"Bowes-ShadowAndGunman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bowes Richard)

Once, I would have grown impatient. But this lady may have saved my life with a
poem, so I listened. "When your mother was born, your grandmother knew she would
have no more children. Your grandfather had won her with his brains and charm.
But he had his black side, all drinking and violence. His sons are well enough
but they feared and respected only that black side of him.

"Mary wanted something better for Ellen. She tried with my help to give her
blessings. We thought we had succeeded. But your grandfather had his hand on her
too. She was his favorite and deep in her lurked the very essence of him. It was
the same when you were born. We wished but he touched you."

The tea kettle whistled and when she rose to take it off the flame, her step was
a little unsteady. "All of us from myself to the Pope have two selves, good and
bad. It's the way we are. What was sad was to see your mother as pained as one
who's been cut in two, unable to be at peace until she died."

When she sat back down, the house was absolutely silent. Maybe it was my
Shadow's being absent, maybe the drugs and terror were shock treatment. But at
that moment I realized that my mother was never coming back. I remembered the
two faces in the photo, smiling and apologetic and scowling and malign. Good and
bad, both halves of her were dead.

That night, finally, I was able to cry for her. Right then, I cried for all poor
souls who find themselves cut in two. I cried for my grandmother and for Tay and
myself. I cried for drunks and users, for the crazed and the scared of this
fucked up world. Sweet Jesus, that night I cried for us all.

PART THREE

FOR THE next week or so, I was stunned by grief. The world was a distant rumor.
At school, kids talked about applying to Harvard and MIT. My mourning was so
delayed that no one but Tay recognized it. No Shadow dogged me, no red MG
flickered at the comer of my eyes. Common sense should have kept me away, but
stark loneliness drew me to the Y.

Saturday morning, the Gallery was silent and empty. As I paused, an iron hand
grabbed my arm. Turning. I saw a raincoat and a long Irish face, a cop. "Looking
for the pool, son?" Jumping at the bait, I nodded eagerly. He led me to the
locker room and said, "Another bathing beauty," to a big man with a Y sweatsuit.

The trap sprang. They knew. With a sadist's smile, the man pointed to a locker.
"STRIP DOWN, PUNK!" Scared, I obeyed. They laughed when I shivered bare ass,
unable to meet their eyes. "MOVE IT, LITTLE GIRL!" I ran to the piss and
chlorine stinking pool.

A hunting party of counselors in trunks waited there. They knocked me into the
water and held me under. They cheered when I choked and stamped my hands when I
tried to get out. A couple I knew from school or the Gallery. They were the
worst.