"Bradbury, Ray - The October Game (ss) v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bradbury Ray)

Louise hadn't wanted a child, anyway, in the first place. She had been
frightened of the idea of birth. He had forced the child on her, and
from that night, all through the year until the agony of the birth
itself, Louise had lived in another part of the house. She had
expected to die with the forced child. It had been very easy for
Louise to hate this husband who so wanted a son that he gave his only
wife over to the mortuary.
But - Louise had lived. And in truimph! Her eyes, the day he came
to the hospital, were cold. I'm alive they said. And I have a blonde
daughter! Just look! And when he had put out a hand to touch, the
mother had turned away to conspire with her new pink daughter-child -
away from that dark forcing murderer. It had all been so beautifully
ironic. His selfishness deserved it.
But now it was October again. There had been other Octobers and
when he thought of the long winter he had been filled with horror year
after year to think of the endless months mortared into the house by
an insane fall of snow, trapped with a woman and child, neither of
whom loved him, for months on end. During the eight years there had
been respites. In spring and summer you got out, walked, picknicked;
these were desperate solutions to the desperate problem of a hated
man.
But, in winter, the hikes and picnics and escapes fell away with
leaves. Life, like a tree, stood empty, the fruit picked, the sap run
to earth. Yes, you invited people in, but people were hard to get in
winter with blizzards and all. Once he had been clever enough to save
for a Florida trip. They had gone south. He had walked in the open.
But now, the eighth winter coming, he knew things were finally at
an end. He simply could not wear this one through. There was an acid
walled off in him that slowly had eaten through tissue and bone over
the years, and now, tonight, it would reach the wild explosive in him
and all would be over!
There was a mad ringing of the bell below. In the hall, Louise went
to see. Marion, without a word, ran down to greet the first arrivals.
There were shouts and hilarity.
He walked to the top of the stairs.
Louise was below, taking cloaks. She was tall and slender and
blonde to the point of whiteness, laughing down upon the new children.
He hesitated. What was all this? The years? The boredom of living?
Where had it gone wrong? Certainly not with the birth of the child
alone. But it had been a symbol of all their tensions, he imagined.
His jealousies and his business failures and all the rotten rest of
it. Why didn't he just turn, pack a suitcase, and leave? No. Not
without hurting Louise as much as she had hurt him. It was simple as
that. Divorce wouldn't hurt her at all. It would simply be an end to
numb indecision. If he thought divorce would give her pleasure in any
way he would stay married the rest of his life to her, for damned
spite. No he must hurt her. Figure some way, perhaps, to take Marion
away from her, legally. Yes. That was it. That would hurt most of all.
To take Marion.
'Hello down there!' He descended the stairs beaming.