"Esther M. Friesner - Birthday" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

of cups and saucers, sliced lemons and sugar cubes and lacy silver tongs. "I
wanted to do it, but Frances insisted we call you."

"You know you couldn't do it, George," says Frances. "Remember how hard it was
for you in the clinic, and after?"

"I could do it," he insists stubbornly.

"But you don't have to," she tells him softly. "Spare yourself, for me." She
reaches over to stroke his hand. There is an old love between them and I feel
it
flow in waves of strength from her to him.

I leave their building still carrying just three brown envelopes. They don't
want me to mail them any cash, like the others; they only want me to dose
Frances' personal account and transfer the funds into George's.

I also have a check in my wallet from Mr. George Hughes made out to the
Woman's
Center. He gave it to me when I was leaving the apartment, while I set my
purse
aside on a miniature bookcase and rebuttoned my jacket. He said, "We were very
wrong." I didn't know what he meant. Then, just as I was picking up my purse,
my
eye lit on the title of one of the volumes in that bookcase.

"No Remorse?"

It is the book that changed things for good, for ill. You can still find it
for
sale all over. My aunt Lucille gave a copy to my mother. My mother has not
spoken to her since. They study it in schools with the same awe they give to
Uncle Tom's Cabin and Mein Kampf. Some say, "It stopped the attacks, the
bombings, it saved lives." Others say, "It didn't stop the deaths. So what if
they're forced to suffer? It still sanctioned murder." Some reply, "It threw
those damned extremists a sop, it truly freed women." And others yet say, "It
sold out our true freedom for a false peace, it made us terror's slaves." I
say
nothing about it at all. All I know is what it did to me.

I looked at Frances' husband and I wanted to believe that the book had come
there by accident, left behind by a caller who was now no longer welcome under
that roof. But when he looked away from me and his face turned red, I knew the
truth. I took the check. "You go to hell," I told him, the same way Vicky's
mother said it to me.

I will not use Frances Hughes' password and sample to steal: I could, but I
won't. I will not betray as I hope not to be betrayed. But George Hughes
doesn't
know that. Let him call ahead to his bank, change the password. Let him be the