Audrey asked me to stay. Shawn was too strong, she said, too persuasive, for her to confront him alone. I told her she wasn’t alone, she had Mother. Audrey said I didn’t understand. No one had believed us after all. If we asked Dad for help, she was sure he’d call us both liars. I told her our parents had changed and we should trust them. Then I boarded a plane and took myself five thousand miles away.
奥黛丽让我留下来。她说，肖恩太强大，太有说服力，她无法单独面对他。我告诉她，她并不孤单，她还有母亲。奥黛丽说我不明白，毕竟从没有人相信过我们。如果向爸爸求助，他肯定会说我们撒谎。我告诉她父母和以前不一样了，我们应该相信他们。然后我登上了飞机，飞到了五千英里之外。
I didn’t stay long on Buck’s Peak, maybe a week. On the day I left the mountain, Audrey asked me not to go. I have no memory of the conversation, but I remember writing the journal entry about it. I wrote it my first night back in Cambridge, while sitting on a stone bridge and staring up at King’s College Chapel. I remember the river, which was calm; I remember the slow drift of autumn leaves resting on the glassy surface. I remember the scratch of my pen moving across the page, recounting in detail, for a full eight pages, precisely what my sister had said. But the memory of her saying it is gone: it is as if I wrote in order to forget.
我在巴克峰待的时间不长，大概一个星期。离开山的那天，奥黛丽叫我不要走。那次谈话的内容我不记得了，但我记得写过关于这件事的日记。回到剑桥后的第一晚，我坐在石桥上，凝视着国王学院的教堂，写下了那则日记。我记得那条平静的河流，记得秋日落叶在波光粼粼的河面上缓缓漂流。我记得钢笔在纸上沙沙写字的声音，准确详细地记下了姐姐说过的话，有整整八页的篇幅。但我对她说那番话的记忆消失了，似乎我是为了忘却才写下来的。
If I felt guilty to be documenting my sister’s fears from such a safe distance, surrounded by grand libraries and ancient chapels, I gave only one indication of it, in the last line I wrote that night: Cambridge is less beautiful tonight.
如果我为在如此安全的距离——在宏伟的图书馆和古老的教堂的环绕下——记录下姐姐的恐惧而感到内疚，只有一个迹象可以表明这点。那一晚，在日记的最后一行，我写道：今晚的剑桥不如以前美丽。
But to write what? While reading for my master’s thesis, I’d been surprised to discover echoes of Mormon theology in the great philosophers of the nineteenth century. I mentioned this to David Runciman, my supervisor. “That’s your project,” he said. “You can do something no one has done: you can examine Mormonism not just as a religious movement, but as an intellectual one.”
但是写什么呢？在为撰写硕士论文而阅读时，我惊讶地发现，十九世纪的伟大哲学家们身上有摩门教神学的影子。我向导师大卫·朗西曼提出这一点。“那就是你的研究项目，”他说，“你可以做前人没研究过的东西：你不仅可以把摩门教视为一场宗教运动，也可以将它作为一场学术运动来研究。”
The first term passed in a flurry of dinners and late-night parties, punctuated by even later nights in the library. To qualify for a PhD, I had to produce a piece of original academic research. In other words, having spent five years reading history, I was now being asked to write it.
第一个学期在一连串的晚餐、深夜派对以及不时在图书馆熬夜看书中度过了。为了获得博士学位，我必须进行一项原创性学术研究。换句话说，阅读了五年的历史，现在该轮到我来书写历史了。
Drew had come with me to Cambridge, having been admitted to a master’s program in Middle Eastern studies. I told him about my conversation with Audrey. He was the first boyfriend in whom I confided about my family — really confided, the truth and not just amusing anecdotes. Of course all that is in the past, I said. My family is different now. But you should know. So you can watch me. In case I do something crazy.
德鲁已被一个中东研究硕士项目录取，和我一起来到了剑桥。我把我与奥黛丽的谈话告诉了他。他是我向其透露家庭信息的第一个男朋友——真的透露了真相，而不仅仅是有趣的轶事。当然那是过去的事了，我说。我的家人如今不同了。但是你该知道那些事。所以你可以好好盯着我，以防我做出什么疯狂的举动。
But although I wished it were otherwise, I did not want to go home. I preferred the family I had chosen to the one I had been given, so the happier I became in Cambridge, the more my happiness was made fetid by my feeling that I had betrayed Buck’s Peak. That feeling became a physical part of me, something I could taste on my tongue or smell on my own breath.
尽管这并非我所愿，我还是不想回家。我更喜欢自己选择的家庭，而不是被给予的家庭，所以我在剑桥越开心，我的开心就越因为觉得自己背叛了巴克峰而散发着恶臭。这种感觉变成了我身体的一部分，一种我可以在舌头上品尝、在呼吸中闻到的东西。
I began to reread the letters of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young. As a child I’d read those letters as an act of worship; now I read them with different eyes, not the eyes of a critic, but also not the eyes of a disciple. I examined polygamy, not as a doctrine but as a social policy. I measured it against its own aims, as well as against other movements and theories from the same period. It felt like a radical act.
我开始重读约瑟夫·史密斯和杨百翰的信件。小时候读这些信时，我怀着崇拜之情；现在我用不同的眼光重读它们，不是用批评家的眼光，也不是用信徒的眼光。我将一夫多妻制作为一项社会政策，而不是一种教条来解读。我将它与其自身的目标，以及同时期的其他运动和理论进行比较。这感觉就像一种激进的行为。
My friends in Cambridge had become a kind of family, and I felt a sense of belonging with them that, for many years, had been absent on Buck’s Peak. Sometimes I felt damned for those feelings. No natural sister should love a stranger more than a brother, I thought, and what sort of daughter prefers a teacher to her own father?
我在剑桥的朋友已经成为家人，与他们在一起让我有一种归属感，这种归属感在巴克峰已经消失了多年。有时这种感觉让我痛苦。我想，没有哪个亲妹妹爱陌生人会胜过爱自己的哥哥，又是什么样的女儿比起父亲会更喜爱自己的老师？
I bought a ticket to Idaho for Christmas. The night before my flight, there was a feast in my college. One of my friends had formed a chamber choir that was to sing carols during dinner. The choir had been rehearsing for weeks, but on the day of the feast the soprano fell ill with bronchitis. My phone rang late that afternoon. It was my friend. “Please tell me you know someone who can sing,” he said.
圣诞节我买了一张回爱达荷州的机票。启程前一天晚上，我们学院举办了一次晚宴。我的一位朋友组织了一个室内唱诗班，要在晚宴上唱圣诞颂歌。唱诗班已排练了好几个星期，但在宴会那天，女高音得了支气管炎。那天下午，我的电话响了，是我的那个朋友。“麻烦告诉我，你认识会唱歌的人吗？”他说。
I had not sung for years, and never without my father to hear me, but a few hours later I joined the chamber choir on a platform near the rafters, above the massive Christmas tree that dominated the hall. I treasured the moment, taking pleasure in the lightness I felt to have music once again floating up from my chest, and wondering whether Dad, if he were here, would have braved the university and all its socialism to hear me sing. I believed he would.
我已经多年不唱歌了，而且从没在爸爸不在场时唱过，但几个小时后，我加入了室内唱诗班，登上了大厅里巨大的圣诞树上方的椽子附近的平台。我珍惜那一刻，很高兴能再一次感受音乐从胸口浮上来的轻盈感。我也想知道爸爸会不会冒着进入大学和这个国家的风险，来到这里听我唱歌。我相信他会的。
Buck’s peak was unchanged. The Princess was buried in snow but I could see the deep contours of her legs. Mother was in the kitchen when I arrived, stirring a stew with one hand and with the other holding the phone and explaining the properties of motherwort. Dad’s desk was still empty. He was in the basement, Mother said, in bed. Something had hold of his lungs.
巴克峰还是老样子。公主被积雪覆盖，但我还能看到她腿部深深的轮廓。我到家时，母亲正在厨房，一手搅拌炖汤，一手拿着电话解释益母草的特性。爸爸的桌子仍是空的。母亲说，他在地下室，躺在床上。他的肺里好像有什么东西。
Two days passed. Dad came upstairs every evening and settled himself into a sofa in the Chapel, where he would cough and watch TV or read the Old Testament. I spent my days studying or helping Mother.
两天过去了。爸爸每晚都上楼，坐在扩建的“教堂”里的沙发上，一边咳嗽，一边看电视或者读旧约。我每天不是学习，就是帮母亲干活。
A burly stranger shuffled through the back door. Several seconds passed before I recognized my brother. Luke’s beard was so thick, he looked like one of his goats. His left eye was white and dead: he’d been shot in the face with a paintball gun a few months before. He crossed the room and clapped me on the back, and I stared into his remaining eye, looking for something familiar. But it wasn’t until I saw the raised scar on his forearm, a curved check mark two inches wide from where the Shear had bitten his flesh, that I was sure this man was my brother. He told me he was living with his wife and a pack of kids in a mobile home behind the barn, making his money working oil rigs in North Dakota.
一个身材魁梧的陌生人慢吞吞地从后门走了进来。过了几秒钟我才认出那是哥哥卢克。他的胡子那么浓密，看上去和他养的山羊一样。他的左眼是白色的，已经瞎了：几个月前，他的脸被彩弹枪击中。他穿过房间，拍了拍我的背，我盯着他剩下的那只眼睛，寻找熟悉的东西。直到看到他前臂上凸起的伤疤——一个两英寸宽的对勾，正是被大剪刀伤到的地方——我才确定这个人就是我的哥哥。他告诉我，他和妻子还有一群孩子住在谷仓后面的一间活动房里，他在北达科他州的石油钻塔上工作赚钱。
On the third evening I was at the kitchen table, reading, when Shawn and Benjamin shuffled through the back door. Benjamin was telling Shawn about a punch he’d thrown after a fender bender in town. He said that before climbing out of his truck to confront the other driver, he’d slipped his handgun into the waistband of his jeans. “The guy didn’t know what he was getting into,” Benjamin said, grinning.
第三天晚上，我正坐在餐桌旁看书，这时肖恩和本杰明从后门拖着步子走了进来。本杰明正对肖恩说他在镇上的一场小交通事故后跟人打架的事。他说，在他下卡车与对方司机对峙之前，他把手枪塞进了牛仔裤的腰带里。“那家伙不知道自己惹了什么麻烦。”本杰明咧嘴笑着说。
“I wasn’t gonna use it,” Benjamin muttered.
“我又不是真想开枪。”本杰明嘟囔着。
Shawn spoke calmly, thoughtfully. His blond hair was filthy and uncut, growing wild, and his face was covered in stubble the color of shale. His eyes shone from under the oil and dirt, blazes of blue in clouds of ash. His expression, as well as his words, seemed to belong to a much older man, a man whose hot blood had cooled, who was at peace.
肖恩平静地说着，面带沉思。他那头金发又脏又乱，也该修剪了。他脸上布满了泥灰色的胡茬，眼睛在油污和尘土下闪闪发光，好像灰云中闪烁的蓝色火焰。他的表情和言谈似乎来自一个比他年纪大得多的人，一个热血已经冷却，与世无争的人。
“Only an idiot brings a gun into a mess like that,” Shawn said.
“这种事只有傻瓜才会带枪。”肖恩说。
“Then don’t bring it,” Shawn said. “Then you know you won’t use it. If you bring it you might use it, that’s how things are. A fistfight can turn into a gunfight real quick.”
“那就别带枪，”肖恩说，“那样你才知道你不会用到它。如果带了，你可能就用上了，事情就是这样。拳头干架很快就会演变成激烈枪战。”
Shawn turned to me. I had been avoiding him, but suddenly that seemed unfair. He had changed; it was cruel to pretend he hadn’t. He asked if I’d like to go for a drive, and I said I would. Shawn wanted ice cream so we got milkshakes. The conversation was calm, comfortable, like it had been years before on those dusky evenings in the corral. He told me about running the crew without Dad, about Peter’s frail lungs — about the surgeries and the oxygen tubes he still wore at night.
肖恩转向我。我一直在躲着他，但突然间，这么做似乎很不公平。他已经变了，假装他没有改变是很残忍的。他问我是否愿意跟他开车兜风，我说好。肖恩想吃冰激凌，于是我们买了冰沙。谈话平静、舒适，就像多年前在畜栏里那些昏暗的夜晚一样。他跟我谈了很多：爸爸不在时他负责管理工作小队；儿子彼得肺部虚弱，做过几次手术，晚上仍戴着氧气管。
“Where we going?” I asked, but the road only went one place.
“我们这是要去哪儿啊？”我问，但这条路只通往一个地方。
We were nearly home, only a mile from Buck’s Peak, when Shawn cranked the wheel and the car skidded on the ice. He accelerated through the spin, the tires caught, and the car leapt onto a side road.
我们眼看就快到家了，离巴克峰只有一英里，这时肖恩转动方向盘，汽车在冰上打滑。他在转弯时加速，轮胎一顿，汽车跳上了一条小路。
Shawn circled the lot, then parked near the main entrance. He switched off the ignition and the headlights faded. I could barely make out the curve of his face in the dark.
肖恩绕着停车场转了一圈，然后在大门口附近停下。他熄了火，车头灯灭了。黑暗中我几乎看不清他的脸部轮廓。
The church was dark, the parking lot deserted.
教堂很暗，停车场空无一人。
“You talk much to Audrey?” he said.
“你跟奥黛丽联系得多吗？”他说。
“Not really,” I said.
“不多。”我说。
I looked away, fixing my eyes on the church spire, visible against the light from the stars.
我移开目光，盯着教堂尖顶，在星光的映照下，那尖顶清晰可见。
He seemed to relax, then he said, “Audrey is a lying piece of shit.”
他似乎放松了下来，然后说：“奥黛丽就是个爱说谎的贱人。”
It was crucial that I not look at him. As long as I kept my eyes on the spire, I almost believed he couldn’t touch me. Almost. Because even while I clung to this belief, I waited to feel his hands on my neck. I knew I would feel them, and soon, but I didn’t dare do anything that might break the spell of waiting. In that moment part of me believed, as I had always believed, that it would be me who broke the spell, who caused it to break. When the stillness shattered and his fury rushed at me, I would know that something I had done was the catalyst, the cause. There is hope in such a superstition; there is the illusion of control.
绝对不能看他。我几乎相信，只要我的眼睛一直盯着教堂尖顶，他就不会动我。只是几乎相信，因为即使我紧抓这个念头不放，我也等待感受到他的手落在我的脖子上。我知道很快就会感受到他的双手，但我一动不敢动，不敢打破这个等待的魔咒。那一刻某种程度上我相信，就像我一直相信的那样，打破魔咒、解除魔法的人会是我。当寂静被打破，他愤怒地冲向我，我就会知道肯定是我做了什么，成了催化剂和导火索。这种迷信中透露着希望，给人能掌控局面的错觉。
“I’d put a bullet in her head,” Shawn said, and I felt his body shift toward me. “But I don’t want to waste a good bullet on a worthless bitch.”
“我会朝她脑袋开一枪，”肖恩说，我感觉他的身体朝我这边挪动，“但我不想把一颗好子弹浪费在一个没用的婊子身上。”
“You feel like a movie?” Shawn said. His voice was casual. I watched the world revolve as the car spun around and lurched back to the highway. “A movie sounds just right,” he said.
“你想去看电影吗？”肖恩问。他的声音很是随意。我看着汽车急转调头，蹒跚地重新回到公路上，感觉世界随之旋转。“看部电影是个好主意。”他说。
The ignition clicked, the engine growled to life. Warm air flooded through the vents.
咔嗒一声点火，引擎轰隆隆地发动起来，通风口涌出了阵阵暖风。
I said nothing, unwilling to move or speak lest I offend the strange sorcery of physics that I still believed had saved me. Shawn seemed unaware of my silence. He drove the last mile to Buck’s Peak chatting cheerfully, almost playfully, about whether to watch The Man Who Knew Too Little, or not.
我什么也没说，不愿动也不愿说，唯恐冒犯了我仍然相信拯救了我的奇异的物理巫术。肖恩似乎没有意识到我的沉默。在开车回巴克峰的最后一英里路上，他愉快地闲聊，几乎开玩笑般谈论要不要看《特工插班生》那部电影。
I stayed still, without thought or motion.
我一动不动地待着，脑海一片空白。
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