"Patricia A. McKillip - The House on Parchment Street" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

Catherine finished asking about the relatives she had not seen in fifteen years, Uncle Harold poured
himself a cup of tea and settled back for a discussion of American politics and education. Carol
interrupted him before he got too far.
"What kind of stove is that?"
"It's a trial," Aunt Catherine said. Uncle Harold blinked, as though his thoughts were reordering
themselves. Aunt Catherine stood up and lifted the two large smooth domes that covered the burners.
"It's Mrs. Brewster's stove. Mrs. Brewster is the woman we rent the house from. She probably has a nice
gas stove. This one runs on coal, and it has two speeds: hot and very hot. Which reminds meтАФI should
put Bruce's dinner in to warm." She got the newspapers full of Bruce's fish and chips and opened one of
the heavy oven doors. Uncle Harold looked at his watch.
"He should have been home an hour ago."
"I know."
"I wonder sometimes if he doesn't think he is living in a hotel. Is basic courtesy too much to ask of a boy
his age, or is communication totally impossible?"
"Perhaps he forgot," Aunt Catherine said gently. "Why don't you show Carol the house while I do the
breakfast dishes."
Uncle Harold looked at Carol. "Would you like that?" he asked, and she nodded, smiling. Then they
heard the click of bicycle wheels and the slam of the porch door.
"Bruce!" Uncle Harold shouted.
He opened the kitchen door and stuck his head in. "I've got to wash upтАФI'm all over grease."
"Come here, please."
Bruce's hand dropped from the doorknob. He came in slowly. His eyes moved once to Carol's face in a
stranger's impersonal glance. Then they dropped. "Yes, sir?"
Uncle Harold sighed. "Your mother is not a hired cook. She cooks because she loves us, and it would
pain her to see us starve. I've had to tell you that too many times before."
Bruce's shoulders twitched. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry I'm late. Is that all?"
"No. Look at me."
Bruce's eyes rose slowly. They looked at each other, their eyes alike, dark and aloof. Uncle Harold said,
"Mrs. Brewster disturbed me this morning with a phone call. She said she thought I should know that
you spent yesterday evening sitting in a tree in the square smoking. I am not sure whether she was
concerned with your health or the possibility that you and your friends might have set the town square
on fire."
Bruce's mouth dropped slightly. "Was that her with the flashlight? We couldn't think who it was. She
didn't say anything. She usually does."
"I imagine she does," Uncle Harold said. "I don't enjoy being bothered with phone calls like that before I

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am properly awake, and I wish you would refrain from troubling Mrs. Brewster. I am not going to
lecture you on smoking, because you are old enough to make your own decision about that. But what
has been troubling me is something different. I saw a ring of boys on bicycles tormenting Mrs.
Simmons' boy on his way to his cello lesson, and I was disturbed to realize that they formed a perfect,
orderly circle as they rode, as though they had practiced it many times before. I was never so ashamed of
you in my life."
He was quiet. Aunt Catherine's hands had stilled among the dishes. Bruce stared down at the table. Then
his head lifted abruptly, his eyes going to Carol's face.
She sat startled a moment by what she read in them, and then her face blazed. "I didn't tell," she
snapped. "I can fight for myself."
Uncle Harold looked at them bewilderedly a moment. Then his hand hit the table with a little smack.