无处安放（Sack of Bones）
翻译小说
我分不清，那阵阵哭嚎，到底是在为死者，还是为这酷热。天气热得只剩下蝉嘶和割草机的轰鸣——热得简直不像话。
不过，当爸爸把一铲铲泥土覆盖到爷爷的棺木上时，我却感到一阵寒意。我哭不出来。觉得是个罪过。
“伤心是应该的。”琼姨低声说，“没什么好觉得羞耻的。”
她拿着葬礼程序手册扇着风，眼泪从她的墨镜下滴落。她的意思是，不哭才是羞耻的，尤其是在亲人去世的时候。但我无法将悲伤像宽边帽、珍珠项链、黑色连衣裙那样穿戴在身上。如果不是发自内心，我就无法装扮出悲伤。
“有管饭吗？”我说，“我饿死了。”
“老天爷哪！”琼姨绷着脸，用程序手册拍了一下我的肩膀。
骨白色的月桂花像倔强的小拳头露出坟土。叔叔脚步沉重，踩着地上的花瓣走过来。他的肩上挎着一把班卓里里琴。这是一种介于班卓琴和尤克里里之间的拨弦乐器。琴音也介于哀伤和欢愉之间。
他走到掘墓人旁边停下，微笑着。
“献给爸爸。”他说着，拨动了琴弦。
乡村式的蓝草音乐从低沉、缓慢开始。但很快就变得轻快起来，甚至有些过于欢快。人们的脚合着节拍踩在泥土上。一些人扭腰摆臀。这首歌几乎把爷爷的葬礼变成了一场狂欢。好像我们不知道是在庆祝，还是在哭泣。至少，我不知道。
我并不恨爷爷。只是不知道该如何喜欢他。战争、威士忌，还有别的什么，把他变得暴躁易怒。大多数时候，他像个怪物。可一讲起故事来，他又忽然像个人了。
他撒谎的本事，就跟网上那些黑心房东一样。但他的一些故事是真实的。比如，他爸爸嫌自己儿子肤色太黑，就让他站在镇上的商店外面等着。他也讲战争故事。不过，通常只开个头。就如他讲的那些关于他当祭坛男童的故事一样，最后总是以一声咕哝、一阵沉默，再开一瓶酒收场。
我最后一次见到爷爷是在他去世前几个月。他瘫坐在那张难看的橄榄绿色躺椅上，椅子里的填充物都从旁边露了出来。癌症让他变得更加消瘦、虚弱，但脾气却一点也没变。
“他还是动不动就无端发火。”琼姨嘟囔着。
她告诉我，爷爷一直在给朋友打电话，也向邻居炫耀他的孙女考上了大学——这就好比在我们这个阿巴拉契亚小镇，我得了奥运金牌一样。所以，他见到我时，给了我一个拥抱，还塞了一支雪茄到我手里。尽管他总是说，女孩子不该抽烟。
我们坐在门廊的摇椅上聊天。一边抽烟，一边看着天空从金黄色变成昏暗的紫色。萤火虫在杂草丛中闪烁。
我告诉他，第一次考试，我考得特别好。他高兴地拍了拍大腿。他问了我很多关于学校的事，问得比过去任何一次都要多。
爸爸和他的兄弟姐妹都没读完高中。我的堂兄弟们待在牢里的时间比在外面还多。因为他们总跟毒品扯不清关系。爷爷没有男丁可以炫耀。但他有我。
“这片树林里有个鬼魂。”爷爷说。
他给我讲了一个传说。说有一个迷失的灵魂，只在夏天，会在穿过坟墓附近的柳树林时吹口哨。他肩上扛着一个麻袋，里面装着他父亲的骨头。
“他就这么一直走着。骨头在袋子里咔啦作响，就像杯子里的冰块一样。他想寻找一个可以放下骨头的地方，却永远找不到。”
“为什么？”我问。
爷爷捋了捋胡子：“有些事情是放不下的。再怎么努力也放不下。”
他沉默了一会儿。然后，冲着琼大喊，让她给他拿啤酒。
她的动作慢了点。当她终于把啤酒递给他时，他把酒瓶朝她掷过去。酒瓶擦着她的脑袋，在砖墙上炸得粉碎。
琼仍然帮他整理药物，开车送他去看病，甚至在他腿脚不便的时候帮他洗澡。她悉心照顾他，而这就是他回报她的方式。
爷爷问我，是否会很快回来。
我说，也许吧。但我撒了谎。
在他看来，女人不过是佣人和半个脑子的蠢货。但我即使只有半个脑子，也知道在他把我变成第二个琼之前，我必须离开。
现在，越过刚盖完土的新坟和泪流满面的人群，墓地的周围是成排的柳树。柳枝低垂，仿佛也在哀悼。
一阵风掠过。树枝随风摇曳，如鬼魂飘忽。
爷爷的声音在我脑海中回响：“只有夏天，在坟墓旁。他肩上扛着一个装着他父亲骨头的麻袋，寻找埋葬的地方。却始终找不到合适的地点。他怎么也放不下。”
不过，我并没有在柳树旁看到任何鬼魂。只有爸爸僵直地站着，肩膀紧绷。没有鬼魂的口哨声，只有那些被爷爷伤害最深的人的抽泣和哀嚎。仿佛他从未像弹出车窗外的烟头一样，随手把家人丢弃。
爸爸盯着我，大步走过来。我看到他左臂上那小块焦黑的疤痕还在。那是他小时候“偷”了一包口香糖后，被爷爷用打火机烫伤的印记。
爸爸在我面前挥了挥手：“这里热得像滚烫的地狱之门。你还好吗？”
我点点头。
这不是谎话。爷爷走了。我很好，只是感觉很冷。这种感觉比悲伤更难受。它让我觉得自己像个野兽。应该四肢着地地待在森林里，而不是穿着裙子和高跟鞋站在这里。
最后，大家穿过草地，缓步走到一条通往教堂的狭窄小路上。
教堂是一座白色的石砌建筑。它就像是泥土中的一颗钻石，在我们这个荒凉的小镇里显得格外醒目。
我很高兴，这一切快要结束了——那些哀嚎声，那些虚假的悼念，那些陈词滥调。
他们说，爷爷点燃了每个房间，却没说他是怎么做到的。他们不承认，他把汽油泼在房间里，然后，划着了火柴——只是说他笑容很灿烂。就像他讲的大多数故事一样，他的悼词也是瞎编的。我已经听腻了。
我们走过一扇门轴处发出吱呀哀嚎的铸铁大门。重压般的沉默让我浑身僵硬。连鸟儿都鸦雀无声。我走在爸爸身边。除了脚下的碎石声，没有其它声响。
琼停在敞开的教堂门口，抹了抹眼泪，并朝我们招手。
但爸爸没有跟着人群进去。他朝停车场那边点了点头。我就跟着他过去，直到我们坐到他那辆皮卡的车斗上。滚烫的金属板透过衣料灼烧着我的大腿。我一动不动。
爸爸什么也没说，只是递给我一个用毛巾裹着的热水瓶。他的手微微颤抖。我的手也在颤抖。
我想问他，是不是很高兴爷爷去世了。但这个问题感觉很罪恶。
爸爸是不是也有和我同样的感觉？他……觉得解脱了，还是感到羞愧？他是不是也已经受够了这场葬礼？
“你觉得你会想念他吗？”
爸爸没有立刻回答。回答的时候，也没有看我。
“我会怀念他本可以成为的那个人。”
我点了点头，紧紧地握住自己的双手。
“你知道吗，我为你感到骄傲。”爸爸说，“说真的。你是我身上唯一值得称道的东西。”
我强颜欢笑。
爸爸从来都不擅长表达情感。我也是。但如果抚养我的人是爷爷——从未被告知自己被爱着，得到的不是拥抱而是殴打——我会更糟。至少，我得到的，比他得到的更多。在我得到残羹剩饭时，爸爸却在挨饿。
我知道，爸爸关心我。从他的眼神里，从他每次在我休息的时候打电话问我，是否会回来看望他，我都能感受到这一点。
看起来，他还想说些什么。不过，只是叹了口气，抠起了指甲边缘的倒肉刺。
我想问爸爸，爷爷有没有说过，他曾为他感到骄傲。不用问，我也知道答案了。
爸爸猛然掏出一支烟，大步走向树林。他靠在一棵树干上，抱起双臂，吹起了口哨。
一行热泪滑下我的脸颊。我释然了。也许，我胸腔里跳动的，终究是血肉之躯，而非冰冷的花岗岩。但我不是为爷爷哭泣，而是为爸爸哭泣。
仅仅埋葬一个人，并不意味着他造成的伤害也会随之而去。或许，爷爷是从他父亲那里学到这一点的。爸爸是从爷爷那里学到的。而我，是从爸爸那里学到的。我祈祷，我的孩子不会从我这里学到。
如果爷爷还在，他会讲什么故事呢？我永远也不会知道了——或许，这样最好。
在爸爸抽完烟后，我走向教堂。
阳光灼烤着我的皮肤。我继续前行。眼泪早已干涸。我默默地背负着他的骨头。
（完）
作者：萝丝•布朗（Rose Brown）2025年6月25日发布于瑞德西网站（Reedsy.com）
译者：鸭绒2026年7月15日完成于洛杉矶（Los Angeles）
译者注：
萝丝是一位重症监护室（ICU）护士，在夏威夷长大。现与丈夫，年幼的孩子，及爱猫定居在乔治亚州（Georgia）。
她于2025年开始写作。作品曾刊登于《雅文学（Elegant Literature）》杂志，并入围了2025年“美国基督教小说创作者协会（ACFW）”的“皇冠奖（Crown Award）”决选名单。目前，她的一部作品也已入围《未知地（Uncharted）》杂志微型小说竞赛的名单。本篇小说还获得了“女性线上写作网站（WOW-WomenOnWriting.com）”2026年第一季度最佳微型小说评选的一等奖。
“Sack of Bones”直译为“装骨头的袋子”。但在英语俚语中，它是形容人或动物“骨瘦如柴”的意思。作者以此为标题，大概是想说明，血缘关系中的爱恨情仇是最复杂、最极端的人性体现。它可以是最可靠的情感依托，也可以是最冷酷的精神折磨。家人所造成的身心创伤，可以被埋葬，却无法被遗忘。
Sack of Bones
By Rose Brown
I can’t tell if the yowling’s for the dead or the heat. It’s cicada hiss and lawn mower growl hot—so hot, it’s disrespectful. But as Dad shovels dirt over Papa, I’m cold. I can't cry, and it feels like sin.
“It's alright to grieve,” Aunt June whispers. “Ain't no shame in it.”
She fans herself with a program as tears drip below her sunglasses. She means it's shameful not to cry, especially for your own. But I can't put on grief like wide-brimmed hats and pearls and black dresses. Can't wear it if I don't mean it.
“Who’s catering?” I say. “I'm starved.”
“Lawd!” June scowls and whacks my shoulder with the program.
Bone-white laurels punch through the dirt like defiant little fists. My uncle stomps over their petals, a banjolele slung over his shoulder. A stringed thing torn between a banjo and ukulele, mourning and joy. He stops beside the gravediggers and smiles.
“For Papa,” he says, and strums. The bluegrass starts low but swings lighter, too cheery. Feet thump against dirt. A few hips sway. The song almost turns Papa’s funeral into a shindig, like we can't decide whether to celebrate or sob. At least, I can't.
I don’t hate Papa. Just never knew how to like him. War, whiskey, and whatever else made him mean. A monster most days. But human, somehow, when he told stories.
The man could lie like a Craigslist landlord. But a few of his tales were true, like how his Pops made him wait outside town shops, too ashamed of the darkness of his own son's skin. He also told war stories. Well, started them. They ended like his altar boy stories, in a grunt, silence, and another bottle.
Last time I saw Papa, a few months before he died, he slumped in that ugly olive recliner, its guts spilling out the side. Cancer made him thinner, weaker, but no less angry.
“He still flies off the handle over nothin’,” June muttered. She told me Papa had been phoning friends and bragging to the neighbors about how his grandkid got into college—akin to an Olympic gold medal in our small Appalachian town. So he hugged me when he saw me and stuck a cigar in my palm, even though he always said smokes weren't for girls.
We rocked on the porch and talked, smoking as the sky turned from gold to dusky purple. Fireflies sparked in the weeds. Papa slapped his knee when I told him how I aced my first exam, and asked all about school more than he'd ever asked me about anything.
Dad and his siblings didn't make it through high school, and my cousins spent more time behind bars than out 'cause they couldn't keep away from dope. Papa didn't get boys to brag on. He got me.
“There's a spirit in these woods,” Papa said. He told me the legend of a lost soul who whistles past the willows, only in summer, near graves. He carries the bones of his father in a sack over his shoulder.
“He just keeps walkin’, bones clackin’ like ice in a cup, lookin’ for a place to lay it down. But never does.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Papa scratched his beard. “Some things can’t be put away, no matter how hard ya try.” He went quiet for a moment, then shouted at June to bring him a beer. She took too long. When she finally handed it over, he tossed it at her and shattered it against the brick, just shy of her head.
June still kept his meds organized, drove him to appointments, even helped bathe him when his legs started to give. She looked after him, and that's how he thanked her.
Papa asked if I’d come back soon. I said maybe, but lied. To him, women were maids and half-brains. But even my half a brain knew to get out before he made me into June.
Now, past the freshly buried casket and teary crowd, willow trees line the graveyard. They're bent and mournful. A brief gust makes the boughs drift slow and ghost-like as Papa’s voice echoes in my head:
“Only in summer, by the graves. He carries a sack of his father’s bones. Looks for a spot to bury ‘em. Never finds one. Can’t let go.”
But I don't see a spirit by the willows. Just Dad standing stiff, shoulders tight. No ghostly whistle, only sniffles and wailing from the people Papa hurt most. As if he didn't flick his family away like a cigarette out of a car window.
Dad stares at me and marches over. I see that tiny patch of dark skin on his left arm, still there from when Papa stuck a lighter to him after he “stole” a pack of gum as a toddler.
Dad waves a hand in front of my face. “It's hotter than the hinges of hell out here. Y’alright?”
I nod.
It's not a lie. Papa’s gone, and I'm fine. Cold. And that feels worse than being sad. Makes me feel like a beast, like I belong out in the woods on all fours more than in a dress and heels.
Finally, everyone shuffles back through the grass, to a narrow path leading to the church. It's a white stoned building, sticking out of our godforsaken town like a diamond in dirt. I’m glad it’s almost done—the wails, the fake condolences, the platitudes.
They say Papa lit up every room, but don't say how. They don't admit he doused it in gasoline and struck a match—just say he had a nice smile. Like most of his stories, his eulogy’s a tall tale. One I'm tired of hearing.
We step past a wrought-iron gate screaming at the joints. A heavy silence makes my body tense. Even the birds hush. I walk beside Dad, no noise except the crunch of gravel beneath our feet.
June stops at the open church doors, dabbing her eyes, and waves us over. But Dad doesn't follow the crowd inside. He nods to the parking lot and I follow, until we plop onto his truck bed. The metal sears through cotton into my thighs. I don't move.
Dad doesn’t say anything as he passes me a steaming water bottle buried under a towel, hands shaking a little. Mine shake too. I want to ask if he’s glad Papa’s gone, but the question feels wicked.
Does Dad feel the same? Is he…relieved? Ashamed? Done with this funeral, too?
“Think you'll miss him?”
Dad doesn't answer right away. Doesn't look at me when he does.
“I’ll miss who he coulda been.”
I nod and squeeze my hands together tight.
“I'm proud of you, you know that?” Dad says. “Hell, you’re the only good thing about me.”
I force a smile. Dad’s never been good with feelings. Neither have I. But if I’d been raised by Papa—never told I was loved, hit instead of held—I’d be worse. At least I got more than he did. I got scraps, but Dad got starved.
And I know Dad cares. I see it in his eyes, and in the way he calls on my breaks to ask if I’ll come visit.
He looks like he wants to say more, but sighs and picks at a hangnail. I want to ask if Papa ever told Dad he was proud, but I already know.
Dad yanks out a cigarette and marches toward the tree line. He leans against a trunk, folds his arms, and whistles.
A tear burns down my cheek, and I'm relieved. Maybe flesh beats behind my chest instead of granite after all. But I don’t cry for Papa. I cry for Dad.
Just ‘cause you bury a man doesn’t mean the hurt goes down with him. Maybe Papa learned that from his Pops, Dad learned it from Papa, and I learned it from Dad. I pray mine won't learn it from me.
If Papa were here, what story would he tell? I’ll never know—and maybe that’s best. As Dad finishes his smoke, I head for the church. Sun whips my skin. My tears are already dry as I walk on, quietly carrying his bones.
Posted Jun 25, 2025
