"Steven Gould - Jumper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)

The air around me changed, or maybe it was just the noise. I was in a quiet house, but just the
sound of my breathing reflecting off walls sounded different from room to room.

I was in the kitchen.

I nodded my head slowly, tiredly. Hysteria seethed beneath the surface, a rising bubble that
threatened to undo me. I pushed it down and looked in the refrigerator.

Three six-packs of Schlitz, two cartons of cigarettes, half a pizza in the cardboard delivery box.
I shut the door and thought about my room. I tried it with my eyes open, unfocused, picturing the spot
between my desk and the window.

I was there and the room reeled, my eyes and maybe my inner ear just not ready for the change.
I put my hand on the wall and the room stopped moving.

I picked up the suitcase and closed my eyes. I opened them in the library, dark shadows
alternating with silver pools of moonlight. I walked to the front door and looked out at the grass.

Last summer, before school, I'd come up to the library, check out a book or two, and then
move outside, to the grass under the elms. The wind would ruffle the pages, tug my hair and clothes
around, and I would go into the words, find the cracks between the sentences and the words would
go away, leaving me in the story, the action, the head of other people. Twice I left it too late and got
home after Dad did. He liked supper ready. Only twice, though. Twice was more than enough.

I closed my eyes and the wind pushed my hair and fluttered my tie. The suitcase was heavy and
I had to switch hands several times as I walked the two blocks to the bus station.

There was a bus for points east at 5:30 A.M. I bought a ticket to New York City for one
hundred and twenty-two dollars and fifty-three cents. The clerk took the two hundreds without
comment, gave me my change, and said I had three hours to wait.

They were the longest three hours I've ever spent. Every fifteen minutes I got up, dragged the
suitcase to the bathroom, and splashed cold water in my face. Near the end of the wait the furniture
was crawling across the floor, and every movement of the bushes outside the doors was my father,
belt in hand, the buckle razor-edged and about the size of a hubcap.

The bus was five minutes late. The driver stowed my suitcase below, took the first part of my
ticket, and ushered me aboard.

When we passed the tattered city-limits sign, I closed my eyes and slept for six hours.




TWO
When I was twelve, just before Mom left, we went to New York City for a week. It was a
terrible and wonderful trip. Dad was there for his company, all his days spent in meetings and business
lunches. Mom and I went to museums, Chinatown, Macy's, Wall Street, and rode the subway all the
way out to Coney Island.