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

"Here? Working?" She laughs. "Like I've got a choice!" She takes my older and
brings me my food. I eat scrambled eggs and bacon and toast soaked with
butter.
I drink three cups of coffee, black. I don't want to live forever. I leave
Caroline a big tip because its no joke having five -- six kids to raise
today's
prices, and a husband who doesn't earn much more than minimum wage.

I get a good idea while I am smearing strawberry jam over my last piece of
toast: The Woman's Center. I do weekend volunteer work there, but there's no
reason I can't go over today and see if they can use me. I'm free.

I try to hail a cab but all of them are taken, mostly by businessmen. Once I
see
an empty one sail past, but he keeps on going when I wave. Maybe he is
nearsighted and can't see me through the driver's bulletproof bubble. Maybe he
is out of sampler sheets for his automatic fare-scan and is hurrying to pick
up
some more. Maybe he just assumes diet because I am a woman of a certain age I
really don't want to ride in a cab at all.

I walk a block west and take the bus. Busses don't need fare-scan terminals
because it always costs the same for every ride and you don't need to key in
the
tip. Tokens are enough. I ride downtown across the aisle a woman with two
small
children, a boy and a girl. The boy is only two or three years old and sits in
his mother's lap, making rrrum-rrrum noises with his toy truck. The little
girl
looks about four and regards her brother scornfully. She sits in her own scat
with her hands folded in the lap of her peach-colored spring coat. She wants
the
world to know that she is all grown up and impatient to leave baby things
behind. I wonder it she'll like kindergarten as much as Tessa did? She didn't
cry at all when it was time to go, even though it meant I couldn't see her in
the mornings.
Things are pretty quiet at the Woman's Center. After all, it is a weekday, a
workday. You have to work if you want to live. But Oralee is there. Oralee is
always there, tall and black and ugly as a dog's dinner, the way my mom would
say. She is the Center manager. It doesn't pay much, but it's what she wants
to
do. She is seated at her desk --and old wooden relic from some long-gone
public
school -- and when she sees me she is surprised.

Then she remembers.

"Linda, happy freedom!" She rises from her chair and rushes across the room to
embrace me. Her skin is very soft and smells like lilacs. I don't know what to