"Amy Sterling Casil - Jonny Punkinhead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Casil Amy Sterling)

AMY STERLING CASIL

JONNY PUNKINHEAD

*
Fiction writers often have a wide variety of jobs before they make a living off
their fiction sales. Sometimes the writers already have writing careers --
nonfiction writing careers. Amy Sterling Casil is one such writer. Her
nonfiction has appeared in women's and literary publications. Lately she has
concentrated on her short fiction. She went to the Clarion Writers' Workshop,
and she was a finalist in the Writers of the Future contest in 1995.

*
To make ends meet, she works as the Executive Director of Family Service
Association & Home Again Project. She lives in Redlands, California with her
husband and daughter.

Outside my office, I hear the rubbery squeal of a wheelchair, followed by the
damp exhalation of a sick child's sigh. The shadow of the pump-kin-headed boy,
Jonny, crosses the wall like a dark hand slapped on a sheet.

"Come in," I call through the open door.

"Sure, Dr. Arian," Jonny says, lisping. It sounds like "Sssir, docker awrin,"
but I'm used to the way hc talks.

Jonny wheels into my office. He's very limber with the chair. In his hand is a
small, crooked paper Santa and something else that I can't quite fathom, made of
festive paper. I finish the letter I'm composing and smile. It's not easy to
smile at Jonny.

He holds the paper Santa up. "I made this for Gramma," he says.

"That's a great St. Nick," I say. My mouth twists in a funny way, and I don't
like the feeling. His grandmother hasn't visited him for at least three years,
yet Jonny makes her something for every holiday. Her presents are all in a
shoebox, tucked neatly in his cubby in Dorm A., where the seriously ill children
live.

"This is for you," he says, holding out the other bit of artwork. I see now that
it's pieces of paper, cut and pasted to look like a Christmas present.

The little present has "I love you, Dr. Arlan" written on it in spidery letters.
"That's a great job, Jonny."

In a fit of the unprofessionalism which seems to have become my habit of late, I
push away from the desk and walk to Jonny's side, then kiss his patchy scalp.
Jonny giggles and kisses me back. If I look in his good left eye, which is