Sandy and I aren’t the kind of people who need to own half the world to be
happy. I have to say, though, that once I did splurge. I bought an old red
convertible that called to me from a used car lot when Sandy and I were taking
a vacation in New England. I think they used to refer to such cars as
roadsters. I’ve restored it back to how it must’ve looked when Zephyr was new.
Sometimes, when I’m alone out in that car, speeding along with the wind in my
hair and the sun on my face, I forget myself and speak to it. I call it by a
certain name.
You know what I call it.
That bicycle went with me when we left Zephyr. We had more adventures,
and that golden eye saw a lot of trouble coming and kept me from getting into
it on more than several occasions. But eventually it creaked under my weight,
and my hands didn’t seem to fit on the grips anymore. It was consigned to the
basement, under a blue tarp. I imagined it went to sleep like a bird. One
weekend I returned from college to find that Mom had had a garage sale, which
included the contents of the basement. And here’s your money a fella paid for
your old bike! she’d said as she handed me a twenty-dollar bill. He bought it
for his own boy, isn’t that grand, Cory? Cory? Isn’t that grand?
It’s grand, I’d told my mother. And that night I put my head on my dad’s
shoulder and cried as if I were twelve again instead of twenty.
My heart stutters.
There it is. Right there.
“My house,” I tell Sandy and Skye.
It has aged, under sun and rain. It needs paint and care. It needs love,
but it is empty now. I stop the car at the curb, and I stare at the porch and
see my father suddenly emerge smiling from the front door. He looks strong and
fit, like he always does when I remember him.
“Hey, Cory!” he says. “How ya gettin’ along?”
Just fine, sir, I answer.
“I knew you would be. I did all right, didn’t I?”
Yes sir, you did, I say.
“Sure do have a pretty wife and a good daughter, Cory. And those books of
yours! I knew you were gonna do well, all the time I knew it.”
Dad? Do you want me to come in and stay awhile?
“Come in here?” He leans against the porch column. “Why would you want to
do that, Cory?”
Aren’t you lonely? I mean… it’s so quiet here.
“Quiet?” He laughs heartily. “Sometimes I wish it was quiet! It’s not a
bit of quiet here!”
But… it’s empty. Isn’t it?
“It’s full to the brim,” my father says. He looks up at the sun, over the
hills of spring. “You don’t have to come here to see them, Cory. Or to see me,
either. You really don’t. You don’t have to leave what is, to visit what was.
You’ve got a good life, Cory. Better than I dreamed. How’s your mom doin’?”
She’s happy. I mean, she misses you, but…
“But life is for the livin’,” he tells me in his fatherly voice. “Now go
on and get on with it instead of wantin’ to come in an old house with a saggy
floor.”
Yes sir, I say, but I can’t leave yet.
He starts to go in, but he pauses, too. “Cory?” he says.
Yes sir?
“I’ll always love you. Always. And I’ll always love your mother, and I am
so very happy for the both of you. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“You’ll always be my boy,” Dad says, and then he returns to the house and
the porch is empty.
“Cory? Cory?”
I turn my face and look at Sandy.
“What do you see?” she asks me.
“A shadow,” I say.
I want to go one more place before I turn the car around and drive away.
I head us up the winding path of Temple Street, toward the Thaxter mansion at
its summit.
Here things have really changed.
Some of the big houses have actually been torn down. Where they were is
rolling grass. And here is another surprise: the Thaxter mansion has grown,
sprouting additions on either side. The property around it is huge. My God! I
realize. Vernon must still live there! I drive through a gate and past a big
swimming pool. A treehouse has been constructed in the arms of a massive oak.
The mansion itself is immaculate, the grounds beautiful, and smaller buildings
have been constructed in its style.
I stop the car in front. “I can’t believe this!” I tell Sandy. “I’ve
gotta find out if Vernon’s still here!”
I get out and start for the front door, my insides quaking with
excitement.
But before I reach it, I hear a bell ring. Ding… ding… ding… ding.
I hear what sounds like a tidal wave, gaining speed and force.
And my breath is well and truly swept away.
Because here they come.
Swarming out of the front door, like wasps from the nest in the church’s
ceiling on Easter Sunday. Here they come, laughing and hollering and jostling
each other. Here they come, in a wonderful riot of noise.
The boys. Dozens of them, dozens. Some white, some black. Their numbers
surge around me, as if I am an island in the river. Some of them run for the
treehouse, others scamper across the rolling green yard. I am at the center of
a young universe, and then I see the brass plaque on the wall next to the
door.
It says THE ZEPHYR HOME FOR BOYS.
Vernon’s mansion has become an orphanage.
And still they stream out around me, furious in their freedom on this
glorious Saturday afternoon. A window opens on the second floor, and a
wrinkled face peers out. “James Lucius!” her voice squawks. “Edward and
Gregory! Get up here for your piano lessons right this very minute!”
She wears blue.
Two older women I don’t know come out, chasing after the crowd of boys.
Good luck to them, I think. And then a younger man emerges, and he stops
before me. “Can I help you?”
“I… used to live here. In Zephyr, I mean.” I am so stunned I can hardly
talk. “When did this become an orphanage?”
“In 1985,” the man tells me. “Mr. Vernon Thaxter left it to us.”
“Is Mr. Thaxter still alive?”
“He left town. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what became of him.” This man
has a gentle face. He has blond hair, and eyes of cornflower blue. “May I ask
your name?”
“I’m—” I stop, because I realize who he must be. “Who are you?”
“I’m Bubba Willow.” He smiles, and I can see Chile in him. “Reverend
Bubba Willow.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you.” We shake hands. “I met your mother once.”
“My mom? Really? What’s your name?”
“Cory Mackenson.”
The name doesn’t register. I was a ship, passing through Chile’s night.
“How’s your mother doin’?”
“Oh, just great. She moved to St. Louis, and she’s teachin’ sixth grade
now.”
“I’ll bet her students sure feel lucky.”
“Parson?” A wizened voice says. “Par son Willa?”
An elderly black man in faded overalls has come out. Around his skinny
waist he wears a tool belt holding hammers, screwdrivers, and arcane-looking
wrenches. “Parson, I done fixed that slow leak
upastairs. Oughta lookat that ol’ freezer now.” His
eyes find me. “Oh,” he says with a soft slow gasp. “I know you.”
And a smile spreads across his face like day following night.
I hug him, and when he grasps me his tool belt jingle-jangles.
“Cory Mackenson! My Lord! Is that you?”
I peer up at the woman in blue. “Yes ma’am, it is.”
“My Lord, my Lord! Excuse me, Reverend! My Lord, my Lord!” Then her
attention goes where it ought to: toward the new generation of boys. “James
Lucius! Don’t you get up in that treehouse and break those fingers!”
“Would you and your family like to come in?” Reverend Willow asks.
“Please do,” Mr. Lightfoot says, smiling. “Lots ta talk
about.”
“Got coffee and doughnuts inside,” the reverend tempts me. “Mrs.
Velvadine runs a grand kitchen.”
“Cory, you get on in here!” Then: “James Luuuuucius!”
Sandy and Skye have gotten out of the car. Sandy knows me, and she knows
I’d like to stay for just a little while. We will not tarry long here, because
my hometown is not our home, but an hour would be time well spent.
As they go in, I pause outside the door before I join them.
I look up, into the bright blue air.
I think I see four figures with wings, and their winged dogs, swooping
and playing in the rivers of light.
They will always be there, as long as magic lives.
And magic has a strong, strong heart.
Acknowledgments
NO BOOK IS EVER WRITTEN WITHOUT HELP AND INFLUENCE. Boy’s Life is no
exception. I would like to thank, then, some of the people and things that
helped create Boy’s Life, whether they’re aware of such help or not.
My thanks to Forrest J. Ackermann; Roger Corman; Boris Karloff; Vincent
Price; Lon Chaney Senior and Junior; Jungle Jim; Sky King and Penny; Screen
Thrills Illustrated; Ian Fleming and Bond, James Bond; Eudora Welty; Bob Kane;
Barbara Steele; Big Daddy Roth; the Boys from Hawthorne though a young man is
gone; Clutch Cargo; Space Angels; Super Car; the Captain and Tom Terrrrific;
Yancy Derringer; Famous Monsters of Filmland; Gordon Scott; Vic Morrow and the
Combat squad; Jim Warren (sorry, Forry!); Boston Blackie; Zorro; Cisco Kid and
Pancho; the Whistler; Kirk Douglas in Spartacus; the Rolling Stones; Thriller
and those pigeons from hell; the Hammer Films bunch; Peter Cushing, the
ultimate Van Helsing; Christopher Lee; Edgar Rice Burroughs; Red Skelton and
the passing parade; Creepy and Eerie; Ray Harryhausen and the Ymir; Mr.
Television, Milton Berle; It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad (Did I miss one?) World;
Edgar Allan Poe; Lester Dent or Kenneth Robeson or whoever cranked out all
those great Doc Savages; Three Dog Night (hello, Cory!); Clayton Moore, the
one and only Lone Ranger; Richard Matheson; Roy Rogers and Trigger, X-Men;
Buffalo Bob and Howdy; the Brothers Grimm; Bela Lugosi; Paladin; The Outer
Limits; Brigitte Bardot (I didn’t spend all my time with Geographics!); Basil
Rathbone; Mister Dillon! Mister Dillon!; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; Invaders from
Mars; Gene Autry; Steve Reeves; Aunt Bea; Dr. Richard Kimble; the Who; Hans
Christian Andersen; 13 Ghosts and those weird glasses; Sergeant Preston of the
Yukon; Mr. and Mrs. North; the Thin Man; Peter Lorre; Alfred Hitchcock; Here,
Lassie!; Errol Flynn, the perfect Robin Hood; a man named Jed; the Aquanauts;
Steve Roper and Mike Nomad; Clint Walker; Kookie, my hair’s falling out!;
Gorgo; Rodan; Reptilicus; Charles Laughton; Oral Roberts heal thyself; The
Gallant Men; Victor Mature swinging that jawbone; Walt Disney; Mr. Lucky; Burt
Lancaster; Through the Looking Glass; Bronco and Sugarfoot; the Mavericks,
wild as the wind in Or-e-gon; Joe and Frank; Fantasia; that house on haunted
hill; Guy Madison and Andy Devine; The Mysterians; Dementia 13 (Yikes!);
Captain America and Bucky; Harper Lee; Steve McQueen (Cooler!) on that
motorcycle, jumping the barbed wire; Tom Swift and His; and so many, many more
whom I will think of as soon as I believe I’ve finished writing this.
To two very special influences on this boy’s life and writing: Mr. Rod
Serling, for his talent and imagination that continues on far beyond the Zone;
and to Mr. Ray Bradbury. Your lake will always be deeper and sweeter than
mine, your jar hold greater mysteries, your rockets travel truer to the heart.
Thank you so very, very much.
Well, I see by the old clock on the wall that it’s time to go. Good-bye,
kids!
Robert R. McCammon
April 14, 1990-September 23, 1990
ROBERT R. McCAMMON is the author of ten previous novels, including the New
York Times bestsellers Swan Song, Stinger, and The Wolf’s Hour; Mine, Baal,
Bethany’s Sin, The Night Boat, They Thirst, Usher’s Passing, and Mystery Walk.
He is the author of a collection of short stories, Blue World, and
contributing editor for The Horror Writers of America Presents Under the Fang,
a collection of vampire stories. Mr. McCammon is a native of Birmingham,
Alabama.
小说下载尽在http://bbs.txtnovel.com---书香门第【冷泉泓薇】整理
附：【本作品来自互联网,本人不做任何负责】内容版权归作者所有!
