"Gardner Dozois & Jack Haldeman - Executive Clemency" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dozois Gardner)

He crossed the room to his chair and stood behind it.
"Morning. Jamie." Mrs. Hamlin said crossly.
"Ma'm," he replied politely, trying to ignore her grumpiness. He was late again.
He sat down. Mrs. Hamlin stared at him disapprovingly, shook her head, and then turned her
attention pointedly back to her plate. As if this were a signal, conversation started up again,
gradually swelling to its normal level. The awkward moment passed. Jamie concentrated on filling
his plate, intercepting the big platters of country ham and eggs and corn bread as they passed up
and down the table. It was always like this at meals: the embarrassed pauses, the uneasy sidelong
glances, the faces that tried to be friendly but could not entirely conceal distaste. Crazy Jamie,
Crazy Jamie. Conversation flowed in ripples around him, never involving him, although the others
would smile dutifully at him if he caught their eyes, and occasionally Seth or Tom would nod at
him with tolerably unforced cordiality. This morning it wasn't enough. He wanted to talk, too, for
the first time in months. He wasn't a child, he was a man, an old man! He paid less attention to
his food and began to strain to hear what was being said, looking for a chance to, get into the
conversation.
Finally the chance came. Seth asked Mr. Samuels a question. It was a point of fact, not opinion,
and Jamie knew the answer.
"Yes," Jamie said, "at one time New York City did indeed have a larger population than Augusta."
Abruptly everyone stopped talking. Mr. Samuels's lips closed up tight, and he grimaced as though
he had tasted something foul. Seth shook his head wearily, looking sad and disappointed. Jamie
lowered his head to avoid Seth's eyes. He could sense Mrs. Hamlin swelling and glowering beside
him, but he wouldn't look at her, either.
Damn it, that wasn't what he'd meant to say! They hadn't been talking about that at all. He'd said
the wrong thing.
He'd done it again.
People were talking about him around the table, he knew, but he could no longer understand them.
He could still hear their voices, but the words had been leeched away, and all that remained was
noise and hissing static. He concentrated on buttering a slice of corn bread, trying
to hang on to that simple mechanical act while the world pulled away from him in all directions,


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retreating to the very edge of his perception, like a tide that has gone miles out from the beach.
When the world tide came back in, he found himself outside on the porch-the veranda, some of the
older folks still called it-with Mrs. Hamlin fussing at him, straightening his clothes, patting
his wiry white hair into place, getting him ready to be sent off to work. She was still annoyed
with him, but it had no real bite to it, and the exasperated fondness underneath kept showing
through even as she scolded him. "You go straight to work now, you hear? No dawdling and mooning
around." He nodded his head sheepishly. She was a tall, aristocratic lady with a beak nose, a
lined, craggy face, and a tight bun of snowy white hair. She was actually a year or two younger
than he was, but he thought of her as much, much older. "And mind you come right straight back
here after work, too. Tonight's the big Fourth day dinner, and you've got to help in the kitchen,
hear? Jamie, are you listening to me?"
He ducked his head and said "Yes'm," his feet already fidgeting to be gone.
Mrs. Hamlin gave him a little push, saying, "Shoo now!" and then, her grim face softening, adding,
"Try to be a good boy." He scooted across the veranda and out into the raw, hot brightness of the
morning.
He shuffled along, head down, still infused with dull embarrassment from the scolding he'd