"Edward Bryant - The Transfer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bryant Edward)

Edward Bryant - The Transfer

Something is not right.
My name is Doris Ruth MacKenzie, and I am forty-three years old. When I
was a little girl, everyone around me called me Dorrie. I hated that.
Nowadays, only a few friends rememberand they still call me thatbut it's
all right.
And then there's Jim. It's fine for Jim to call me Dorrie. I haven't loved
many people, but those I have lovedthey can do anything.
Jim? Jim. Where are you?
James Gordon MacKenzie has been my husband for twenty-two years. We've
known each other only slightly longer than that. He's a tall man, slightly
stooped, and kind. Always very kind. And he's wearing a red mask.
Something's not right at all.
Jim? My wrists are numb. There is so much I can't touch. Behind my eyes,
the pain zigzags madly. It feels like there are shards of broken glass
grinding in there. I can't see anything, except what I can think of.
Jim . . . Where are you?
Talk to me, love.
Won't anyone speak to me? I'm talking to myself.
But I'm not going crazy. I'm not!
He wears a scarlet mask. It shines, glistens like What is it I'm not
seeing?
I can still feel. People always said I had empathy. Even at the
beginning, when I first could frame ideas in words, I knew I could feel
for others, actually feel others. "Equalizing potentials," my high school
physics teacher said, even though he never knew what those two words
actually meant to me. He was speaking of something else entirely. It was a
metaphor I couldn't phrase, but I knew it fit.
"A high-pressure area's generated to the west of the Quad Cities . . ."
That's the practical application of my teacher's words.
Reading from the wire copy: "The low-pressure system in central Illinois
is holding steady."
I'd smile again and use my breathy, little-girl voice.
"The storm's coming in fast, folks. Bring in your doggies and kitty cats.
The Weather Bureau says"
We still called it the Weather Bureau back then. It was 1963, I was
twenty-three, and I was working at WWHO-TV in Aurora. I hadn't made it
into Chicago yetat least professionallybut finally I was past Peoria.
I had thought the forecast was still variable.
Oh, God. The weather report. The patterns with their smooth whorls. The
transfer of energy, sometimes violently. The shapes from the contour maps
swirling around me, humming monotonously, distorting all the clear, sharp
angles . . .
At WWHO they hired me because I was cute. The station manager let me know
that right away. I didn't want to go out to dinner with him, but he was
very insistent, and I was hungry.
Over his medium-rare liver and onions, he said, "We'll get you the
numbers. You'll be the sexiest, most watched weathergirl in the Midwest.
You'll be able to write your own ticket in New York or L.A., wherever you