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

She was a Cajun-Cuban superhero, fighting injustice. All she needed was a
cape. Life with Lulu was chaotic, but it was distracting, which I counted
on the black side of the ledger. With great difficulty I followed her advice,
feeling not at all stronger and wiser, just afraid of looking foolish, which
seemed just as bad as giving in to the need to hear Charles's voice.
One Wednesday evening she came home clutching a piece of paper. I
was watching The West Wing from my favorite and most comfortable
chair in the living room, having kicked a path to it through piles of books
and papers, but my high hopes for an undisturbed evening were dashed
when I heard her key in the lock. I tried to concentrate on not missing any
lines, but as usual, Lulu seemed to absorb all of the light and sound in the
room and reflect it back in wacky splendor.
She knelt, an interesting bit of acrobatics considering her short skirt
and high heels, and Ambrose leaped into her arms, licking her face all over
as she smiled and closed her eyes in a close approximation of bliss.
"Come on, love. I found one."
The fact that she could stand up with that dog in her arms, the paper
clutched in her hand, and her heavy leather bag on her shoulder without
wavering was a testament to her sense of balance.
"Where are you going?" I asked, muting the commercial, just to be
sociable.
She walked out the door quickly without answering and closed it behind
her. I sensed, though, that it was not out of rudeness. She had not even
heard me.
Over the next month, I found that I had my Wednesdays back, but for
some reason I was less than pleased. Dinner night was moved to Tuesday,
and Stuart smiled at me if I happened to emerge from my office, but I
ignored my growing interest in him and nodded distantly as I passed.
Charles became more and more enshrined in my mind, and I was still
hoping that he would tire of his new life and come back after his fling. I
dreamed about him, and caught myself opening the Fiestaware cabinet,
taking out the Cobalt Coffee Pot or the 8" Ivory Vase, Excellent Condition,
and remembering the day when we had found each piece. Every one of
them was a different adventure.
"You are afraid of a new relationship," Lulu told me one evening as we
shared supper outside by the canal just before the mosquitoes would
appear, as they did promptly at six. It was during a lull between fronts,
but it was still chilly enough for sweaters. Several bromeliads were in
bloom, brilliant pink cones with tiny purple buds, and I had massed the
pots near the table on the brick patio. She picked at the bones of the whole
red snapper she had fried, whose remains lay on a platter in the middle of
the table, puddled in a delicious sauce which was an odd cross between
Southern and Tropical that she had put together quickly in the kitchen.
Which I would clean. She dumped the remainder of the black beans and
rice on her plate and embarked on them, dropping a steady stream of fish
scraps and beans onto the bricks for Ambrose. For some reason she
seemed much happier than when she had first moved in, and I supposed
that this happiness gave her the energy to further interfere with my life.
I just shrugged at her suggestion. "What difference does that make?"
"You should swallow your fear and leap. I've seen you looking at Stuart.