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Bullet Park :: Cheever John
Страница: 124 из 131He guessed they were vague and perhaps sentimental but since Christ's Church was the only place in Bullet Park where mystery was professed and since there was much that was mysterious in Nailles's life (the thighs of Nellie and his love for his son) there was nothing delinquent in his getting to hisknees once a week. Hammer had chosen his victim for his excellence.
"Didn't I see your son directing traffic at the Browns'," Hammer asked.
"Yes," Nailles laughed. "He directs traffic at cocktail parties. He's been terribly sick."
"What was the matter?"
"Mononucleosis."
"Who's your doctor?"
"Well we had Mullin until they shut him down and then we went to old Dr. Feigart but neither of them really cured Tony. It was a very strange thing. He'd been sick for over a month when someone told us about this guru. He calls himself Swami Rutuola. He lives over the funeral parlor on River Street. He came to the house one night and I don't know how he did it but he cured Tony."
"Is he a holy man?"
"I really don't know. I don't know anything about him. I don't even know what he did. I wasn't allowed into the room. But he fixed up Tony. He's fine now. He plays basketball and directs traffic at cocktail parties. I must remind him that the Lewellens are having a party on Friday. Well, shall we go?"
They walked back through the woods, the executioner and his victim, trailed by the old setter. Nailles stowed their tack in the back of the car and then opened the door for Tessie, "Jump in, Tessie," he said, "jump in, girl." Tessie whined. Then she made a lurch for the seat and fell to the ground.
"Poor old girl," Nailles said. He picked her up, an awkward armful with her legs sticking out, and laid her on the back seat of the car.
"Why don't you do something about her," Hammer asked.
"Well I've done everything I can or almost everything," Nailles said. "There is a kind of serum you can get, a distillate of Novocain. It's supposed to prolong a dog's life but it costs fifteen dollars a shot and they have to have it once a week."
"I didn't mean that," Hammer said.
"What did you mean?"
"Why don't you shoot her?"
The contemptible callousness of his new companion, the heartless brutality involved in the thought of murdering a beloved and trusting old dog, provoked a rage in Nailles so towering and so pure that for a moment he might have killed Hammer.
He said nothing and they drove back to Bullet Park.
XVII
Have you ever committed a murder? Have you ever known the homicide's sublime feeling of rightness? Conscientious men live like the citizens of some rainy border country, familiar with a dozen national anthems, their passports fat with visas, but they will be incapable of love and allegiance until they break the law.
"Didn't I see your son directing traffic at the Browns'," Hammer asked.
"Yes," Nailles laughed. "He directs traffic at cocktail parties. He's been terribly sick."
"What was the matter?"
"Mononucleosis."
"Who's your doctor?"
"Well we had Mullin until they shut him down and then we went to old Dr. Feigart but neither of them really cured Tony. It was a very strange thing. He'd been sick for over a month when someone told us about this guru. He calls himself Swami Rutuola. He lives over the funeral parlor on River Street. He came to the house one night and I don't know how he did it but he cured Tony."
"Is he a holy man?"
"I really don't know. I don't know anything about him. I don't even know what he did. I wasn't allowed into the room. But he fixed up Tony. He's fine now. He plays basketball and directs traffic at cocktail parties. I must remind him that the Lewellens are having a party on Friday. Well, shall we go?"
They walked back through the woods, the executioner and his victim, trailed by the old setter. Nailles stowed their tack in the back of the car and then opened the door for Tessie, "Jump in, Tessie," he said, "jump in, girl." Tessie whined. Then she made a lurch for the seat and fell to the ground.
"Poor old girl," Nailles said. He picked her up, an awkward armful with her legs sticking out, and laid her on the back seat of the car.
"Why don't you do something about her," Hammer asked.
"Well I've done everything I can or almost everything," Nailles said. "There is a kind of serum you can get, a distillate of Novocain. It's supposed to prolong a dog's life but it costs fifteen dollars a shot and they have to have it once a week."
"I didn't mean that," Hammer said.
"What did you mean?"
"Why don't you shoot her?"
The contemptible callousness of his new companion, the heartless brutality involved in the thought of murdering a beloved and trusting old dog, provoked a rage in Nailles so towering and so pure that for a moment he might have killed Hammer.
He said nothing and they drove back to Bullet Park.
XVII
Have you ever committed a murder? Have you ever known the homicide's sublime feeling of rightness? Conscientious men live like the citizens of some rainy border country, familiar with a dozen national anthems, their passports fat with visas, but they will be incapable of love and allegiance until they break the law.