sk.everythingseventual-第70部分

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of　cars　pointed　toward　Maine　and　New　Hampshire；　then　walked　back。
　　A　dozen　or　so　people　were　circulating　on　the　littered　front　lawn　of　the　blue…and…gray　Cape　Cod。　A　large　television　stood　to　the　left　of　the　cement　walk；　its　feet　planted　on　four　paper　ashtrays　that　were　doing　absolutely　nothing　to　protect　the　lawn。　On　top　was　a　sign　reading　MAKE　AN　OFFER…YOU　MIGHT　BE　SURPRISED。　An　electrical　cord；　augmented　by　an　extension；　trailed　back　from　the　TV　and　through　the　open　front　door。　A　fat　woman　sat　in　a　lawn　chair　before　it；　shaded　by　an　umbrella　with　CINZANO　printed　on　the　colorful　scalloped　flaps。　There　was　a　card　table　beside　her　with　a　cigar　box；　a　pad　of　paper；　and　another　hand…lettered　sign　on　it。　This　sign　read　ALL　SALES　CASH；　ALL　SALES　FINAL。　The　TV　was　on；　tuned　to　an　afternoon　soap　opera　where　two　beautiful　young　people　looked　on　the　verge　of　having　deeply　unsafe　sex。　The　fat　woman　glanced　at　Kinnell；　then　back　at　the　TV。　She　looked　at　it　for　a　moment；　then　looked　back　at　him　again。　This　time　her　mouth　was　slightly　sprung。
　　Ah；　Kinnell　thought；　looking　around　for　the　liquor　box　filled　with　paperbacks　that　was　sure　to　be　here　someplace；　a　fan。
　　He　didn't　see　any　paperbacks；　but　he　saw　the　picture；　leaning　against　an　ironing　board　and　held　in　place　by　a　couple　of　plastic　laundry　baskets；　and　his　breath　stopped　in　his　throat。　He　wanted　it　at　once。
　　He　walked　over　with　a　casualness　that　felt　exaggerated　and　dropped　to　one　knee　in　front　of　it。　The　painting　was　a　watercolor；　and　technically　very　good。　Kinnell　didn't　care　about　that；　technique　didn't　interest　him　（a　fact　the　critics　of　his　own　work　had　duly　noted）。　What　he　liked　in　works　of　art　was　content；　and　the　more　unsettling　the　better。　This　picture　scored　high　in　that　department。　He　knelt　between　the　two　laundry　baskets；　which　had　been　filled　with　a　jumble　of　small　appliances；　and　let　his　fingers　slip　over　the　glass　facing　of　the　picture。　He　glanced　around　briefly；　looking　for　others　like　it；　and　saw　none…only　the　usual　yard　sale　art　collection　of　Little　Bo　Peeps；　praying　hands；　and　gambling　dogs。
　　He　looked　back　at　the　framed　watercolor；　and　in　his　mind　he　was　already　moving　his　suitcase　into　the　backseat　of　the　Audi　so　he　could　slip　the　picture　fortably　into　the　trunk。
　　It　showed　a　young　man　behind　the　wheel　of　a　muscle　car…maybe　a　Grand　Am；　maybe　a　GTX；　something　with　a　T…top；　anyway…crossing　the　Tobin　Bridge　at　sunset。　The　T…top　was　off；　turning　the　black　car　into　a　half…assed　convertible。　The　young　man's　left　arm　was　cocked　on　the　door；　his　right　wrist　was　draped　casually　over　the　wheel。　Behind　him；　the　sky　was　a　bruise…colored　mass　of　yellows　and　grays；　streaked　with　veins　of　pink。　The　young　man　had　lank　blond　hair　that　spilled　over　his　low　forehead。　He　was　grinning；　and　his　parted　lips　revealed　teeth　which　were　not　teeth　at　all　but　fangs。
　　Or　maybe　they're　filed　to　points；　Kinnell　thought。　Maybe　he's　supposed　to　be　a　cannibal。
　　He　liked　that；　liked　the　idea　of　a　cannibal　crossing　the　Tobin　Bridge　at　sunset。　In　a　Grand　Am。　He　knew　what　most　of　the　audience　at　the　PEN　panel　discussion　would　have　thought…Oh；　yes；　great　picture　for　Rich　Kinnell；　he　probably　wants　it　for　inspiration；　a　feather　to　tickle　his　tired　old　gorge　into　one　more　fit　of　projectile　vomiting…but　most　of　those　folks　were　ignoramuses；　at　least　as　far　as　his　work　went；　and　what　was　more；　they　treasured　their　ignorance；　cossetted　it　the　way　some　people　inexplicably　treasured　and　cossetted　those　stupid；　mean…spirited　little　dogs　that　yapped　at　visitors　and　sometimes　bit　the　paperboy's　ankles。　He　hadn't　been　attracted　to　this　painting　because　he　wrote　horror　stories；　he　wrote　horror　stories　because　he　was　attracted　to　things　like　this　painting。　His　fans　sent　him　stuff…pictures；　mostly…and　he　threw　most　of　them　away；　not　because　they　were　bad　art　but　because　they　were　tiresome　and　predictable。　One　fan　from　Omaha　had　sent　him　a　little　ceramic　sculpture　of　a　screaming；　horrified　monkey's　head　poking　out　of　a　refrigerator　door；　however；　and　that　one　he　had　kept。　It　was　unskillfully　executed；　but　there　was　an　unexpected　juxtaposition　there　that　lit　up　his　dials。　This　painting　had　some　of　the　same　quality；　but　it　was　even　better。　Much　better。
　　As　he　was　reaching　for　it；　wanting　to　pick　it　up　right　now；　this　second；　wanting　to　tuck　it　under　his　arm　and　proclaim　his　intentions；　a　voice　spoke　up　behind　him：　'Aren't　you　Richard　Kinnell？'
　　He　jumped；　then　turned。　The　fat　woman　was　standing　directly　behind　him；　blotting　out　most　of　the　immediate　landscape。　She　had　put　on　fresh　lipstick　before　approaching；　and　now　her　mouth　had　been　transformed　into　a　bleeding　grin。
　　'Yes；　I　am；'　he　said；　smiling　back。
　　Her　eyes　dropped　to　the　picture。　'I　should　have　known　you'd　go　right　to　that；'　she　said；　simpering。　'It's　so　you。'
　　'It　is；　isn't　it？'　he　said；　and　smiled　his　best　celebrity　smile。　'How　much　would　you　need　for　it？'
　　'Forty…five　dollars；'　she　said。　'I'll　be　honest　with　you；　I　started　it　at　seventy；　but　nobody　likes　it；　so　now　it's　marked　down。　If　you　e　back　tomorrow；　you　can　probably　have　it　for　thirty。'　The　simper　had　grown　to　frightening　proportions。　Kinnell　could　see　little　gray　spit…buds　in　the　dimples　at　the　corners　of　her　stretched　mouth。
　　'I　don't　think　I　want　to　take　that　chance；'　he　said。　'I'll　write　you　a　check　right　now。'
　　The　simper　continued　to　stretch；　the　woman　now　looked　like　some　grotesque　John　Waters　parody。　Divine　does　Shirley　Temple。　'I'm　really　not　supposed　to　take　checks；　but　all　right；'　she　said；　her　tone　that　of　a　teenage　girl　finally　consenting　to　have　sex　with　her　boyfriend。　'Only　while　you　have　your　pen　out；　could　you　write　an　autograph　for　my　daughter？　Her　name　is　Robin？'
　　'What　a　nice　name；'　Kinnell　said　automatically。　He　took　the　picture　and　followed　the　fat　woman　back　to　the　card　table。　On　the　TV　next　to　it；　the　lustful　young　people　had　been　temporarily　displaced　by　an　elderly　woman　gobbling　bran　flakes。
　　'Robin　reads　all　your　books；'　the　fat　woman　said。　'Where　in　the　world　do　you　get　all　those　crazy　ideas？'
　　'I　don't　know；'　Kinnell　said；　smiling　more　widely　than　ever。　'They　just　e　to　me。　Isn't　that　amazing？'
　　
　　The　yard　sale　minder's　name　was　Judy　Diment；　and　she　lived　in　the　house　next　door。　When　Kinnell　asked　her　if　she　knew　who　the　artist　happened　to　be；　she　said　she　certainly　did；　Bobby　Hastings　had　done　it；　and　Bobby　Hastings　was　the　reason　she　was　selling　off　the　Hastingses'　things。　'That's　the　only　painting　he　didn't　burn；'　she　said。　'Poor　Iris！　She's　the　one　I　really　feel　sorry　for。　I　don't　think　George　cared　much；　really。　And　I　know　he　didn't　understand　why　she　wants　to　sell　the　house。'　She　rolled　her　eyes　in　her　large；　sweaty　face…the　old　can…you…imagine…that　look。　She　took　Kinnell's　check　when　he　tore　it　off；　then　gave　him　the　pad　where　she　had　written　down　all　the　items　she'd　sold　and　the　prices　she'd　obtained　for　them。　'Just　make　it　out　to　Robin；'　she　said。　'Pretty　please　with　sugar　on　it？'　The　simper　reappeared；　like　an　old　acquaintance　you'd　hoped　was　dead。
　　'Uh…huh；'　Kinnell　said；　and　wrote　his　standard　thanks…for…being…a…fan　message。　He　didn't　have　to　watch　his　hands　or　even　think　about　it　anymore；　not　after　twenty…five　years　of　writing　autographs。　'Tell　me　about　the　picture；　and　the　Hastingses。'
　　Judy　Diment　folded　her　pudgy　hands　in　the　manner　of　a　woman　about　to　recite　a　favorite　story。
　　'Bobby　was　just　twenty…three　when　he　killed　himself　this　spring。　Can　you　believe　that？　He　was　the　tortured…genius　type；　you　know；　but　still　living　at　home。'　Her　eyes　rolled；　again　asking　Kinnell　if　he　could　imagine　it。　'He　must　have　had　seventy；　eighty　paintings；　plus　all　his　sketchbooks。　Down　in　the　basement；　they　were。'　She　pointed　her　chin　at　the　Cape　Cod；　then　looked　at　the　picture　of　the　fiendish　young　man　driving　across　the　Tobin　Bridge　at　sunset。　'Iris…that's　Bobby's　mother…said　most　of　them　were　real　bad；　lots　worse'n　this。　Stuff　that'd　curl　your　hair。'　She　lowered　her　voice　to　a　whisper；　glancing　at　a　woman　who　was　looking　at　the　Hastingses'　mismatched　silverware　and　a　pretty　good　collection　of　old　McDonald's　plastic　glasses　in　a　Honey；　I　Shrunk　the　Kids　motif。　'Most　of　them　had　sex　stuf