sk.everythingseventual-第5部分

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　hate　fourteen；　supposedly　there's　poison　I　ivy；　and　with　all　this　underbrush；　there　could　easily　be　…
　　And　then　something　bit　me；　didn't　it？　Yes；　I'm　almost　sure　it　did。　On　the　left　calf；　just　above　the　top　of　my　whit　athletic　sock。　A　red…hot　darning　needle　of　pain；　perfectly　concentrated　at　first；　then　spreading　。　。　。
　　。　。　。　then　darkness。　Until　the　gurney；　zipped　up　snug　inside　a　body　bag　and　listening　to　Mike　（'Which　one　did　they　say？'）　and　Rusty　（'Four；　I　think。　Yeah；　four。'）
　　I　want　to　think　it　that's　only　because　was　some　kind　of　snake；　but　maybe　I　was　thinking　about　them　while　I　hunted　for　my　ball。　It　could　have　been　an　insect；　I　only　recall　the　single　line　of　pain。　and　after　all；　what　does　it　matter？　What　matters　here　is　that　I'm　alive　and　they　don't　know　it。　It's　incredible；　but　they　don't　know　it。　Of　course　I　had　bad　luck…I　know　Dr。　Jennings；　remember　speaking　to　him　as　I　played　through　his　foursome　on　the　eleventh　hole。　A　nice　enough　guy；　but　vague；　an　antique。　The　antique　had　pronounced　me　dead。　Then　Rusty；　with　his　dopey　green　eyes　and　his　detention　hall　grin；　had　pronounced　me　dead。　The　lady　doc；　Ms。　Cisco　Kid；　hadn't　even　looked　at　me　yet；　not　really。　When　she　did；　maybe　…
　　'I　hate　that　jerk；'　she　says　when　the　door　is　closed。　Now　it's　just　the　three　of　us；　only　of　course　Ms。　Cisco　Kid　thinks　it's　just　the　two　of　them。　'Why　do　I　always　get　the　jerks；　Peter？'
　　'I　don't　know；'　Mr。　Melrose　Place　says；　'but　Rusty's　a　special　case；　even　in　the　annals　of　famous　jerks。　Walking　brain　death。'
　　She　laughs；　and　something　clanks。　The　clank　is　followed　by　a　sound　that　scares　me　badly：　steel　instruments　clicking　together。　They　are　of　to　the　left　of　me；　and　although　I　can't　see　them；　I　know　what　they're　getting　ready　to　do：　the　autopsy。　They　are　getting　ready　to　cut　into　me。　They　intend　to　remove　Howard　Cottrell's　heart　and　see　if　it　blew　a　piston　or　threw　a　rod。
　　My　leg！　I　scream　inside　my　head。　Look　at　my　left　leg！　That's　the　trouble；　not　my　heart！
　　Perhaps　my　eyes　have　adjusted　a　little；　after　all。　Now　I　can　see；　at　the　very　top　of　my　vision；　a　stainless　steel　armature。　It　looks　like　a　giant　piece　of　dental　equipment；　except　that　thing　at　the　end　isn't　a　drill。　It's　a　saw。　From　someplace　deep　inside；　where　the　brain　stores　the　sort　of　trivia　you　only　need　if　you　happen　to　be　playing　Jeopardy！　on　TV；　I　even　e　up　with　the　name。　It's　a　Gigli　saw。　They　use　it　to　cut　of　the　top　of　your　skull。　This　is　after　they've　pulled　your　face　off　like　a　kid's　Halloween　mask；　of　course；　hair　and　all。
　　Then　they　take　out　your　brain。
　　Clink。　Clink。　Clunk。　A　pause。　Then　a　CLANK！　so　loud　I'd　jump　if　I　were　capable　of　jumping。
　　'Do　you　want　to　do　the　pericardial　cut？'　she　asks。
　　Pete；　cautious：　'Do　you　want　me　to？'
　　Dr。　Cisco；　sounding　pleasant；　sounding　like　someone　who　is　conferring　a　favor　and　a　responsibility：　'Yes；　I　think　so。'
　　'All　right；'　he　says。　'You'll　assist？'
　　'Your　trusty　co…pilot；'　she　says；　and　laughs。　She　punctuates　her　laughter　with　a　snick…snick　sound。　It's　the　sound　of　scissors　cutting　the　air。
　　Now　panic　beats　and　flutters　inside　my　skull　like　a　flock　of　starlings　locked　in　an　attic。　The　Nam　was　a　long　time　ago；　but　I　saw　half　a　dozen　field　autopsies　there…what　the　doctors　used　to　call　'　tent…show　postmortems'…and　I　know　what　Cisco　and　Pancho　mean　to　do。　The　scissors　have　long　sharp　blades；　very　sharp　blades；　and　fat　finger　holes。　Still；　you　have　to　be　strong　to　use　them。　The　lower　blade　slides　into　the　gut　like　butter。　Then；　snip；　up　through　the　bundle　of　nerves　at　the　solar　plexus　and　into　the　beef…jerky　weave　of　muscle　and　tendon　above　it。　Then　into　the　sternum。　When；　the　blades　e　together　this　time；　they　do　so　with　a　heavy　crunch　as　the　bone　parts　and　the　ribcage　pops　apart　like　a　couple　of　barrels　that　have　been　lashed　together　with　twine。　Then　on　up　with　those　scissors　that　look　like　nothing　so　much　as　the　poultry　shears　supermarket　butchers　use…snip…CRUNCH；　snip…CRUNCH；　snip…CRUNCH；　splitting　bone　and　shearing　muscle；　freeing　the　lungs；　heading　for　the　trachea；　turning　Howard　the　Conqueror　into　a　Thanksgiving　dinner　no　one　will　eat。
　　A　thin；　nagging　whine…this　does　sound　like　a　dentist's　drill。
　　Pete：　'Can　I…？'
　　Dr。　Cisco；　actually　sounding　a　bit　maternal：　'No。　These。'　Snick…snick。　Demonstrating　for　him。
　　They　can't　do　this；　I　think。　They　can't　cut　me　up　I　can　FEEL！
　　'Why？'　he　asks。
　　Because　that's　the　way　I　want　it；'　she　says；　sounding　a　lot　less　maternal。　'When　you're　on　your　own；　Petie…boy；　you　can　do　what　you　want。　But　in　Katie　Arlen's　autopsy　room；　you　start　off　with　the　pericardial　shears。'
　　Autopsy　room。　There。　It's　out。　I　want　to　be　all　over　goosebumps；　but　of　course；　nothing　happens；　my　flesh　remains　smooth。
　　'Remember；'　Dr。　Arlen　says　（but　now　she's　actually　lecturing）；　'any　fool　can　learn　how　to　use　a　milking　machine　。　。　。　but　the　hands…on　procedure　is　always　best。'　There　is　something　vaguely　suggestive　in　her　tone。　'Okay？'
　　'Okay；'　he　says。
　　They're　going　to　do　it。　I　have　to　make　some　kind　of　noise　in　or　movement；　or　they're　really　going　to　do　it。　If　blood　flows　or　jets　up　from　the　first　punch　of　the　scissors　they'll　know　something's　wrong；　but　by　then　it　will　be　too　late；　very　likely；　that　first　snip…CRUNCH　will　have　happened；　and　my　ribs　will　be　lying　against　my　upper　arms；　my　heart　pulsing　frantically　away　under　the　fluorescents　in　its　blood…glossy　sac　…
　　I　concentrate　everything　on　my　chest。　I　push；　or　try　to　。　。　。　and　something　happens。
　　A　sound！
　　I　make　a　sound！
　　It's　mostly　inside　my　closed　mouth；　but　I　can　also　hear　and　feel　it　in　my　nose…a　low　hum。
　　Concentrating；　summoning　every　bit　of　effort；　I　do　it　again；　and　this　time　the　sound　is　a　little　stronger；　leaking　out　of　my　nostrils　like　cigarette　smoke：　Nnnnnnn…It　makes　me　think　of　an　old　Alfred　Hitchcock　TV　program　I　saw　a　long；　long　time　ago；　where　Joseph　Cotton　was　paralyzed　in　a　car　crash　and　was　finally　able　to　let　them　know　he　was　still　alive　by　crying　a　single　tear。
　　And　if　nothing　else；　that　minuscule　mosquito…whine　of　a　sound　has　proved　to　myself　that　I'm　alive；　that　I'm　not　just　a　spirit　lingering　inside　the　clay　effigy　of　my　own　dead　body。
　　Focusing　all　my　concentration；　I　can　feel　breath　slipping　through　my　nose　and　down　my　throat；　replacing　the　breath　I　have　now　expended；　and　then　I　send　it　out　again；　working　harder　than　I　ever　worked　summers　for　the　Lane　Construction　pany　when　I　was　a　teenager；　working　harder　than　I　have　ever　worked　in　my　life；　because　now　I'm　working　for　my　life　and　they　must　hear　me；　dear　Jesus；　they　must。
　　Nnnnnnnn　…
　　'You　want　some　music？'　the　woman　doctor　asks。　'I've　got　Marty　Stuart；　Tony　Bennett…'
　　He　makes　a　despairing　sound。　I　barely　hear　it；　and　take　no　immediate　meaning　from　what　she's　saying　。　。　。　which　is　probably　a　mercy。
　　'All　right；'　she　says；　laughing。　'I've　also　got　the　Rolling　Stones。'
　　'You？'
　　'Me。　I'm　not　quite　as　square　as　I　look；　Peter。'
　　'I　didn't　mean　。　。　。　'　He　sounds　flustered。
　　Listen　to　me！　I　scream　inside　my　head　as　my　frozen　eyes　stare　up　into　the　icy…white　light。　Stop　chattering　like　magpies　and　listen　to　me！
　　I　can　feel　more　air　trickling　down　my　throat　and　the　idea　occurs　that　whatever　has　happened　to　me　may　be　starting　to　wear　off　。　。　。　but　it's　only　a　faint　blip　on　the　screen　of　my　now　thoughts。　Maybe　it　is　wearing　off；　but　very　soon　now　recovery　will　cease　to　be　an　option　for　me。　All　my　energy　is　bent　toward　making　them　hear　me；　and　this　time　they　will　hear　me　I　know　it。
　　'Stones；　then'；　she　says。　'Unless　you　want　me　to　run　out；　and　get　a　Michael。　Bolton　CD　in　honor　of　your　first　pericardial'
　　'Please；　no！'　he　cries；　and　they　both　laugh。
　　The　sound　starts　to　e　out；　and　it　is　louder　this　time。
　　Not　as　loud　as　I'd　hoped；　but　loud　enough。　Surely　loud　enough。　They'll　hear；　they　must。
　　Then；　just　as　I　begin　to　force　the　sound　out　of　my　nose　like　some　rapidly　solidifying　liquid；　the　room　is　filled　with　a　blare　of　fuzz…tone　guitar　and　Mick　Jagger's　voice　bashing　off　the　walls。　'Awww；　no　it's　only　rock　and　roll；　but　I　LIYYYYKE　IT　。　。　。　'
　　'Turn　it　down！'　Dr。　Cisco　yells；　ically　overshouting；　and　amid　these　no