"Kathleen Ann Goonan - Angels and You Dogs" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goose Mother)

that Charles now lived with a man thirty years older than he on the
fortieth floor of a gleaming modern condominium tower in Key Biscayne
where gigantic stone lions poised on high pedestals over the most obscene
and bizarre of the six swimming pools, looking hungry for human flesh. It
was the kind of place we had always made fun of.
We'd bought this house just before a wave of tear-down fever receded
after briefly washing over a few blessed houses on the next street. Charles
had suddenly decided it would never return, and we had hurriedly divvied
up the property. In the final accounting, he owed me a good chunk of
change, which he'd paid. I realize now that I wanted to rent his half of the
house quickly, to fill up the empty space with a stranger with whom I
would not get emotionally involved. Back then I thought I was just worried
about my dwindling savings. Charles's payment barely covered the second
mortgage we had taken out for improvements.
"Do you smoke?" she asked, looking around.
"Occasionally." More than occasionally for the past month, but I would
cut back. Soon. "Cigars."
"I can't stand smoke."
"I can't stand dogs."
"Fiestaware!" She stood entranced before our my china cabinet,
which held one of the most complete collections of Fiestaware in South
Florida. There were a few gaps, pieces which eluded the most dedicated
collector, but it was magnificent, and had created the most bitterness
when Charles left, because we had created it together, scouring countless
yard sales, swap meets, thrift stores, and the Internet.
Looking back, I think this was the point where I forgave the existence of
Ambrose, whose name and function were much more mysterious than I
could have possibly imagined.
Three of the people I had interviewed couldn't speak English and
seemed affronted that I had neglected to master the local language, one
was most certainly a drug dealer, and the fifth was an astonishingly thin
powerhouse of fifty who insisted that she be allowed to work on an
ongoing collection of mailboxes thinly disguised as flamingoes, manatees,
and palm trees in the living room. She had a thriving business at the Swap
Meet. I was on the verge of going with her, just to get it over with,
although the idea of opening the exaggeratedly stretched metal mouth of a
grouper or yanking open a hole in a manatee's chest always struck me as
unpleasantly exploitative and grotesque. Lulu gave me the happy power to
reject this particular future simply on the grounds that having a living
room of such creatures might prove a waking nightmare.
Lulu clasped her hands behind her back. "Honey. Where in the world
did you find those tumblers? I've only seen pictures of them, and the seller
wanted a hundred bucks apiece."
The French doors were open onto the patio, and Ambrose dashed
outside. Lulu ran after him with stunning quickness, considering her
shoes. She scooped up the dog and donned her Ray-Bans in one
economically swift movement. "We'll need a ramp at this dock for
Ambrose to get out of the canal when he goes for his little swims." If her
voice caught slightly at this point, I put it down to dust in her throat.
"Maybe he should just wear a life jacket. Look out. Don't step back."