"Carol Emshwiller - Mrs Jones" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emshwiller Carol)

where it is), goes to the house and down into the basement.
TheyтАЩd always had dogs. Big ones. For safety. But Mr. Jones (called Jonesy)
had only died a few months ago and Cora is still grieving, or so she keeps saying.
Since the dog had become blind, diabetic, and incontinent in his last years, Janice is
relieved that heтАЩs gone. Besides, she has her heart set on something small and more
tractable, some sort of terrier, but now sheтАЩs glad Jonesy was large and difficult to
manage. His metal choke collar and chain leash are still in the cellar. She wraps them
in a cloth bag to keep them from making any clanking noises and heads back out,
picking up the tray of food on the way.
As she comes close to the fire, she begins to hum. This time she wants him to
know sheтАЩs coming. The creature sits in the tree now and watches her with red
glinting eyes. She puts the tray down and begins to talk softly as though she were
trying to calm old Jonesy. She even calls the thing Mr. Jones. At first by mistake and
then on purpose. He watches. Moves nothing but his eyes and big ears. His wings,
folded up along his arms and dangling, are army-olive drab like that piece she found,
but his body is a little lighter. She can tell that even in this moonlight.
Now that sheтАЩs closer and less startled than before, she can see that thereтАЩs
something terribly wrong. One leathery wing is torn and twisted. HeтАЩs helpless. Or
almost. Probably in pain. Janice feels a rush of joy.
She breaks off a bit of tunafish sandwich and slowly, talking softly all the
time, she holds it towards his little, clawed hand. Equally slowly, he reaches out to
take it. She keeps this up until almost all of one plateful is eaten. But suddenly the
creature jumps out of the tree, turns around and throws up.
Janice knows a vulnerable moment when she sees one. As he leans back on
his heels between spasms, she fastens the choke collar around his neck, and twists
the other end of the chain leash around her wrist.
He only makes two attempts to escape: tries to flap himself into the air, but
itтАЩs obviously painful for him; then he tries to run. His legs are bowed, his gait
rocking and clumsy. After these two attempts at getting away, he seems to realize itтАЩs
hopeless. Janice can see in his eyes that heтАЩs given up--too sick and tired to care.
Probably happy to be captured and looked after at last.
She leads him back to the house and down into the basement. Her own quiet
creeping makes him quiet, too. He seems to sense that heтАЩs to be a secret and that
perhaps his life depends on it. It was hard for him to walk all the way across the
orchard. He doesnтАЩt seem to be built for anything but flying.
There is an old coal room, not used since they got oil heat. Janice makes a
nest for him there, first chaining him to one of the pipes. She gets him blankets,
water, an empty pail with lid. She makes him put on a pair of her underpants. She
has to use a cord around his waist to make them stay up. She wonders what she
should leave him to eat that would stay down? Then brings him chamomile tea, dry
toast, one very small potato. ThatтАЩs all. She doesnтАЩt want to be cleaning up a lot of
vomit.
HeтАЩs so tractable through all this that she loses all fear of him. Pats his head as
if he were old Jonesy. Strokes the wonderful softness of his wings. Thinks: If those
were cut off, heтАЩd look like a small old man with long, hard fingernails. Misshapen,
but not much more so than other people. And clothes can hide things. Without the
dark wings, heтАЩd look lighter. His body is that color thatтАЩs always described as cafe
au lait. She would have preferred it if heтАЩd been clearly a white person, but, who
knows, maybe a little while in the cellar will make him paler.
After a last rubbing of his head behind his too-large ears, Janice padlocks the