"Clark, Brian - The Man Who Walked On The Ceiling" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clark Brian)

of the vituperative tongue-lashing he would have to endure
when his mother discovered there was no more rental income.
There has to be a way, he thought desperately. There has to
be--
Yes. Yes!
He ran to the basement, grabbed a coil of rope which
had been a clothes line before his mother acquired a dryer,
hurried back upstairs. He attached one end around his waist,
opened the front door and carefully threaded the other end
through a space in the decorative ironwork framing the steps
leading up to the door. Then, after closing the door behind
him, he paid out the rope as he backed down the walk to the
curb.
"Young man, are you alright?"
It was the irritating nasal of the skinny widow next
door. Although Ada Grierson was only about George's age, her
widowhood apparently gave her the right to call him 'young
man'. In his more uncharitable moments, George wondered if
her late husband had been hagged to death.
He waved his hand. "No problem, Mrs Grierson. Just a
small experiment I am working on."
The reaction to his explanation was a disapproving
sniff, as the widow withdrew into the darkness of her
parlor.
He unlocked the Plymouth, slid inside, pulled the rope
after him and then firmly attached the seat belt. "There!",
he told himself triumphantly. If it had happened, the worst
would have been trying to explain to the bitch why he was
floating in the air like a balloon on a tether. George was
sure she would express strong disapproval.
He was slightly late at the bus station. Bag at her
side, lips in a thin impatient line, his mother waited at
the curb. He leaned over and rolled down the passenger
window. "You are late," she said unnecessarily.
"Sorry Ma. The traffic was bad." He started to get out
on the driver's side, changed his mind, slid across the seat
and got out on the passenger side. Holding on to the car
door with one hand, he picked up the bag and slung it onto
the back seat. Then, taking his mother's hand, he backed
into the car and pulled her after him. She said nothing
until he started the motor and turned into traffic.
"George."
"Yes Ma?"
"What was that rigmarole about?"
"What rigmarole?"
"A gentleman is supposed to help a lady into a car
before he gets in himself. You used to do it that way,
George."
"Sorry Ma. I read an article about auto safety. It said
you should never open a car door into traffic."