"Dann,_Jack_-_The_Diamond_Pit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dann Jack)

"Please don't be angry with me," she said, standing behind the table, as though afraid to sit down beside me. I gestured her to do so, but she stood her ground, closed her eyes for a beat, then said, as if reciting, "I had no choice but -- No, that's no good. None of it's any good." Then she sat down and against all my better judgment, I was caught by her -- again. But she didn't seem to know. Her eyes filled with tears and she said, "How you must hate me."
I moved toward her, then caught myself. "I don't hate you."
"Yes, you do. I remember how you looked at me. I'll never forget the horror and disgust on your face. I -- "
I didn't say anything.
"But I have to live with what I've done. Somehow -- "
I could only nod.
"I've tried to come up with a way to tell you, to explain. Every day I prepared a speech, but I -- I just couldn't."
"So you just left me here to rot."
"I told Robert to look after you."
"You know what _that_ means," I said.
She nodded, and I saw that she had used too much rouge on her cheeks to give her color; her perfect, dimpled face looked strained, and I detected worry lines on the corners of her pale blue eyes. "I know -- I was selfish, but I couldn't think. I didn't want to lose you, so I -- "
"Yes, Phoebe, we know what you did. Now what do you want to tell me?" Those words sounded cruel, even to my ears, and I regretted them immediately. Foolishly, stupidly, impossibly, I didn't want to lose her. It didn't matter what she had done.
Too late. She stood up, as if I had slapped her. "Yes, of course, you're right."
"What do you want to tell me?" I asked quickly, and I found myself standing also.
"I want to tell you that -- I don't know. I can't do it now. It was a terrible mistake -- " and she turned to run out the door.
I caught her, held her close, and although her breath was ragged, she didn't cry. She stiffened, then rested her face against mine and said, "All right, I can tell you now. I don't regret killing those men. I didn't then. I don't now. I know I was wrong, I know I'll burn in hell forever, God forgive me, but they _murdered_ Momma. I couldn't help it. It was like someone else was killing them, even while I was doing it. Maybe it was because I found out about Father, maybe -- "
"What about your father?" I asked.
She pulled away from me and sat back down on the couch. She took a puff on her cigarette, which was still burning in the ashtray, as was mine. The smoke roiled in the sunlight like clouds, or gas. "I'll tell you everything, but I need to know -- "
"What -- ?"
"I know you can't forgive me, but will you listen?"
"Yes, I just told you that."
"I'll tell you everything," Phoebe repeated, "but -- "
"But what?" I asked.
She shook her head, and tears stained her makeup. Then she straightened up, composed herself, and said, "I kept you here because I love you. Selfishly. I knew you'd try to escape. I was even going to give you a choice. I was going to ask you whether you'd rather go back down to the Pit to be with your friends." She laughed, puffed her cigarette, and smashed it out in the ashtray.
"But you weren't going to let me be your confidant and stay with you."
"I -- I needed time to -- "
Instead of listening, I went on, caught up in my own anger. "And you certainly weren't going to let me leave the mountain."
"No," she said. "I'm crazy about you, but I'm not stupid. God help me, I'm my father's daughter." Before I could say anything, she continued. "I had to work things out. I told you -- I needed time."
"You could have come to me anytime," I said.
She nodded. "I've tried -- every single day. I guess I can now. Now that Father is back."
I felt a chill tickle down my spine. It was over. All over. If Jefferson was back in charge, he'd figure a way to dispose of me sooner rather than later -- once he got around Phoebe. Or perhaps he wouldn't even have to do that.
"No, Paul, you don't understand," Phoebe said. "Will you come with me? And then you can decide."
"Decide what?" I asked. "Whether to stay up here or go back to the Pit?"
But Phoebe was waiting for me at the door -- as were Robert and Isaac.
* * * *
I must have been favoring my right side a bit as we walked because Phoebe asked me what was the matter. I glanced at Robert, then asked, "Didn't he tell you?"
"Tell me what?" Phoebe asked.
"Ask _him_."
"Well, Robert -- ?"
He started talking to her in dialect, but I interrupted. "In English, Robert."
So Robert explained that he had broken my ribs -- by mistake -- and Phoebe dismissed him then and there. Isaac, however, was retained, presumably to guard me from Phoebe. I couldn't help gloating, and defended Robert as my servant.
"You see, you're learning," Phoebe said to me as we climbed the servants' staircase to the third floor. She unlocked the door to old man Jefferson's bedroom and study, which was surprisingly modest -- except for the wildly ornate Spanish ceiling crafted from gilded wood and an eighteenth-century bed with a satin canopy and matching bedspread. There was a simple desk and cushioned chair beside the bed, a small fireplace that needed cleaning, and family portraits on the walls. The desk was piled with papers and an odd mechanism that seemed to sit on the desk but was supported by what looked like a drainpipe that disappeared into the floor. There were folders on the floor around the desk and the pipe, along with women's underclothing and various scattered skirts and dresses. Obviously Phoebe's. "I've taken Poppa's room," she continued. "It's a bit messy, but that's because I won't allow the servants in here." With that she pushed the door closed on Isaac. "You see, now I'm alone with you and at your mercy."
I nodded and she apologized.
"No need," I said, but she had already forgotten and was rummaging for something in the covers of her bed.
"Here they are," she said, finding what she was looking for: a large envelope containing photographs of her father and a dark-haired, finely featured girl. "You see, she's younger than me. Can you beat that? It's the bunk. The fucking bunk."
I was surprised, as I'd never heard Phoebe swear before, but she just glared at those photographs and blinked back tears.
"Who is she?" I asked.
"Poppa's whore, that's who she is. Mother's dead because of her. Poppa promised that he'd make her a film star. Here, look for yourself," and she took a handful of letters from the desk and practically threw them at me.
"Easy," I said. "I'm not the enemy."
"Maybe you are -- maybe you aren't. We'll see, won't we?"