"James Patrick Kelly - Itsy Bitsy Spider" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

"The lady is from Strawberry Fields." The bot swung around behind my father. She shot me a look
that made the terms and conditions of my continued presence clear: if I broke the illusion, I was out. "She
came by to see if everything is all right with our house." The bot disurbed me even more, now that she
sounded like young Jen Fancy.
 As I heaved myself out of the beanbag chair, my father gave me one of those lopsided, flirting grins I
knew so well. "Does the lady have a name?" He must have shaved just for the company, because now
that he had come close I could see that he had a couple of fresh nicks. There was a button-sized patch of
gray whiskers by his ear that he had missed alto-gether.
"Her name is Ms. Johnson," said the bot. It was my ex, Rob's, last name. I had never been Jennifer
Johnson.
"Well, Ms. Johnson," he said, hooking thumbs in his pants pockets. "The water in my toilet is
brown."
"I'll... um ... see that it's taken care of." I was at a loss for what to say next, then inspiration struck.
"Actually, I had another reason for coming." I could see the bot stiffen. "I don't know if you've seen
Yesterday, our little newsletter? Anyway, I was talking to Mrs. Chesley next door and she told me that
you were an actor once. I was wondering if I might interview you. Just a few questions, if you have the
time. I think your neighbors might..."
"Were?" he said, drawing himself up. "Once? Madame, I am now an actor and will always be."
"My Daddy's famous," said the bot.
I cringed at that; it was something I used to say. My father squinted at me. "What did you say your
name was?"
"Johnson," I said. "Jane Johnson."
"And you're a reporter? You're sure you're not a critic?"
"Positive."
He seemed satisfied. "I'm Peter Fancy." He extended his right hand to shake. The hand was spotted
and bony and it trembled like a reflection in a lake. Clearly whatever magicтАФ or surgeon's skillтАФit was
that had preserved my father's face had not extended to his extremities. I was so disturbed by his infirmity
that I took his cold hand in mine and pumped it three, four times. It was dry as a page of one of the bot's
dead books. When I let go, the hand seemed steadier. He gestured at the beanbag.
"Sit," he said. "Please."
After I had settled in, he tapped the touchpad and stumped over to the picture window. "Barbara
Chesley is a broken and bitter old woman," he said, "and I will not have dinner with her under any
circumstances, do you under-stand?" He peered up Bluejay Way and down.
"Yes, Daddy," said the bot.
"I believe she voted for Nixon, so she has no reason to complain now." Apparently satisfied that the
neighbors weren't sneaking up on us, he leaned against the windowsill, facing me. "Mrs. Thompson, I
think today may well be a happy one for both of us. I have an announcement." He paused for effect. "I've
been thinking of Lear again."
The bot settled onto one of her little chairs. "Oh, Daddy, that's wonderful."
"It's the only one of the big four I haven't done," said my father. "I was set for a production in
Stratford, Ontario, back in '99; Polly Matthews was to play Cordelia. Now there was an actor; she
could bring tears to a stone. But then my wife Hannah had one of her bad times and I had to withdraw so
I could take care of Jen. The two of us stayed down at my mother's cottage on the Cape; I wasted the
entire season tend-ing bar. And when Hannah came out of rehab, she decided that she didn't want to be
married to an underemployed actor anymore, so things were tight for a while. She had all the money, so I
had to scrambleтАФspent almost two years on the road. But I think it might have been for the best. I was
only forty-eight. Too old for Hamlet, too young for Lear. My Hamlet was very well received, you know.
There were over-tures from PBS about a taping, but that was when the BBC decided to do the
Shakespeare series with that doctor, what was his name? Jonathan Miller. So instead of Peter Fancy, we
had Derek Jacobi, whose brilliant idea it was to roll across the stage, frothing his lines like a rabid