"James Patrick Kelly - The Ice is Singing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

One of the Web pages is put up by an ice-boating fan named Steph. She
graduated two years ago from the University of Montana and is working as a
librarian in Kalispell. She collects erasers and stamps. You stare at pictures of
her wedding and her honeymoon. There she is standing next to her ice boat.
She's wearing a tight, red jumpsuit and a black and he looks very happy. Steve
and Steph. You want to send an e-mail to warn her.
About what?
Your bed feels very big that night, almost as big as the lake. You are lost in
it and Beth's side is freezing.
The next morning you congratulate yourself for waking up. You have
survived the first Christmas. You walk outside to get the Globe. The paper is
heavy with ads. Take those presents back, you cheerful fucks, and buy
something new! But there is no news. Nothing ever happens on Christmas. For
example, businessmen don't get frozen in ice. Back in the house, you hover in
the kitchen. You've been hovering a lot latelyтАФyou forget what you're doing.
Breakfast, that's it. You wake up, get the paper, have breakfast. You shake
Raisin Bran into a bowl and scan the sports page. Then you notice that you are
pouring orange juice over the cereal. The phone rings.
"Hello."
You hear the whisper of static, but no reply.
You say it again. "Hello."
The phone clicks and a telemarketer says, "I would like to speak to Beth
Anstruther."
"She's not interested." You hang up and put on your skates.
Your man is still there, but he has moved. Yesterday both arms were at his
sides. Now he has raised his right hand as if he's waiting to be called on. He
has something important to say, something that can't wait until ice out. Or else
he's waving goodbye. You get down on your hands and knees. He's about your
size but he's older, balder, deader. The ice here is glossy and strangely
transparent. Like a lens magnifying the bottom of the lake. You see boulders and
rocks and mud. Dark oak leaves, a pale Budweiser can, the glitter of gold. The
ring must have slipped off the man's finger.
His blue suit has thin chalk stripes. The Escher tie has come out of the vest.
Green birds turning into blue fish. His eyes are the sameтАФfixed, frozen. The
fingers of his upraised hand are curled.
"What?"
The sound of your own voice scares you. You shouldn't be talking to dead
people. What if they talk back?
You spend the rest of the morning in your living room, staring at the lake.
The lake is singing again today, but by noon only moans echo off the hill behind
your house. The sky has turned to granite. Last night Weather.com was
predicting four to six inches of snow. You convince yourself that you will stop
worrying about your man in the ice once the storm buries him.
The doorbell rings and you bolt off the sofa, nerves twitching. Rachel, the
mail lady, is at the front door. She's holding a magazine wrapped around a thick
stack of letters and a long, thin box wrapped in brown paper.
"Package for you," she says. "Probably a late Christmas present. Didn't fit in
the mailbox."
You take it all from her but you can't find your voice. In the silence, you
notice that Rachel has had her nose pierced since you last saw her. There's a