"Nancy Kress - In a World Like This" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

characteristic gesture of agitation. "There was another burglary, two doors down from her. The police
questioned her and Jim and the kids. No clues. They looked in all the soft mud in the yard for tracks,
because-"
"I can guess why they looked for tracks without your telling me," I cut in. There is a silence while
Emily stares into her brandy. We are sitting up in bed, and the bedside lamp casts a pearly glow on
Emily's shoulders, bisected by the lacy straps of her nightgown. At thirty-eight she is beautiful still, and my
irritation vanishes and is replaced by affection. Emily is very precious to me, although it is hard for me to
say so. I have always found it hard. Emily knows this; she is one of the few women who will forgive it. I
reach for her.
She frowns. "Why now?"
"Just because."
"Because why?"
Irritation returns, swamping affection. "Do I need a reason? I want to make love to you. If you don't
want to, say so."
"Sandy Lowry is leaving Kip."
So that is what the agitation is about, not the burglary. I see that the Hickory Village phones have
been buzzing all day. I see, too, the trickiness of the conversation ahead. When one husband strays, all
husbands are somehow implicated, in some weird web I have never understood but learned to
recognize.
"Ummm," I say, noncommittally.
"It's because he's having an affair with that Russian scientist."
Emily is watching me closely; another "ummm" will probably not do. I decide instead on honesty.
"I know. Kip told me today on the train."
She stops fiddling with her hair, and her shoulders relax; apparently she knew I knew. "It's that
ridiculous house. It's strapped him with debt, and he was looking for some sort of cheap release. Sandy
didn't even want such a huge place. Kip only wanted it because he grew up so poor, because his father
died when he was three and his mother's eyesight was too poor for her to work, and her father was an
immigrant who never understood about childhood corrective surgery before it was too late."
"I don't think you have to go back three generations and produce such an elaborate explanation.
Anyway, you probably couldn't pin down any definitive reasons. These things happen."
Emily shifts against the headboard and reaches out to set her glass on the nightstand. One shoulder
strap slides down. Her eyes narrow. "What do you mean - 'these things happen'?"
"They just do. Kip and Lara work together on that information project, whatever it is."
"So?"
"So it just... happens." Even to me these words have started to sound curiously lame, and I resent it.
Emily punches up her pillow and lies back. "That's irresponsible. It lets everybody off the hook - it
lets Kip off the hook. Things don't just happen. They're connected, they happen for good and sufficient
reasons!"
"Emily-"
"There are always reasons."
I suddenly think of my secretary, Helen. "Women always want things so definite. Black and white.
The world simply isn't that way. Things fall into shades of gray, into unpredictable subtleties. Why can't
you just accept that!"
I hear, to my own surprise, that I am shouting. Emily turns her head on the pillow to look at me.
Perhaps it is a trick of the lighting, some passing effect, but her eyes look like those of a woman I don't
know. They are both thoughtful and outraged; violation sparkles in them like stained glass.
There is a long silence, which slowly turns unbearable. To break the silence without having to break it,
I reach again for Emily. She doesn't resist, but she lies passive in my arms while I stroke her. Then she
half-turns and clutches me almost desperately, and we make very definite and unsubtle love.