绿里奇迹(英文版)-第37章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


〃Oh　sure！　Dat　shit！〃　He　cranked　his　hand　at　Brutal；　wanting　him　to　go　on；　and　Mr。　Jingles's　little　oildrop　eyes　practically　spun　in　their　sockets；　trying　to　keep　that　spool　in　view。　It　was　pretty　funny。　Percy　came　a　little　closer；　as　if　wanting　to　get　a　better　look；　and　I　saw　John　Coffey　frowning　at　him；　but　I　was　too　wrapped　up　in　Brutal's　fantasy　to　pay　much　attention。　This　took　telling　the　condemned　man　what　he　wanted　to　hear　to　new　heights；　and　I　was　all　admiration；　believe　me。　
'〃Well；〃　Brutal　said；　〃there's　the　mouse　city；　but　what　the　kids　really　like　is　the　Mouseville　All…Star　Circus；　where　there's　mice　that　swing　on　trapezes；　and　mice　that　roll　these　little　barrels；　and　mice　that　stack　coins…〃　
〃Yeah；　dat's　it！　Dat's　the　place　for　Mr。　Jingles！〃　Delacroix　said。　His　eyes　sparkled　and　his　cheeks　were　high　with　color。　It　occurred　to　me　that　Brutus　Howell　was　a　kind　of　saint。　〃You　gonna　be　a　circus　mouse　after　all；　Mr。　Jingles！　Gonna　live　in　a　mouse　city　down　Florida！　All　ivy…glass　windows！　Hurrah！〃　
He　threw　the　spool　extra…hard。　It　hit　low　on　the　wall；　took　a　crazy　bounce；　and　squirted　out　between　the　bars　of　his　cell　door　and　onto　the　Mile。　Mr。　Jingles　raced　out　after　it；　and　Percy　saw　his　chance。　
〃No；　you　fool！〃　Brutal　yelled；　but　Percy　paid　no　attention。　Just　as　Mr。　Jingles　reached　the　spool　…　too　intent　on　it　to　realize　his　old　enemy　was　at　hand　…　Percy　brought　the　sole　of　one　hard　black　workshoe　down　on　it。　There　was　an　audible　snap　as　Mr。　Jingles's　back　broke；　and　blood　gushed　from　his　mouth。　His　tiny　dark　eyes　bulged　in　their　sockets；　and　in　them　I　read　an　expression　of　surprised　agony　that　was　all　too　human。　
Delacroix　screamed　with　horror　and　grief。　He　threw　himself　at　the　door　of　his　cell　and　thrust　his　arms　out　between　the　bars；　reaching　as　far　as　he　could；　crying　the　mouse's　name　over　and　over。　
Percy　turned　toward　him；　smiling。　Toward　the　three　of　us。　〃There；〃　he　said。　〃I　knew　I'd　get　him；　sooner　or　later。　Just　a　matter　of　time；　really。〃　He　turned　and　walked　back　up　the　Green　Mile；　not　hurrying；　leaving　Mr。　Jingles　lying　on　the　linoleum　in　a　spreading　pool　of　his　own　blood。　


Part　Four：
The　Bad　Death　of　Eduard　Delacroix　
1。　
All　this　other　writing　aside；　I've　kept　a　little　diary　since　I　took　up　residence　at　Georgia　Pines　…　no　big　deal；　just　a　couple　of　paragraphs　a　day；　mostly　about　the　weather　…　and　I　looked　back　through　it　last　evening。　I　wanted　to　see　just　how　long　it　has　been　since　my　grandchildren；　Christopher　and　Danielle；　more　or　less　forced　me　into　Georgia　Pines。　〃For　your　own　good；　Gramps；〃　they　said。　Of　course　they　did。　Isn't　that　what　people　mostly　say　when　they　have　finally　figured　out　how　to　get　rid　of　a　problem　that　walks　and　talks？　
It's　been　a　little　over　two　years。　The　eerie　thing　is　that　I　don't　know　if　it　feels　like　two　years；　or　longer　than　that；　or　shorter。　My　sense　of　time　seems　to　be　melting；　like　a　kid's　snowman　in　a　January　thaw。　It's　as　if　time　as　it　always　was　…　Eastern　Standard　Time；　Daylight　Saving　Tune；　Working…Man　Time　…　doesn't　exist　anymore。　Here　there　is　only　Georgia　Pines　Time；　which　is　Old　Man　Time；　Old　Lady　Time；　and　Piss　the　Bed　Tune。　The　rest　。。。　all　gone。　
This　is　a　dangerous　damned　place。　You　don't　you　think　it's　only　a　boring　dangerous　as　a　nursery　school　at　naptime；　but　it's　dangerous；　all　right。　I've　seen　a　lot　of　people　slide　into　senility　since　I　came　here；　and　sometimes　they　do　more　than　slide　sometimes　they　go　down　with　the　speed　of　a　crash…diving　submarine。　They　e　here　mostly　all　right　…　dim…eyed　and　welded　to　the　cane；　maybe　a　little　loose　in　the　bladder；　but　otherwise　okay　…　and　then　something　happens　to　them。　A　month　later　they're　just　sitting　in　the　TV　room；　staring　up　at　Oprah　Winfrey　on　the　TV　with　dull　eyes；　a　slack　jaw；　and　a　forgotten　glass　of　orange　juice　tilted　and　dribbling　in　one　hand。　A　month　after　that；　you　have　to　tell　them　their　kids'　names　when　the　kids　e　to　visit。　And　a　month　after　that；　it's　their　own　damned　names　you　have　to　refresh　them　on。　Something　happens　to　them；　all　right：　Georgia　Pines　Time　happens　to　them。　Time　here　is　like　a　weak　acid　that　erases　first　memory　and　then　the　desire　to　go　on　living。　
You　have　to　fight　it。　That's　what　I　tell　Elaine　Connelly；　my　special　friend。　It's　gotten　better　for　me　since　I　started　writing　about　what　happened　to　me　in　1932；　the　year　John　Coffey　came　on　the　Green　Mile。　Some　of　the　memories　are　awful；　but　I　can　feel　them　sharpening　my　mind　and　my　awareness　the　way　a　knife　sharpens　a　pencil；　and　that　makes　the　pain　worthwhile。　Writing　and　memory　alone　aren't　enough；　though。　I　also　have　a　body；　ay　now　be；　and　I　exercise　it　as　much　as　I　can。　It　was　hard　at　first　…　old　fogies　like　me　aren't　much　shakes　when　it　es　to　exercise　just　for　the　sake　of　exercise　…　but　it's　easier　now　that　there's　a　purpose　to　my　walks。　
I　go　out　before　breakfast　…　as　soon　as　it's　light；　most　days　…　for　my　first　stroll。　It　was　raining　this　morning；　and　the　damp　makes　my　joints　ache；　but　I　hooked　a　poncho　from　the　rack　by　the　kitchen　door　and　went　out；　anyway。　When　a　man　has　a　chore；　he　has　to　do　it；　and　if　it　hurts；　too　bad。　Besides；　there　are　pensations。　The　chief　one　is　keeping　that　sense　of　Real　Time；　as　opposed　to　Georgia　Pines　Time。　And　I　like　the　rain；　aches　or　no　aches。　Especially　in　the　early　morning；　when　the　day　is　young　and　seems　full　of　possibilities；　even　to　a　washed…up　old　boy　like　me。　
I　went　through　the　kitchen；　stopping　to　beg　two　slices　of　toast　from　one　of　the　sleepy…eyed　cooks；　and　then　went　out。　I　crossed　the　croquet　course；　then　the　weedy　little　putting　green。　Beyond　that　is　a　small　stand　of　woods；　with　a　narrow　path　winding　through　it　and　a　couple　of　sheds；　no　longer　used　and　mouldering　away　quietly；　along　the　way。　I　walked　down　this　path　slowly；　listening　to　the　sleek　and　secret　patter　of　the　rain　in　the　pines；　chewing　away　at　a　piece　of　toast　with　my　few　remaining　teeth。　My　legs　ached；　but　it　was　a　low　ache；　manageable。　Mostly　I　felt　pretty　well。　I　drew　the　moist　gray　air　as　deep　as　I　could；　taking　it　in　like　food。　
And　when　I　got　to　the　second　of　those　old　sheds；　I　went　in　for　awhile；　and　I　took　care　of　my　business　there。　
When　I　walked　back　up　the　path　twenty　minutes　later；　I　could　feel　a　worm　of　hunger　stirring　in　my　belly；　and　thought　I　could　eat　something　a　little　more　substantial　than　toast。　A　dish　of　oatmeal；　perhaps　even　a　scrambled　egg　with　a　sausage　on　the　side。　I　love　sausage；　always　have；　but　if　I　eat　more　than　one　these　days；　I'm　apt　to　get　the　squitters。　One　would　be　safe　enough；　though。　Then；　with　my　belly　full　and　with　the　damp　air　still　perking　up　my　brain　（or　so　I　hoped）；　I　would　go　up　to　the　solarium　and　write　about　the　execution　of　Eduard　Delacroix。　I　would　do　it　as　fast　as　I　could；　so　as　not　to　lose　my　courage。　
It　was　Mr。　Jingles　I　was　thinking　about　as　I　crossed　the　croquet　course　to　the　kitchen　door　…　how　Percy　Wetmore　had　stamped　on　him　and　broken　his　back；　and　how　Delacroix　had　screamed　when　he　realized　what　his　enemy　had　done　…　and　I　didn't　see　Brad　Dolan　standing　there；　half…hidden　by　the　Dumpster；　until　he　reached　out　and　grabbed　my　wrist。　
〃Out　for　a　little　stroll；　Paulie？〃　he　asked。　
I　jerked　back　from　him；　yanking　my　wrist　out　of　his　hand。　Some　of　it　was　just　being　startled　…　anyone　will　jerk　when　they're　startled　…　but　that　wasn't　all　of　it。　I'd　been　thinking　about　Percy　Wetmore；　remember；　and　it's　Percy　that　Brad　always　reminds　me　of。　Some　of　it's　how　Brad　always　goes　around　with　a　paperback　stuffed　into　his　pocket　（with　Percy　it　was　always　a　men's　adventure　magazine；　with　Brad　it's　books　of　jokes　that　are　only　funny　if　you're　stupid　and　mean…hearted）；　some　of　it's　how　he　acts　like　he's　King　Shit　of　Turd　Mountain；　but　mostly　it's　that　he's　sneaky；　and　he　likes　to　hurt。　
He'd　just　gotten　to　work；　I　saw；　hadn't　even　changed　into　his　orderly's　whites　yet。　He　was　wearing　jeans　and　a　cheesy…looking　Western…style　shirt。　In　one　hand　was　the　remains　of　a　Danish　he'd　hooked　out　of　the　kitchen。　He'd　been　standing　under　the　leave；　eating　it　where　he　wouldn't　get　wet。　And　where　he　could　watch　for　me；　I'm　pretty　sure　of　that　now。　I'm　pretty　sure　of　something　else；　as　well：　I'll　have　to　watch　out　for　Mr。　Brad　Dolan。　He　doesn't　like　me　much。　I　don't　know　why；　but　I　never　knew　why　Percy　Wetmore　didn't　like　Delacroix；　either。　And　dislike　is　really　too　weak　a　word。　Percy　hated　Del's　guts　from　the　very　first　moment　the　little　Frenchman　came　onto　the　Green　Mile。　
'〃What's　with　this　poncho　you　got　on；　Paulie？〃　he　asked；　flicking　the　collar。　〃This　isn't　yours。〃　
〃I　got　it　in　the　hall　outside　the　kitchen；〃　I　said。　I　hate　it　when　he　calls　me　Paulie；　and　I　think　he　knows　it；　but　I　was　damned　if　I'd　give　him　the　satisfaction　of　seeing　it。　〃There's　a　whole　row　of　them。　I'm　not　hurting　it　any；　would　you　say？　Rain's　what　it's　made　for；　after　all。〃　
〃But　it　wasn't　made　for　you；　Paulie；〃　he　said；　giving　it　another　little　flick。　〃That's　the　thing。　Those　slickers're　for　the　employees；　not　the　residents。〃　
〃I　still　don't　see　what　harm　it　does。〃　
He　gave　me　a　thin　little　smile。　〃It's　not　about　harm；　it's　about　the　rules。　What　would　life　be　without　rules？　Paulie；　Paulie；　Paulie。〃　He　shook　his　head；　as　if　just　looking　at　me　made　him　feel　sorry　to　be　alive。　〃You　p