"Carol Emshwiller - I Live with You" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emshwiller Carol)

you'll notice. It might come in handy.

(Lacy underwear with holes in lewd places. Nudist magazines. Snails and sardinesтАФsmoked oysters.
Neither one of us like them. All the things I get with your money are for you. I don't steal.)
How do you get through Christmas all by yourself? You're lonely enough for both of us. You wrap empty
boxes in Christmas paper just to be festive. You buy a tree, a small one. It's artificial and comes with
lights that glimmer on and off. The cat and I come down to sleep near its glow.

But the man. The one I want to bring to you. I look over the personals. I write letters to possibilities but,
as I'm taking them to the post office, I see somebody. He limps and wobbles. (The way he lurches
sideways looks like sciatica to me. Or maybe arthritis.) He needs a haircut and a shave. He's wearing an
old plaid jacket and he's all knees and elbows. There's a countrified look about him. Nobody wears plaid
around here.

I limp behind him. Watch him go into one of those little apartments behind a main house and over a
garage. It's not far from our house.

It can't be more than one room. I could never creep around in that place and not be noticed.

A country cousin. Country uncle more likely, he's older than we are. Is he capable of what I want him
for?

Next day I watch him in the grocery store. Like us, he buys living-alone kind of food, two apples, a
tomato, crackers, oatmeal. Poor people's kind of food. I get in line with him at the check-out. I bump
into him on purpose as he pays and peek into his wallet. That's all he hasтАФjust enough for what he buys.
He counts out the change a penny at a time and he hardly has a nickel left over. I get ready to give him a
bit extra if he needs it.

He's such an ugly, rickety man.... Perfect.

There's no reason to go into his over-the-garage room, but I want to. This is important. I need to see
who he is.

I use our credit card to open his lock.

What a mess. He needs somebody like us to look after him. His bed is piled with blankets. The room
isn't very well heated. The bathroom has a curtain instead of a door. There's no tub or even shower. I
check the hot water in the sink. It says hot, but both sides come out cold. All he has is a hot plate. No
refrigerator. There's two windows, but no curtains. Isn't that just like a man. I could climb up on the back
fence and see right in.

There's nothing of the holidays here. Nothing of any holidays and not a single picture of a relative. And,
like our house, nothing of friends. You and he are made for each other.

What to do to show I've been here? But this time I don't feel much like playing tricks. And it's so messy
he wouldn't notice, anyway.

It's cold. I haven't taken my coat off all through this. I make myself a cup of tea. (There's no lemons and
no milk. Of course.) I sit in his one chair. It's painted ugly green. All his furniture is as if picked up on the
curb and his bedside table is one of those fruit boxes. As I sit and sip, I check his magazines. They look