"Alexander Jablokov - Market Report" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jablokov Alexander)

elk with blackpowder rifles. The things looked like cannon.тАЭ
HeтАЩd told me the story before, but the actual physical tent was a new ele-ment.
It was as if he now needed some real substance behind the memory. My father
swore under his breath as he put the thing up. I knew better than to try and help him.
It had all sorts of complicated ribs and locking joints. He pinched some skin and got
real quiet. You could hear him breathing through his nostrils.
тАЬOh, come on, Bertram.тАЭ My mother chuckled. тАЬYou wonтАЩt see any
animal--headed gods in the LopezesтАЩ backyard, so quit staring. I was justтАжkidding.тАЭ
She was really being hard on me. SheтАЩd noticed StacyтАЩs absence, but wasnтАЩt
going to ask about it. I was sure it pleased her, though.
тАЬItтАЩs late, Lu.тАЭ My father looked hungrily at my mother. Men should not look
at their own wives that way, and particularly not at the mothers of their sons.
тАЬYes,тАЭ she said. тАЬItтАЩs time for bed.тАЭ
It was peacemaking gesture of some sort. TheyтАЩd been at war, but my ar-rival
had brought them together. My mother smiled it me over her shoulder as she
followed him into their dome tent. It was the same old story. My par-ents had always
disappeared behind their locked bedroom door, sometimes in the middle of the day,
sometimes when I was sitting down in the living room with uncomfortable shoes on,
waiting to go to some relativeтАЩs house, and I wasnтАЩt even allowed to turn the TV on.

I woke up. I hadnтАЩt really slept. It was quiet. Still dark. I was thirsty. I walked
across the lawn to the back door. The cut ends of the grass tickled my bare feet. It
was a great feeling, a suburban feeling. The stars were weirdly bright. The Milky
Way was something you wanted to wipe off with a sponge.
The sliding glass door to the kitchen wasnтАЩt locked. As a child, IтАЩd always
asked for kitchen water rather than bathroom water. My mother would go downstairs
for me. The stairs creaked and I would hear her and know that she loved me. My
father would go into the bathroom, make a lot of noise so I knew he hadnтАЩt gone
anywhere, even flush the toilet, and then come back and tell me that it was the finest
kitchen water there was. If I was thirsty enough, I would believe him.
The kitchen was dark. I felt the edge of a Corian counter top. I worked my
way toward the sink. I saw the high faucet silhouetted against the window. Wet on
my fingers. Something was soaking in the full sink. The water did not feel soapy.
The glasses would be in this cabinet over here.
Something hissed at me. For a second I thought it was airconditioning af-ter
all, despite how hot it was in the kitchen. Then I saw the eyes.

тАЬWhat is that thing heтАЩs got in his mouth?тАЭ my father said. He peered up
above the cabinets, into the shadows cast by the lamp. тАЬA vole? Do we have voles?
Or is that a starnosed mole? Native orтАжrecreated?тАЭ
тАЬFranklin,тАЭ my mother said.
From a cookie jar shaped like a squat Chrysler Building she gave me a
Tollhouse cookie. It couldnтАЩt have been baked more than a couple of hours be-fore,
probably about the time I was landing at OтАЩHare. The chocolate chips wore still a
little liquid. They unfurled themselves across my tongue. I lay on the textured floor. I
didnтАЩt want to get up.
A magnet on the white dishwasher said CLEAN. The symbol for CLEAN was
the smoking rubble of a city. I reached up and turned it over. DIRTY was that city
whole, veiled in a haze of smog. A typical example of one of my fa-therтАЩs deep
ecology jokes. Smog is one of those antique sixtiestype symbols heтАЩs always using