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！
hed his foot did he realize that something was wrong。 The flame had begun to lick at the quilt。 Small tongues of fire shot up； blackening the bright cloth； dazzling Nothing's eyes。 He watched the flames for several seconds； caught in their hot thrall； as still as a boy dragged。 Then； slowly； he put out his hand to touch them。
The pain yanked him out of his trance。 He grabbed a dirty T…shirt off the floor and threw it over the flames； beat at them； smothered them。 Then； cautiously； he lifted the shirt and examined the mess。 There was a large black…edged hole in the quilt； and the room was filled with the smell of charred cloth。 It smelled almost like burnt marshmallows； but he couldn't say he had been toasting marshmallows in his room； that would be pushing things too far。
〃Fuck；〃 he said softly； without conviction。 He would catch hell for burning the quilt； but he couldn't make himself care。 His father's impotent anger； his mother's puzzled eyes held no dread for him； only a dull guilt。 A sadness that he dismissed as stupid。
If his parents watched him with bewilderment and a little fear； if they seemed happier when he asked to be excused from supper and shut himself in his room； that was all right with Nothing。 He was strange to his parents； and they were inprehensible to him。 He rejected their world。 There was not a thing in it that touched him； not a thing he could claim as his own。 Sometimes he wondered whether there was a place for him outside the elaborate juju of his room； whether there was anyone in the world who would belong to him； whether he could ever belong to anyone。 Who would want him？ Not his parents； for sure。 He had never belonged to them。 They should never have taken him in from the doorstep that cold dawn fifteen years ago。
Nothing pulled the quilt around him again； picked at the edges of the burn。 They didn't know he knew about that。 Long ago they had told him he was adopted； making it all sound proper and respectable； watching him for signs of childish trauma。 Maybe the knowledge that he was not of their blood assuaged their guilt when they saw their son looking at them and knew that he had caught the distance in their faces。 Maybe then they were able to justify their longing for a normal son who would keep his hair brushed out of his eyes； who would be elected student council president instead of sitting in his strange bedroom reading strange books； who would bring home little fresh…faced girlfriends in clean skirts and pink blouses。 Maybe they looked at him and thought； We did not make this creature out of our seed。 He is not our mistake。 And they were right。
They would never show him the adoption papers。 They said he had been left at the orphanage as a newborn； that his parentage was unknown。 But one day in early June； when he was twelve； he brought home an end…of…term progress report from school：
Jason is a highly intelligent child。 His achievements in areas where he chooses to apply himself； such as art and creative writing； are considerable。 However； he seems unable to relate well to the other children； his remoteness and his apparent determination to be 〃different〃 keep him from being a successful member of the classroom munity。 Due to this； though all his marks are above average； I cannot call his passage through the sixth grade a fully satisfactory one。
Yours；
Geraldine Clemmons
Two or three years later he could have laughed。 But all through his sixth…grade year he had had no real friends； no one who would e to his house and play games of pretend in the woods； no one who offered to trade sandwiches at lunchtime or asked him to one of the boy…girl parties that were beginning to be all the rage。 Through the girls' thin T…shirts he saw their sore budding breasts。 When he undressed for gym with the other boys； he tried to look at their bodies without seeming to look。 On some of them he noticed those same fearfully secret hairs he had begun to find upon himself。
He could not laugh at Mrs。 Clemmons's stupid progress report because he had begun to know how alone he was。 All through his childhood he had amused himself without really thinking about it…reading； playing alone or with neighborhood children； never noticing that they were unfortable with the stories he liked to make up； that they seldom came back more than two or three times。
But at twelve he became aware of himself； painfully so。 He became aware that he did not know who he was。 He dreamed often of a strange boisterous family who laughed all the time and cuddled him and took him along wherever they went。 He discovered how to masturbate； thinking at first that it was something he had made up。 Then he connected it with things he had read； and he learned how to turn it into a highly sensual experience； biting himself at first gently and then harder； thinking of other children in his class； imagining how it would be to hold them； taste them； feel their flesh between his teeth。 It did not seem strange that he thought about these things。
But on the day he brought the progress report home； he knew that he was alone and that he might be alone for a very long time。
His parents were both at work； his mother counselling disturbed children at a day…care center； his father doing something that had vaguely to do with finance。 The house was sunny and still； and all that afternoon he searched through their desk drawers； through their files and boxes； looking for his adoption papers。 He had to know who his real parents were。 He had to know where he had e from and whether someday he might find his way back。
His parents' papers were remarkably dull。 There were no old love letters scented and tied with pastel ribbons； no scan…dais； no bloodstained lace handkerchiefs。 There were no adoption papers。 The shadows in the house lengthened。 He became frantic； knowing with the terrible conviction of a twelve…year…old that these strangers named Rodger and Marilyn would murder him if they caught him going through their things； they would have an excuse at last。 But he opened one final dresser drawer in their bedroom； not really expecting to find anything； and under his mother's old granny glasses and McGovern buttons was the note。 It was tucked into a corner of the drawer； not hidden very well。 By this time he was sweaty and a little breathless。 His hand shook as he extracted the note； trying not to disturb the rest of the mess。
The paper was thick and cream…colored； with two small holes at the top as if it had been pinned to something。 Slowly he deciphered the spidery handwriting： His name is Nothing。 Care for him and he will bring you luck。
All at once the story fell into place around him。 A baby in a basket； abandoned on two strangers' doorstep some night。 That was what he had been。 Surely this note had been pinned to his blanket。 But the strangers had taken him in； changed his name； tried to make him into one of their kind。 If he had brought them any luck at all； that luck had surely been bad。 It was all so clear now。 It was all so right。
He slept with the note under his pillow that night and dreamed of a place where the buildings were gay with scrolled ironwork and the ri