"Paul Di Filippo - The Short Ashy Afterlife" - читать интересную книгу автора (Di Filippo Paul)

kind of dame who prefers sardines to high heels?"
"But Sparky, dear--"
"Fuhgeddaboutit!"
Our marital situation deteriorated rapidly from that point on, as if a plug had been pulled on a greasy
watertower full of ill feelings that now drained over us. Accusations, vituperations, insinuations -- these
replaced whispered endearments and fond embraces on Sparky's part. My share of these increasingly
frequent arguments consisted of silence and a hangdog expression, followed by contrite agreement.
Nevertheless, unplacated, my wife began spending inordinate amounts of time away from home,
frequently returning only after I had finished my nine o'clock snack of milk and common crackers and
turned out the lights for sleep.
The final straw apparently came with a most unwise and unannounced expenditure on my part. I had
learned by now not to advertise in advance my horticultural expenditures. Consequently, the delivery of
lumber, cast iron fittings and sheets of glass sufficient to construct a charming Edwardian greenhouse took
Sparky completely by surprise.
She had the tact to wait until the deliverymen left before laying into me, although judging by the mottling
of her complexion the restraint had nearly caused her to burst a vein.
"What the hell is all this, buster! Are you out of your everlovin' mind? Your wife is walking around in
rags, and you're blowing through my inheritance like a dipso through free muscatel!"
I tried to divert her anger by joshing. "Oh, come now, dear. You have a sturdy and healthy husband not
much older than you yourself. Surely it's premature to be speaking of my unlikely demise and your
grieving widowhood."
A look of pure vicious hatred such as I had never before seen on a human visage passed fleetingly across
Sparky's beautiful features, to be replaced by a composed mask of indifference. "Oh, too early is it?
Maybe -- and maybe not...."
Her words and expression alarmed me to such a degree that I shrugged quickly into my ratty old
puttering-about cardigan, murmured something about attending to a fungus problem, and hastened
outside.
Kneeling at the base of a large, mistletoe-festooned oak tree, I was delicately aerating the soil around its
roots with a small tool when I heard someone approaching. I looked over my shoulder and saw a
horrifying sight.
My loving wife Sparky, hoisting high my fine British axe in her gloved hands.
Struck mute, paralyzed, I could only listen helplessly to her insane rehearsal of some future speech for an
unknown audience.
"This is an absolutely awful neighborhood, officer. I've noticed tramps and vagrants and petty thieves
lurking around our estate ever since my poor dead husband brought me here as his blushing bride. One
of them must have finally broken in. I'm sure my husband died defending my virtue."
"No, Sparky, no!" I finally managed to croak.
Too late, for the axe was already descending.
In my fading eyesight, filled totally with a closeup landscape of bark, I watched my own blood jet and
pool in a hollow formed by two intersecting oak roots.
Then all went black.

THE ASTONISHING RETURN of my consciousness at first brought with it no sensory data, aside
from a sense of well-being and wholeness. For an indefinite leisurely time I basked in the simple absence
of the shattering pain that had accompanied Sparky's treacherous assault. The utter blackness and lack of
sound in my current environment failed to frighten me. I felt too much at ease, too peaceful. I could only
conclude that some good Samaritan had rescued me from my wife's attack in time to save my life, and
that now I rested in a cozy hospital bed, guarded by watchful nurses and doctors, my eyes and ears
bandaged, my healing body suffused with morphine.
The closest I approached to worrying about my old life was a vague feeling that certainly some drastic