"EB - Mike Resnick + Martin H. Greenberg - Christmas GhostsUC - Compilation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenberg Martin H)

nightЧbut hunger knows no reason, and she came to me.

I have three childrenЧlittle Joy, Alexander, David. Well, I guess they aren't that little anymore; fact is, they're old enough now that they don't mind being called little. I consider it a miracle that they survived their teenage yearsЧI don't know why God invented teenagers.

But Melissa and I, we had four children. You see that black and white photo in the corner there? That baby was my last child, my little girl. She didn't see three. It's funny, you know. They talk a lot about a mother's grief and a mother's loss, but Melissa said her good-byes maybe a year or two after Mary died, and meЧwell, I guess I still haven't. It's because I never saw her as a teenager. It's because I can't remember the sleepless nights and the crying and the throwing up.

I just remember the way she used to come and help me work, with her big, serious eyes and her quiet, serious nod. She'd spread the newspapers from here to the kitchen, same as she saw me do with my drafting plans. I had more time with her than I had with the older kidsЧmaybe I made more timeЧand I used to sit with her on weekends when Melissa did her work. Mary'd sleep in my lap. Draw imaginary faces on my cheek.

I remember what she looked like in the hospital.

But I'm losing the story, about Christmas. Let me get back to it.

Mary died when I was thirty-five. Died in the spring, in a hospital thirty miles north of here. I couldn't believe anything could grow after she died. I hated the sight of all that green. Took it as an insult. Cosmic indifference. Come winter, everything was darker, which suited me best.

We went to Mary's graveЧat least I didЧonce a week or more. Took flowers, little things. Near Christ-

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Michette Sagant

mas, I took a wreath, because she liked to play with them. I've heard all about how people think graveyards are a waste of space and greenery, and maybe they're right. But I know that having that site, where little Mary rested in the earth, was a boon. I'd come to it weekly like a pilgrim to a shrine, making these little offerings. Talking to her like a crazy person. You don't know what it's like, to lose a child. I hope you never know it.

That Christmas, when I was thirty-six, my regular little visitor came, as usual, at midnight. I wasn't in bed then; Melissa and I were wrapping our presents, late as always, both of us crying and trying not to look at the fireplace, where Mary's little stocking wasn't. Family things like this, they're hard. But sometimes you have to cry or go mad. Melissa's pretty good; she'd rather see me cry than go mad. Most of the time, anyway.

She knew when I heard it, of course. I went stiff and lifted my head, swiveled to look out the window. Melissa couldn't ever see the little ghost, but after she decided I wasn't completely crazy, and that she wasn't going to leave me if the worst thing about me was that I saw ghosts on Christmas, she did her best to be understanding.

The little nameless girl stared right through me, with her wide, hungry eyes. Her lips moved over the same words that she spoke every year. Not for the first time, I wondered when she'd died, and whether it was from starvation. Not for the first time, I wondered where.

But for the first time ever, I wondered if any parent have ever gone to mourn her passing or her death, the way I had with my little Mary. And for the first time, the little ghost girl stopped her endless litany and smiled at me. Smiled, translucent and desperate, standing inches above the untouched snow.

I knew what I had to do then. Wondered why I was so stupid I couldn't have thought of it before.

HUNGER

21

Melissa and I had the worst fight of our marriage on Christmas Day.

"Can't you just leave it until next year?" She'd shouted, her eyes red, but her tears held in check. "This is the first Christmas we've had to spend withoutЧwithout Mary. It's the most important time for you to be with the rest of your family."

" 'Lissa," I said, because I knew she was right, but I knew I was right, too. "I've got to do this. That little ghostЧ"

She snorted, which was about as close to open criticism as she'd come.

"That little girl died somewhere, and I don't think her parents ever found her. She's lost, she's hungry, and she might even be trying to reach them, if they're still alive. Think about how you'd feel. How I'd feel. I have to go."

"Next year," she said, but her voice was softer. "Just wait until next year. Please."

It took me two days to find a flight down south, which meant drawing money out of the savings account. Two days' notice isn't usually enough to get any kind of decent charter. I thought we'd have another blow over that one, but Melissa was silent in a mutinous way.