pzb.drawingblood-第3部分

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d　of　the　trunk；　the　three　mattresses　strapped　to　the　roof。　His　quick　blue　eyes；　as　bright　as　Trevor's　and　Daddy's　were　pale；　seemed　to　take　in　the　situation　at　a　glance。　〃For　ing　out？　Nothing。　My　time　isn't　that　valuable；　believe　me。〃
　　He　lowered　his　head　a　little　to　peer　into　Daddy's　face。　Trevor　thought　suddenly　of　an　inquisitive　giraffe。　〃But　don't　I　know　you？　You　wouldn't　be　。。。　no　。。。　not　Robert　McGee？　The　cartoonist　who　blew　the　brainpan　off　the　American　underground'　in　the　words　of　Saint　Crumb　himself？　。　。　。　No；　no；　of　course　not。　Not　in　Missing　Mile。　Silly　of　me；　sorry。〃
　　He　was　already　turning　away；　and　Daddy　wasn't　going　to　say　anything。　Trevor　couldn't　stand　it。　He　wanted　to　run　to　the　tall　young　man；　to　yell　up　into　that　kind；　curious　face；　Yes；　it　is　him；　it　is　Robert　McGee　and　he's　everything　you　said　and　he's　MY　DADDY　TOO！　In　that　moment　Trevor　felt　he　would　burst　with　pride　for　his　father。
　　But　Momma's　arm　tightened　around　him；　holding　him　back。　One　long　lacquered　nail　tapped　a　warning　on　his　forearm。　〃Sh；〃　he　heard　her　say　softly。
　　And　Daddy；　Robert　McGee；　Bobby　McGee；　creator　of　the　crazed；　sick；　beautiful　ic　Birdland；　whose　work　had　appeared　beside　Crumb's　and　Shelton's；　in　Zap！　and　the　L。A。　Free　Press　and　the　East　Village　Other　and　everywhere　in　between；　all　across　the　country　。　。　。　who　had　received　and　refused　offers　from　the　same　Hollywood　he　had　once　drawn　as　a　giant　blood…swollen　tick　still　clinging　to　the　rotten　corpse　of　a　dog　labeled　Art　。　。　。　who　had　once　had　a　steady　hand　and　a　pure；　scathing　vision　。。。
　　Daddy　only　shook　his　head　and　looked　away。
　　
　　Just　past　downtown　Missing　Mile；　a　road　splits　off　to　the　left　from　Firehouse　Street　and　meanders　away　into　scrubby　countryside。　The　fields　out　here　are　nearly　barren；　the　soil　gone　infertile…most　believe　from　overfarming　and　lack　of　crop　rotation。　Only　the　oldest　residents　of　town　still　say　these　fields　are　cursed；　and　were　once　sowed　with　salt。　The　good　land　is　on　the　other　side　of　town；　the　side　toward　Corinth；　out　where　the　abandoned　railyard　and　the　deep　woods　are。　Firehouse　Street　runs　into　State　Highway　42。　The　road　that　splits　off　to　the　left　soon　bees　gravel；　then　dirt。　This　is　the　poorest　part　of　Missing　Mile；　the　place　called　Violin　Road。
　　Out　here　the　best　places　to　live　are　decrepit　farmhouses；　big　rambling　places　with　high　ceilings　and　large　cool　rooms；　most　of　which　were　abandoned　or　sold　years　ago　as　the　crops　went　bad。　A　step　below　these　are　the　aluminum　trailers　and　tarpaper　shacks；　their　dirt　yards　choked　with　broken　toys；　rusting　hulks　of　autos；　and　other　trash；　their　peripheries　negligently　guarded　by　slat…sided；　soporific　hounds。
　　Out　here　only　the　wild　things　are　healthy；　the　old　trees　whose　roots　find　sustenance　far　below　the　ill…used　layer　of　topsoil；　the　occasional　rosebush　gone　to　green　thicket　and　thorns；　the　unstoppable　kudzu。　It　is　as　if　they　have　decided　to　take　back　the　land　for　their　own。
　　Trevor　loved　it。　It　was　where　he　discovered　that　he　could　draw　even　if　Daddy　couldn't。
　　Momma　talked　to　a　real　estate　agent　in　town　and　figured　out　that　they　could　afford　to　rent　one　of　the　dilapidated　farmhouses　for　a　month。　By　that　time；　she　said；　she　would　find　a　job　in　Missing　Mile　and　Daddy　would　be　drawing。　Sure　enough；　a　few　days　after　they　moved　their　things　into　the　house；　a　dress　shop　hired　Momma　as　a　salesgirl。　The　job　was　no　fun…she　couldn't　wear　jeans　to　work；　which　left　her　with　a　choice　of　one　Indian…print　skirt　and　blouse　or　one　patchwork　dress…but　she　ate　lunch　at　the　diner　in　town　and　sometimes　stopped　for　coffee　after　her　shift。　Soon　she　met　some　of　the　kids　they'd　seen　going　into　the　record　store；　and　others　like　them。
　　If　she　could　drive　to　Raleigh　or　Chapel　Hill；　they　told　Momma；　she　could　make　good　money　modeling　for　university　art　classes。　Momma　talked　to　Kinsey　at　the　garage；　who　let　her　set　up　a　payment　plan。　A　week　later　the　Rambler　had　a　brand…new　engine；　and　Momma　quit　the　dress　shop　and　started　driving　to　Raleigh　several　times　a　week。
　　Daddy　had　his　things　set　up　in　a　tiny　fourth　bedroom　at　the　back　of　the　house；　his　untidy　jumble　of　inks　and　brushes　and　his　drawing　table；　the　one　piece　of　furniture　they　had　brought　from　Austin。　He　went　in　there　and　shut　the　door　every　morning　after　Momma　left；　and　he　stayed　in　there　most　of　the　day。　Trevor　had　no　idea　whether　he　was　drawing　or　not。
　　But　Trevor　was。　He　had　found　an　old　sketchbook　of　Daddy's　when　Momma　unpacked　the　car。　Most　of　the　pages　had　been　torn　out；　but　there　were　still　a　few　blank　sheets　left。　Trevor　usually　took　Didi　outside　to　play　in　the　daytime…Momma　had　assured　him　that　the　Devil's　Tramping　Ground　was　more　than　forty　miles　away；　so　he　didn't　have　to　worry　about　accidentally　ing　upon　the　pacing；　muttering　demon。
　　When　Didi　was　napping…something　he　seemed　to　do　more　and　more　often　these　days…Trevor　wandered　through　the　house；　looking　at　the　bare　floorboards　and　the　water…stained　walls；　wondering　if　anyone　had　ever　loved　this　house。　One　afternoon　he　found　himself　in　the　dim；　shabby　kitchen；　perched　on　one　of　the　rickety　chairs　that　had　e　with　the　house；　a　felt…tip　pen　in　his　hand；　the　sketchbook　on　the　table　before　him。　He　had　no　idea　what　he　was　going　to　draw。　He　had　hardly　ever　thought　about　drawing　before；　that　was　what　Daddy　did。　Trevor　could　remember　scribbling　with　crayons　on　cheap　newsprint　when　he　was　Didi's　age；　making　great　round　heads　with　stick　arms　and　legs　ing　straight　out　of　them；　as　small　children　do。　This　circle　with　five　dots　in　it　is　Momma；　this　one　is　Daddy；　that　one's　me。　But　he　hadn't　drawn　for　at　least　a　year…not　since　Daddy　stopped。
　　Daddy　had　told　him　once　that　the　trick　was　not　to　think　about　it；　not　in　your　sketchbook　anyway。　You　just　had　to　find　the　path　between　your　hand　and　your　heart　and　your　brain　and　see　what　came　out。　Trevor　uncapped　the　pen　and　put　its　tip　against　the　unblemished　（though　slightly　yellowed）　page　of　the　sketchbook。　The　ink　began　to　bleed　into　the　paper；　making　a　small　spreading　dot；　a　tiny　black　sun　in　a　pale　void。　Then；　slowly；　Trevor's　hand　began　to　move。
　　He　soon　discovered　he　was　drawing　Skeletal　Sammy；　a　character　from　Daddy's　ic　book；　Birdland。　Sammy　was　all　straight　lines　and　sharp　points：　easy　to　draw。　The　half…leering；　half…desperate　face；　the　long　black　coat　that　hung　on　Sammy's　shoulders　like　a　pair　of　broken　wings；　the　spidery　hands　and　the　long　thin　legs　and　the　exaggerated　bulge　of　Sammy's　kneecaps　beneath　his　black　stovepipe　pants…all　began　to　take　shape。
　　Trevor　sat　back　and　looked　at　the　drawing。　It　was　nowhere　near　as　good　as　Daddy's　Sammy；　of　course；　the　lines　weren't　straight；　the　black　inking　was　more　like　scribbling。　But　it　was　no　circle　with　five　dots；　either。　It　was　immediately　recognizable　as　Skeletal　Sammy。
　　Daddy　recognized　it　as　soon　as　he　walked　into　the　kitchen。
　　He　leaned　over　Trevor's　shoulder　for　several　moments　looking　at　the　drawing。　One　hand　rested　lightly　on　Trev's　back；　the　other　tapped　the　table　nervously；　fingers　as　long　and　thin　as　Sammy's；　faint　lavender　veins　visible　beneath　the　pale　skin；　silver　wedding　ring　too　loose　on　the　third　finger。　For　a　moment　Trevor　feared　Daddy　might　snatch　the　drawing；　the　whole　sketchbook；　he　felt　as　if　he　had　been　caught　doing　something　wrong。
　　But　Daddy　only　kissed　the　top　of　Trevor's　head。　〃You　draw　a　mean　junkie；　kiddo；〃　he　whispered　into　Trevor's　ginger　hair。　And　he　was　gone　from　the　kitchen　silently；　like　a　ghost；　without　getting　the　beer　or　glass　of　water　or　whatever　he　had　e　for；　leaving　his　elder　son　half　elated　and　half　dreadfully；　mysteriously　ashamed。
　　The　carefully　drawn　fingers　of　Sammy's　left　hand　were　blurring。　A　drop　of　moisture　on　the　page；　making　the　ink　bleed　and　furl。　Trevor　touched　the　wetness；　then　put　his　finger　to　his　lips。　Salty。　A　tear。
　　Daddy's；　or　his　own？
　　
　　The　worst　thing　happened　the　following　week。　It　turned　out　Daddy　had　been　drawing　in　his　cramped　little　studio。　Had　finally　finished　a　story；　only　a　page　long；　and　sent　it　off　to　one　of　his　papers。　Trevor　couldn't　remember　if　it　was　the　Barb　or　the　Freep　or　maybe　one　of　the　others…he　got　them　mixed　up　sometimes。
　　The　paper　rejected　the　story。　Daddy　read　the　letter　aloud　in　a　hollow；　mocking　voice。　It　had　been　a　difficult　decision；　the　editor　said；　considering　his　reputation　and　the　selling　power　of　his　name。　However；　he　simply　didn't　feel　the　story　approached　the　quality　of　Daddy's　previous　work；　and　he　thought　publishing　it　would　be　bad　both　for　the　paper　and　for　Daddy's　career。
　　It　was　the　kindest　way　the　editor　could　find　to　say　This　ic　is　a　piece　of　shit。
　　The　next　day；　Daddy　walked　into　town　and　called　the　publisher　of　Birdland。　The　stories　for　the　fourth　issue　were　already　nearly　a　year　overdue。　Daddy　told　the　publisher　there　would　be　no　more　stories；　not　now；　not　ever。　Then　he　hung　up　the　pay　phone　and　walked　a　mile　across　town　to　the　liquor　store。　By　the　time　he　got　home；　he　had　already　cracked　the　seal　on　a　gallon　jug　of　bourbon。
　　Momma　had　begun　staying　later　and　later　in　the　city　after　her　modeling　jobs…having　drinks　with　some　of　the　other　models　one　night；　going　to　someone's　apartment　to　get　stoned　the　next。　Daddy　didn't　like　tha