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

drop of gold just above her left nostril. She's 32 and divorced and the boys at
the town dump love to gossip about her.
"Looks like we're in for some weather," she says, and then she really sees
you. A shadow passes over her face. "You OK, Mr. A?"
"The flu," you say. "Don't let me breathe on you."
As soon as she is gone, you run to the bathroom to look at yourself. Not
good. Your eyes are like wounds. And you haven't shaved in three days. Has it
been three days already? Oh, they'd be talking about you in town, all right. First
at the Post Office, then at Lil's Grille.
You throw Time away. You don't care who the "Man of the Year" is.
Besides, that's her magazine. Most of the letters are junk. There are bills from
Sprint and DIRECTV and three straggling Christmas cards. One of them is from
Beth's sister Margaret. It is addressed to The Anstmtber Family.
"What family?" you say. You open the card and read,
In this holiday season
May your home and loved ones
Be blessed with peace and harmony
Underneath it she has written, "Hope you're OK, Margaret." A cramped
little greeting from the human fucking cramp.
You open the package last. It's a present from your mom. You're surprised
she didn't call yesterday. She's probably waiting for you to call her. Like that
might ever happen. You haven't told her yet. You haven't told anyone. How can
you?
As soon as you get the wrapping paper off, you know it's a tie. The box is
white and has a nubbly finish. You pry the top off.
Your mother has sent you one of those Escher ties, green geometric birds
turning into blue fish. You feel as if someone is pressing thumbs into your eyes
because you know now, you know.
You fling yourself at the stairs. You yank down the trap door to the attic and
scramble up. You pull the chain on the bare light-bulb so hard that it breaks.
You see the present almost immediately. It's the right shape. The weight tells
you everything. Red wrapping paper with snowmen in top hats. Rip, rip it. It's
cold up here. You can see your breath. Your finger feels swollen as you slip it
between the top and bottom of the box. You tear open your Christmas present
from Beth.
It's blue, of course, with chalk stripes. Jacket, trousers, vest. Outside, the
ice is singing. To you.