"EB - Mike Resnick + Martin H. Greenberg - Christmas GhostsUC - Compilation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenberg Martin H)
No one in the world had ever seen the little ghost but me; she'd ruined every Christmas I'd ever had. Except this one. This one was to be the exception.
HUNGER
23
The old lady looked down at the apparition, and then she did drop the candle. I caught it before it hit the floor, but she didn't seem to notice; her arms were tightly pressed into her granddaughter's shoulders.
No, not her granddaughter.
She began to speak in rapid Spanish, and the girl replied softly, almost soothingly. Neither of them spared a word or glance at me for the better part of an hour, and all I could do was stand and stare. I wondered if Mary'd ever come back this way for me. Shook my head, to clear itЧbut the thought was so fierce, I've never forgotten it.
It might have been my shaking that caught their attention, either that or it was the fact that dawn seemed ready to clear away the night's ghosts. That included my little tormentor. She came to me first, and reached out softly to touch her own dead cheek. Pulled back at the last minute and shook her head.
Thank you, she said, in toneless but perfect English. I'm not hungry anymore. She turned to look back at the old woman who had been her mother. Said something else in Spanish.
Tears were streaming down the old woman's cheeks, and even though my Spanish was bad, I understood what she said back. Her daughter walked into the dawn and vanished like morning mist. And I stood on the porch, with my stiff arms and her daughter's body, waiting for her to say something.
I buried the body on the grounds in front of the house, and made a rough cross to mark the grave. There were other such rough graves, but I didn't ask her and she didn't volunteer. Maybe if we'd spoken the same language, we might have communicated better. But maybe not; I understood what it meant for her to rest a battered old doll against the newly turned earth; I understood what it meant when she whispered to the face of the awkward cross.
In the end, she said "Thank you," and I said,
26
Mickclle Sagara
"You're welcome." There was a lot of pain in her face, but there was a lot of peace there, too. If I could have brought her daughter back to life, I would have. But I would have brought mine back, too. Sometimes you just have to live with your limitations, no matter how much they hurt you.
I gave her all the money I had with me.
I know it's tacky, but she took it. I told her to feed the children, but I didn't ask her what she was going to do with it. I didn't care. I wanted to be back home, with my own family, before the end of Christmas.
On the fifth day, there was no sign of my hungry little ghost. On the sixth, there was nothing either. And on the seventh, while I sat on the plane, tapping my feet and wondering if Melissa had moved all of my things into the guest room, it was blissfully silent.
She met me at the airport, Melissa did. Her face had that searching look to it, and she stared at me for a long tune before she hugged me. It was a good hug, a real welcome home.
"I'm free," I told her, and I meant it.
That was thirty years ago, and that was the year that Christmas became a time of peace, rather than a thing to hate or fear. I tell you about it now, because I saw her againЧthe little ghost girl. Only this tune, when she knocked at my window, I wasn't terrified and I wasn't angry. I know what she's trying to tell me this time, though I don't know why she'd be bothered. You'll have to take care of your mother when I'm gone. Yes, she does need taking care ofЧjust not in the obvious ways. Let her talk at you, let her talk to you.
Just like I'm doing now.
I always loved all my kids, and I know that it doesn't have to stop just because one of us is dead.
I love you.
Merry Christmas, No. 30267
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