第232期：《诺福镇的奇幻夏天》-让善与爱常驻心田

想成为我们的主播，欢迎加微信 xdfbook 投稿。 一段美文，一首英文歌，或是一点生活感想，全由你做主。 《《诺福镇的奇幻夏天》-让善与爱常驻心田》 Dead End in Norvelt When I came to ) I was alive and stretched out on Miss Volker’s kitchen floor. I was covered with blood but I didn’t know if it was nose blood ) or blood from after she started eating me. I lifted my head and turned it left and right to check if she had eaten through my neck. I was fine but she was standing above me and pulling long, rotten strips of flesh off her arms and hands as if peeling a rotten banana. She wadded ) them all up, leaned to one side, and dropped a ball into the large pot on the stove. “Am I dead?” I asked. I felt dead. “You fainted ),” she replied. “And I fixed your nose.” “You touched me?” I asked fearfully, and reached for my nose to see if it was still on my face. “Yes,” she said. “After I got the wax off my fingers they were working okay so I folded some tissues into a wad and shoved ) them up between your upper lip and gum ). That’s what stops a nosebleed.” “You have fingers?” I asked, confused. I had seen them melt off like the Inca gold being melted down ). “Yes,” she said. “I’m human and I have fingers. They don’t work well because of my arthritis ) so I have to heat them up in a pot of hot paraffin ) in order to get them working for about fifteen minutes.” “Hot what?” “Hot wax,” she repeated impatiently. “You saw me doing it when you came in. Did that smack ) on your head when you hit the floor give you amnesia )?” I sat up and rubbed the lump ) on the back of my head. “I thought you were melting your fingers into gold,” I said. “I thought you had gone crazy.” “I think you’ve gone crazy,” she replied. “You’re delusional ). Now let’s not waste any more time. I have a deadline.” “What are we doing?” I asked. “Writing an obituary ),” she revealed. “Mine?” “No! You are fine—you’re a spineless ) jellyfish ), but not dead enough to bury. Now take a look at these hands,” she ordered, and thrust ) them in front of me. They were still bright red from the hot wax and curled over like the talons ) of a hawk perched ) on a fence. “I can’t write with them anymore,” she explained, “or do anything that requires fine motor ) skills. My twin sister used to write out the obituaries for me but her jug-headed ) idiot husband moved her to Florida last month. I was hoping he’d just have a spasm ) and drop dead and she would move in with me—but it didn’t work out that way. So you are now my official scribe ). I got the idea from reading about President John Quincy Adams ). He had arthritis too and when his hands gave out ) he had a young scribe who wrote for him. I’ll talk and you’ll write. You got that?” “Sure,” I said, and then she caught me sneaking a peek at the glowing kitchen clock which was in the shape of a giant Bayer aspirin ). It was six-thirty in the morning. “That,” she said proudly, and aimed her chin at the clock, “was given to me by the Bayer Pharmaceutical ) Company after I gave out over a quarter million of their aspirin tablets to coal miners here in western Pennsylvania who suffered with back pain and splitting headaches ).” “That is a lot of pills,” I remarked, not knowing what else to say but the obvious. “In nursing school,” she said, “I was taught by the doctors that the role of medical science is to relieve human suffering, and I’ve lived by that motto all my life.” “What about your hands?” I said, pointing up at them. “Someday science will solve that. But for now, get up off the floor,” she ordered. “We’ve got to get this obit to the newspaper in an hour so Mr. Greene can print ) it for tomorrow morning’s edition.” I stood all the way up and staggered ) into the living room. “There’s your office,” she said, and pointed a shiny red hand toward an old school desk and matching chair. “Lift the top.” I did. There were several pads of lined paper and a bundle of sharpened pencils held together with a rubber band ). “I’ll talk, and you write,” she explained, setting the rules. “If I talk too quickly then you just tell me and I’ll slow down. You got it?” “Yeah,” I said. I was really ready to do anything that would clear my head from thinking about this old lady melting her flesh in a kitchen pot. Miss Volker stood by the fireplace mantel ) and took a breath so deep it straightened out her curved spine. 当我醒过来时，我还活着，四仰八叉地躺在沃尔克小姐厨房的地板上。我浑身是血，但我不知道那是鼻血还是她开始吃我之后我身上流的血。我抬起头左右转动，想检查一下她有没有把我的脖子全都吃掉。我还好好的，但她正站在我的上方，从她的双臂和两只手上拉下长长的、腐烂的肉条，就好像在剥一根腐烂的香蕉似的。她把它们揉成一团，侧身把一个肉球扔进了炉子上的那口大锅里。 “我死了吗？”我问，感觉自己已经死了。 “你昏过去了，”她回答道，“我给你的鼻子止了血。” “你碰过我？”我边惊恐地问，边伸手去摸自己的鼻子，想看看它是否还在我的脸上。 “是啊，”她说，“我剥下手指上的蜡之后，手指就灵活了，于是我把一些纸巾折叠成一个团，塞在你的上唇和牙龈之间，就这样止住了你的鼻血。” “你还有手指？”我疑惑地问。我刚才看见它们熔化了，就像印加人的黄金被熔化了那样。 “是呀，”她说，“我是人，当然有手指啦。我有关节炎，因此我的手指不太灵活，所以我不得不用一锅热石蜡给手指加加热，好让指头能灵活动上大概那么15分钟。” “热什么？” “热蜡，”她不耐烦地重复了一遍，“你进来的时候看见我正在做这件事。你倒地时撞到了脑袋，难道那让你失去记忆了？” 我坐了起来，揉了揉后脑勺上的那个大包。“我当时还以为你在把手指熔化成黄金呢，”我说，“我以为你已经疯了。” “我才以为你已经疯了呢。”她回答说，“你出现错觉了吧。好了，我们不要再浪费时间了，马上要截稿了。” “我们要做什么？”我问。 “写一篇讣告。”她透露说。 “关于我的讣告？” “不是啊！你活得好好的——你就是个没骨头的怂包，不过还没到入土的地步。好了，来瞧瞧这双手。”她边说边把手硬伸到我面前。它们刚从热蜡里出来，还是红通通的，手指蜷曲着，就像落在篱笆上的一只老鹰的爪子。“我无法再用手写字了，”她解释道，“也无法再做任何需要灵活的手指才能做的事情了。我的孪生姐姐过去常常帮我写讣告，可是上个月她那呆头呆脑的傻丈夫让她搬到佛罗里达州去住了。我那会儿真希望他会抽搐，倒地身亡，这样我姐姐就可以搬回来和我同住了——不过事情并没有像我想的那样发生。因此你现在就是我的正式抄写员了。我是通过读约翰·昆西亚·亚当斯总统的故事想到这个主意的。他也患有关节炎，当他的两只手不好使时，他就让一位年轻的抄写员来帮他写。到时我来说，你来写。明白了吗？” “没问题。”我说，接着她就发现我在偷瞄厨房里那座锃亮的钟，它的形状像是一颗硕大的拜耳牌阿司匹林药片，指针指向早上6:30。 “那个，”她骄傲地说，用下巴指了指那座钟，“是拜耳医药公司送给我的，此前我给咱们宾夕法尼亚州西部这儿的煤矿工人分发了超过25万颗他们公司生产的阿司匹林药片，这些工人饱受背疼和剧烈的头痛之苦。” “那可是很多药片呢。”我说道，除了这个明显的事实，我不知道还能说点什么。 “在护士学校里，”她说，“医生们教导我医学的任务就是减轻人的痛苦，而我这一辈子都在践行这句格言。” “那你自己的两只手怎么办呢？”我指着它们说。 “总有一天，医学会攻克这个问题的。不过眼下，从地上站起来吧，”她命令道，“我们要在一个小时之内把这条讣告送到报社，这样格林先生就能把它刊登在明天的晨报上了。” 我完全站直了身子 ，摇摇晃晃地走进了客厅。 “你的办公室在那边。”她用红得发亮的手指着一张旧课桌以及和它配套的椅子说，“把桌盖儿掀起来。” 我照办了。桌子里面有几本横格纸和一捆用一根橡皮筋绑着的削好的铅笔。 “我来说，你来写。”她解释道，定下了规矩。“要是我说得太快，那你就只管告诉我，我就会说得慢一点儿，明白了吗？” “明白了。”我说。我真的已经准备好去做任何事了，只要能让我的脑子不再去想这位老太太在做饭的锅里熔化自己的肉这件事儿就可以。 沃尔克小姐站在壁炉架旁，深深地吸了一口气，都把她那弯曲的脊柱给撑直了。 文章摘自：《新东方英语·中学生》杂志2017年6月号