糖果

克里斯·加德納

In my memorys sketch of early childhood， drawn by an artist of the impressionist school， there is one image that stands out above the rest—which when called forth is preceded by the mouth-watering aroma of pancake syrup warming in a skillet and the crackling， bubbling sounds of the syrup transforming magically into homemade pull candy. Then she comes into view， the real， real pretty woman who stands at the stove， making this magic just for me.

Or at least， thats how it feels to a boy of three years old. There is another wonderful smell that accompanies her presence as she turns， smiling right in my direction， as she steps closer to where I stand in the middle of the kitchen—waiting eagerly next to my sister， seven-year-old Ophelia， and two of the other children， Rufus and Pookie， who live in this house. As she slips the cooling candy off the wooden spoon， pulling and breaking it into pieces that she brings and places in my outstretched hand， as she watches me happily gobbling up the tasty sweetness， her wonderful fragrance is there again. Not perfume or anything floral or spicy—its just a clean， warm， good smell that wraps around me like a Superman cape， making me feel strong， special， and loved—even if I dont have words for those concepts yet.

Though I dont know who she is， I sense a familiarity about her， not only because she has come before and made candy in this same fashion， but also because of how she looks at me—like shes talking to me from her eyes， saying， you remember me， dont you？

At this point in childhood， and for most of the first five years of my life， the map of my world was broken strictly into two territories—the familiar and the unknown. The happy， safe zone of the familiar was very small， often a shifting dot on the map， while the unknown was vast， terrifying， and constant.

What I did know by the age of three or four was that Ophelia was my older sister and best friend， and also that we were treated with kindness by Mr. and Mrs. Robinson， the adults whose house we lived in. What I didnt know was that the Robinsons house was a foster home， or what that meant. Our situation—where our real parents were and why we didnt live with them， or why we sometimes did live with uncles and aunts and cousins—was as mysterious as the situations of the other foster children living at the Robinsons.

What mattered most was that I had a sister who looked out for me， and I had Rufus and Pookie and the other boys to follow outside for fun and mischief. All that was familiar， the backyard and the rest of the block， was safe turf where we could run and play games like tag， kick-the-can， and hide-and-seek， even after dark. That is， except， for the house two doors down from the Robinsons.

Every time we passed it I had to almost look the other way， just knowing the old white woman who lived there might suddenly appear and put an evil curse on me—because， according to Ophelia and everyone else in the neighborhood， the old woman was a witch.

When Ophelia and I passed by the house together once and I confessed that I was scared of the witch， my sister said， “I aint scared，” and to prove it she walked right into the front yard and grabbed a handful of cherries off the womans cherry tree.

Ophelia ate those cherries with a smile. But within the week I was in the Robinsons house when here came Ophelia， racing up the steps and stumbling inside， panting and holding her seven-year-old chest， describing how the witch had caught her stealing cherries and grabbed her arm， cackling， “Im gonna get you！”

Scared to death as she was now， Ophelia soon decided that since she had escaped an untimely death once， she might as well go back to stealing cherries. Even so， she made me promise to avoid the strange womans house. “Now， remember，” Ophelia warned， “when you walk by， if you see her on the porch， dont look at her and never say anything to her， even if she calls you by name.”

在我的記憶當中，幼年的歲月只剩下一個大概的輪廓，就像印象派的畫作一般，留下的只是一些模糊的影像。但是有幅場景卻讓我難以忘懷——在鐵鍋中加熱的薄糖漿餅散發出的誘人香味，隨后只見糖漿餅噼啪一陣作響，神奇地變成了一個個的糖塊。接下來，一個漂亮女人的身影出現了，她就站在爐子前，魔術般地為我變出這些糖塊來。

至少對于3歲的我來說，這就是我當時的感受。她轉身沖我甜甜一笑，似乎都會散發出一種奇妙的香味。我就傻傻地站在廚房的中間，眼巴巴地坐在7歲的姐姐奧菲麗婭身邊，旁邊還有兩個孩子，魯法斯和普齊，他倆也住在這里。她把冷卻的糖塊從木勺上取下來，然后掰成小塊，放到我伸出的小手中，看著我開心地大吃特吃，享受著糖果的美味。然后她身上特有的甜美香味再次出現了，那絕不是香水、花香或是香料的味道。那種味道清香四溢、溫馨親切，在我周身上下圍繞，仿佛用超人的神奇斗篷將我緊緊包裹住一樣，讓我感受到一種深切的關愛，而在當時所有這些我根本無法用語言表述出來。

雖然我不知道她究竟是何人，但我卻莫名其妙地感受到一種從未有過的熟悉與親切。這不僅是因為她以前來過，也是這樣給我做糖吃，而且還因為她看我的目光，用那雙仿佛會說話的眼睛，似乎在說，你認識我的，對吧？

在我童年的這段時日，就是我5歲前的大部分時間里，我的世界一分為二，一部分是我熟悉的，另一部分是不為我所知的。讓我感覺熟悉、安全的東西其實屈指可數，甚至少得可以忽略不計，而更多的卻是我無法理解的令人生畏的世界。

在我三四歲的時候，我只知道姐姐奧菲麗婭是我最要好的朋友，羅賓森夫婦對我們也非常好，我們住在他們家。只是我不知道羅賓森家其實是個福利院，或是這類機構。我們的具體身世，包括親生父母在哪里，為什么不和自己的父母生活在一起，怎么有時得和舅舅、舅母及他們的子女住在一起，這些我們都一無所知，與福利院其他孩子的身世一樣，都是一個又一個的謎。

最重要的是姐姐會照顧我，而我和魯法斯、普齊以及其他男孩子可以在外面一起玩耍胡鬧。后院以及周圍的街區，這些地方都是我非常熟悉的，也是很安全的，在這里我們玩各種游戲，踢盒子、捉迷藏，甚至能一直玩到天黑。但羅賓森家隔門的鄰居是絕不能靠近的。

每次路過那家時我都盡量小心翼翼地繞道而行，知道住在那兒的白人老太太可能會突然出現，對我惡言惡語——因為姐姐奧菲麗婭和周圍的人都說那老太太是個巫婆。

當我和姐姐經過那所房子時，一想到那個老太太，我就嚇得要死。姐姐卻說：“我不怕。”為證實她的膽量，她徑直走進那家的前院，從老太太的櫻桃樹上，旁若無人地摘了一把櫻桃。

姐姐得意地笑著，嚼著櫻桃。但幾天后，當我在羅賓森家待著的時候，只見姐姐三步并作兩步沖上臺階，磕磕絆絆得幾乎摔倒，上氣不接下氣地說那個巫婆因為她偷了櫻桃要抓她，還扯著她的胳膊說：“看我怎么收拾你！”

她幾乎嚇得半死，剛緩過神來，就決定既然已經死里逃生，何不干脆一不做二不休呢，再去偷些櫻桃回來。即便如此，她一再告誡我，要我發誓以后一定要離老太太家遠點，“記住了，千萬別去她那。就是偶爾路過，看到她在凳子上坐著，也不要搭理她。她就是叫你的名字，也不能吭聲。”