"Montague, Art - Suburban Renewal" - читать интересную книгу автора (Montague Arthur)

= SUBURBAN RENEWAL
by Art Montague


The 'burbs are with us. Row on row, laid out as economically as a farmer's field. After all, folks have to live somewhere, preferably somewhere appropriate to their means. This is how democracy works when combined with the notions of land ownership, an abundance of land, and low interest rates.

But despite this tidy economic definition, people are still people, with an uncivilized (some would say sinful) streak.

For instance: forget time and the rest is easy. Forget that tomorrow is the next day of the rest of your life, even if it's printed on your T-shirt. Think instead, today is your life. Use it or lose it! These were the thoughts that eventually bubbled up inside Harv Liebstrom's mostly civilized mind.

Some nights very late--three thirty, maybe four--Harv would awaken. He'd lie on his back motionless. Sometimes he'd move his eyes off to one side toward the window faintly outlined by the street light two doors down, or off to the other side toward Ethel in the adjacent bed, outlined faintly by the same light. Mostly he just stared at the ceiling which remained a black hole despite the street light.

Harv thought about his mortgages, his car payments, his wife, Pepperpot the dog--his wife's dog that is--the fishing trip he never got to take, his home renovation and swimming pool business. None of these worried him. They simply comprised his life and, truth be known, they bored him. That did worry him.

Children might have helped; a reason for all of the rest. But Harv and Ethel had no children. Harv assumed Pepperpot was her substitute. The dog may have answered the call of Ethel's maternal instincts, but it left Harv's paternal instincts cold. And, as near as he could tell, he had no pet-loving instincts.

Tuesday mornings for Harv were as fine as any other except Sundays and holidays because he could get away to work before Ethel got up. His neighbors said he was working himself into an early grave. He knew better. Not only did he keep himself in reasonably good shape for a man soon forty-five, he paced himself. If anything would put him in an early grave it wouldn't be over-extended hard work and long hours, it would be Ethel's cooking.

He didn't fault her cooking aloud but he made a point of avoiding it as much as possible. She'd just never acquired the knack and didn't seem to have any interest in doing so. Installing a microwave in the kitchen had aced it, as it probably has in many households. The convenience astounded Harv, introducing a vast new range of culinary oddities to his palate. As a matter of fact, he benefitted from the microwave, for now Ethel's offerings had names -- he had only to check the packages. And Ethel, freed from bondage to the hot stove, could now spend more time ministering to her various ailments.

Harv didn't exactly rush off to work at five thirty every morning, he just got out of the house. No mistake, he liked his house and he was proud of it. He had half an acre like everyone else in Glenforest Glade, the weedless flat lawn, four aspens in the backyard, two spindly maples in the front too young to have begun forming canopies, and caragana hedges front and back, probably because they grew quickly and hadn't cost the developer near as much as cedar would have. Harv had the double garage feature, one side for the car, the other for implements and junk.

If there was one thing more he wanted for the house, an in-ground swimming pool was it. Ethel wanted the pool too. She did a lot of day time entertaining -- card parties, coffee klatching, support groups. To do this pool side in the summer, preferably this summer, would have added a fine touch. Harv, on the other hand, knew money was tight -- tight but still comfortable -- and he was trying to hold the line on the pool construction until next spring.

By five-forty on work days, Harv would be pulling into the Denny's at the Jetstream Mall by the airport for breakfast. He favored their eggs Benedict with fried ham but once in awhile he'd go for two over easy with bacon or the trucker's special which had three eggs, ham, bacon, and sausage, plus extra toast. Within reason, he liked variety in his life.

By seven he'd be at the shop loading the truck for the day's work, burning off his breakfast-- manhandling drywall sheets, bags of concrete, pipe, lumber, shingle bundles, equipment, whatever the job required. Harv had two employees, who started at eight, and he usually arranged to meet them on the job site, saving some money on travel time that way. He didn't mind driving the truck himself, rather enjoyed it actually--a full size, three quarter ton, red, Ford crew cab with the big red on white magnetic signs, "Harv Liebstrom Construction and Renovations. Guaranteed Work Free Estimates," on the door panels. He'd wanted to put "Pools A Specialty" on the signs but thought better of it when he realized that he'd look pretty ridiculous in the January dead of an upstate New York winter.

The employees, Peter Muir, his full time year-round helper, and Little Ricky Steen, the part timer, were on the button at eight when Harv backed into the Smithers' driveway on Third Avenue South. Little Ricky, Gung Ho personified, had the tailgate down for unloading even before Harv had the truck stopped. Typically, Peter waited in his car until Harv had alighted, then emerged, looking achy and hung over. Peter always worked better in the afternoons, especially if he got down a couple of beers with his lunch.

This Tuesday, as soon as the truck was unloaded, Harv went over to Peter's house on Gate Beach Lane. Peter had finally wangled financing to build a party room addition on his house and Harv had offered to cut him a good deal. He went over to do some measuring before he did an estimate.

Maybe it was the weather that morning, maybe it was that it was Tuesday, maybe it was that Harv was just in a mood. Whatever it was, the smell of Annie Muir's oatmeal raisin cookies coming hot out of the oven stopped him in his tracks. The aroma went right up his nose, right through him to his toes, as Harv's mother would have said.

Harv didn't come right out and ask for a warm cookie but he did hover in the kitchen until Annie made the offer. They sat at the kitchen table for a time nibbling cookies and sipping milk, almost like a couple of kids; for Harv, very relaxing and, he thought, for Annie also.

"I bake because it's fun," said Annie. "Peter rarely eats the stuff, says he hates it, but I do it anyway and give it away to neighbors and their kids." Peter and Annie, like Harv and Ethel, had no children of their own.

"These cookies taste great to me," enthused Harv. "They're a lot better than the ones at Mr. Cookie in the mall. Maybe you missed your calling, Annie."

"Oh, I don't think so," she replied. "We're okay the way we are." She sounded a bit wistful. Maybe just tired. She had a pretty face, porcelain smooth and pale except for a few freckles around her nose and a bruise on her cheek bone. Harv wondered about that but didn't figure it his place to enquire. Her eyes were soft--deep perhaps, gentle--a lot of understanding and patience there, he'd have bet. Peter said she had the temperament of a rabid alley cat. Harv couldn't see it in Annie--though he'd seen Peter like that when he'd had a few too many.

Harv and Annie chatted some more -- nothing personal, walking softly around topics, mostly about the party room to be. Apparently it didn't overwhelm her. "Peter's wanted it a long time so that he can entertain more. Monday Night football, things like that. It's always nice to be able to have friends in and right now we really don't have enough space. Mind you, I'm not much of a sports fan; I just fetch the chips and beer. I do have my bingo, though, and it's a lot of fun. I go as often as I can."

"I haven't been to a bingo for years," said Harv. "Ethel and I used to go once in awhile, but we got away from it. It was a lot of fun even when we didn't win, which was mostly."

"Same for me. I once sat beside a woman who won three times in a row, including the blackout jackpot and I wasn't waiting a single time the whole night. Now that's a bummer!" They laughed about it, and it warmed Harv.

The rest of that Tuesday rolled out as if charmed. Little Ricky and Peter made excellent progress on the Smithers job, putting a bedroom addition on top of the garage -- the Smithers were expecting another baby, making four now. Harv also got two calls on estimates he'd put out and both were contract confirmations, plus he found time to finish Peter's party room estimate. The icing on the cake was the lunch special at O'Malley's, beefsteak and mushroom pie with puff pastry crust, Harv's all-time favorite.