Dreamcatcher(21)

'Oh dear, that's awful,' McCarthy said. 'I am so darned sorry.'

'It's all right, really' Jonesy said, but his stomach had curled up into a ball, like something protecting itself from assault. He wouldn't be finishing his own early lunch; no way in hell could he finish it. He wasn't prissy about farts as a rule, but this one really reeked.

The Beav got up from the couch and opened a window, letting in a swirl of snow and a draft of blessedly fresh air. 'Don't you worry about it, partner . . . but that is pretty ripe. What the hell you been eatin? Woodchuck turds?'

'Bushes and moss and other stuff, I don't know just what,' McCarthy said. 'I was just so hungry, you know, I had to eat something, but I don't know much about that sort of thing, never read any of those books by Euell Gibbons . . . and of course it was dark.' He said this last almost as if struck by an inspiration, and Jonesy looked up at Beaver, catching his eye to see if the Beav knew what Jonesy did  -  McCarthy was lying. McCarthy didn't know what he'd eaten in the Woods, or if he had eaten anything at all. He just wanted to explain that ghastly unexpected frog's croak. And the stench which had followed it.

The wind gusted again, a big, gaspy whoop that sent a fresh skein of snow in through the open window, but at least it was turning the air over, and thank God for that.

McCarthy leaned forward so suddenly he might have been propelled by a spring, and when he hung his head forward between his knees, Jonesy had a good idea of what was coming next; so long Navajo rug, it's been good to know ya. The Beav clearly thought the same; he pulled back his legs, which had been splayed out before him, to keep them from being splattered.

But instead of vomit, what came out of McCarthy was a long, low buzz  -  the sound of a factory machine which has been put under severe strain. McCarthy's eyes bulged from his face like glass marbles, and his cheeks were so taut that little crescents of shadow appeared under the comers of his eyes. It went on and on, a rumbling, rasping noise, and when it finally ceased, the genny out back seemed far too loud.

'I've heard some rm'ghty belches, but that's the all-time blue ribbon winner,' Beav said. He spoke with quiet and sincere respect.

McCarthy leaned back against the couch, eyes closing, mouth downturned in what Jonesy took for embarrassment, pain, or both. And once again he could smell that aroma of bananas and ether, a fermenting active smell, like something which has just started to go over.

'Oh God, I am so sorry,' McCarthy said without opening his eyes. 'I've been doing that all day, ever since light. And my stomach hurts again.'

Jonesy and the Beav shared a silent, concerned look.

'You know what I think?' Beaver asked. 'I think you need to lie down and take you a little sleep. You were probably awake all night, listening to that pesky bear and God knows what else. You're tired out and stressed out and f**k-a-duck knows what else out. You just need some shuteye, a few hours and you'll be right as the goddam rain.'

McCarthy looked at Beaver with such wretched gratitude that Jonesy felt a little ashamed to be seeing it. Although McCarthy's complexion was still leaden, he had begun to break a sweat  -  great big beads that formed on his brow and temples, and then ran down his cheeks like clear oil. This in spite of the cold air now circulating in the room.

'You know,' he said, 'I bet you're right. I'm tired, that's all it is. My stomach hurts, but that part's just stress. And I was eating all sorts of things, bushes and just . . . gosh, oh dear, I don't know . . . all sorts of things.' He scratched his cheek. 'Is this darn thing on my face bad? Is it bleeding?'

'No,' Jonesy said. 'Just red.'

'It's a reaction,' McCarthy said dolefully. 'I get the same thing from peanuts. I'll lie down. That's the ticket, all right.'

He got to his feet, then tottered. Beaver and Jonesy both reached for him, but McCarthy steadied on his feet before either of them could take hold. Jonesy could have sworn that what he had taken for a middle-aged potbelly was almost gone. Was it possible? Could the man have passed that much gas? He didn't know. All he knew for sure was that it had been a mighty fart and an even mightier belch, the sort of thing you could yarn on for twenty years or more, starting off We used to go up to Beaver Clarendon's camp the first week of hunting season every year, and one November  -  it was '01, the year of the big fall storm  -  this fella wandered into camp . . . Yes, it would make a good story, people would laugh about the big fart and the big burp, people always laughed at stories about farts and burps. He wouldn't tell the part about how he had come within eight ounces of press on a Garand's trigger of taking McCarthy's life, though. No, he wouldn't want to tell that part. Would he?

Pete and Henry were doubling, and so Beaver led McCarthy to the other downstairs bedroom, the one Jonesy had been using. The Beav shot him a little apologetic look, and Jonesy shrugged. It was the logical place, after all. Jonesy could double in with Beav tonight  -  Christ knew they'd done it enough as kids  -  and in truth, he wasn't sure McCarthy could have managed the stairs, anyway. He liked the man's sweaty, leaden look less and less.

Jonesy was the sort of man who made his bed and then buried it  -  books, papers, clothes, bags, assorted toiletries. He swept all this off as quick as he could, then turned back the coverlet.