"Jack Dann - Voices" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dann Jack)

JACK DANN

VOICES

TO MOST OF US, DEATH WAITS DARK AND MYSTERIOUS IN THE FUTURE, BUT IF YOU
COULD
TALK TO SPIRITS,YOU MIGHT FIND DEATH IS NOT SO SCARY AFTER ALL

I was carefully papering the balsa-wood wing struts of my scale-model Gotha G V
bomber when Crocker asked me if I ever spoke to dead people.

Although Crocker is a member of the Susquehanna River Modelmakers and Sex Fiends
Association (which doesn't say much because all you have to do to become a
member is hang out in the shack by the river and make models), everybody thinks
he's right off his nut. On of the guys nicknamed him Crock-a-shit because of all
the stupid stories he told-- and the stupid questions he asked-- and the name
stuck. Hell, he seemed to like it. But nobody broke his arms or his legs or
smashed up his models, and so he stayed on, sort of like a mascot. He was fat,
freckled, and wore his whie-blonde hair in a brush cut. But he was also smart,
in his way. He was twelve, a year younger than me, and was in seventh-grade
honors.

"Steve, you hear me or what?" he asked me, turning down the volume on the club's
battery-powered radio. It was playing the Big Bopper's "Chantilly Lace." Since
Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper had died in a plane crash back
in February, the radio stations were still playing their stuff all the time--and
here it was June! "You ever talk to a dead person or not?"

"No, Crocker," I said. I was trying to work the air bubbles out of the paper:
This Gotha was the only model of its kind and would have a wingspan of over six
feet. My stepfather had given me the kit for my birthday. "I never talked to
anybody who's dead...except maybe you. Now turn the volume back up." But the
song was over and the disc jockey was saying something about Lou Costello, who
died back in March. I could never remember if he was the fat comedian or the
skinny one; but I only liked the fat one and hoped it wasn't him.

Anyway, this was frustrating work, and Crock-a-shit was, as usual, fouling
everything up. I have to admit, though, that he had made me curious; but just
thinking about dead people made me feel jittery, and sad, too. It made me think
of my dad, my real dad, who died in the hospital when I was seven. Funny, the
things you remember. I used to play a game with him when he came home from the
office every night. We had a leather couch in the den--Dad called it "The
Library"--and I would slide my hand back and forth on the cushion while he would
try to catch it. And then when he did, he would hold it tight and we'd laugh.
Dad had gray hair, and everybody said he was handsome. But when he was in the
hospital, he didn't even know who Mom and I were. He thought Mom was `his'
mother! She cried when he got mixed up, and I just felt weird about it.
Especially when he had an attack and then talked in a language that sounded like
Op-talk. Mom said it was because his brain wasn't working right. I knew that
if I could only understand it, everything would be all right. It was like he