"Kennedy, Leigh - Belling Martha" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kennedy Leigh)

"Poor thing," one of the grannies whispered.

"You just forget about your daddy," Jenny said. "He's not here."

"But where is he?"

"No use worrying about it."

"Now, wait a minute," a man said.

Jenny let go of Martha and for the first time she was able to focus on the people around her. There were two old grannies sitting together. There were several men about her father's age, and even more women. Younger people nearer her own age numbered only about five. Later, she discovered that six children had been put to bed.

The large man who'd spoken shouldered closer. He had an aggressive, troubled kind of look that Martha had seen on some of the Crazies at the camp. "I don't feel safe about having your brother's kid here. Nothing against you, Jenny, but we all know what your brother was, and what's to sayЧ"

"Tell 'em where you've been," Jenny said, nudging Martha.

Martha stood dumbly. She'd heard the word was referring to her father. Was? What did it mean?

"She's been in the Christian Reform Camp," Jenny said. "Okay, look, Darren, we'll move Terry out of the closet under the stairs and hang that big brass bell over the door. Anyone will hear her coming out at night. Send her out with the kids to scavenge. If she gets fed like the rest of us, she won't be looking to carve anyone up."

"You'll have to feed her better than that," one of the grannies said.

"Well, where am I going to sleep?" one of the young ones asked. She was kind of pretty, but she kept narrowing her eyes at Martha.

Martha listened vaguely as sleeping places were rearranged. Someone was sent to lock up the knives in the kitchen. Jenny searched Martha's pockets. Sweat formed on Martha's upper lip; she clenched her teeth as her bowels churned nervously.

"Jenny," she said, "what happened to Daddy?"

Jenny turned quickly. "He's dead! Now I don't want to hear another word about it."

Martha nodded slowly. She had expected her to say exactly that, but somehow she couldn't believe that she really had. Her ears buzzed and she felt weak. "I need to go to the john."

"Kaye, take her out back," Jenny said.

A young dark-haired woman shuddered melodramatically. "Me?"

"All right, all right," Jenny replied impatiently. "Switzer."

A blond, rosy-cheeked young man motioned to Martha. She followed him through the kitchen, which was clean, but dishes, boxes, cans, and bottles were crammed together on narrow shelves and utensils and pots hung everywhere there was room. Switzer unbolted the back door. She saw the john and ran for it.

She stayed longer than she needed to, in spite of the cold, rocking back and forth, sobbing. She thought of the last time she'd seen her father, the words he'd written to her about how they would go south together someday when he had money to pass the boundary. She revived old memories of him telling her stories, the little jokes they had with each other, songs he would sing while cooking or sewing, the way he looked when he was "just thinking."

She didn't want to go back inside with those people. At the camp, everyone had done their best to act nice, though the feelings were usually at odds with their behavior.

She stopped crying. She felt dry and cold and used up.

On the way back into the house, Switzer said, "I'm sorry about your father." There was a sort of anger in his voice.

Jenny met her in the kitchen and led her to a dim room lined with several mats. Two small forms lay under blankets, but the rest were flat. "Here. We're giving you a warm place. Keep that in mind." Jenny opened a closet door. A bell jangled. One of the sleeping children sat up. Martha saw that the dark closet was the inverse shape of a stairway, lined with boxes and tools, all of which seemed to lean dangerously inward. Jenny urged Martha forward.