"James Morrow - Auspicious Eggs" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morrow James)

half-full Arbutus bottle. A ruddy cockroach scurries across the doily.
"I kept Willy home today," says Kate, taking a drag. "He says his
stomach hurts."
As he raises the bottle, Stephen realizes for the first time that the
label contains a block of type headed _The Story of Trailing Arbutus._ "His
stomach _always_ hurts." He studies the breezy little paragraph.
"I think he's telling the truth."
_Epigaea repens._ Trailing arbutus. Mayflower. And suddenly everything
is clear.
"What's today's date?" asks Stephen.
"Sixteenth."
"March sixteenth?"
"Yeah."
"Then tomorrow's Saint Patrick's Day."
"So what?"
"Tomorrow's Saint Patrick's Day" -- like an auctioneer accepting a
final bid, Stephen slams the bottle onto the nightstand -- "and Valerie
Gallogher will be leaving Boston Isle."
"Roger's old teacher? Leaving?"
"Leaving." Snatching up the preserved flower, he dangles it before his
wife. "Leaving..."
****
"...and of the Son," says Connie, raising the sputtering infant from
the water, "and of the Holy Ghost."
Merribell Dunfey screeches and squirms. She's slippery as a bar of
soap. Connie manages to wrap her in a dish towel and shove her into Valerie's
arms.
"Let me tell you who you are," she says.
"Father Cornelius Dennis Monaghan of Charlestown Parish."
"You're a tired and bewildered pilgrim, Father. You're a weary wayfarer
like myself."
Dribbling milk, Angela Dunfey staggers into the kitchen. Seeing her
priest, she recoils. Her mouth flies open, and a howl rushes out, a cry such
as Connie imagines the damned spew forth while rotating on the spits of
Perdition. "Not her too! Not Merribell! No!"
"Your baby's all right," says Valerie.
Connie clasps his hands together, fingers knotted in agony and
supplication. He stoops. His knees hit the floor, crashing against the
fractured linoleum. "Please," he groans.
Angela plucks Merribell from Valerie and affixes the squalling baby to
her nipple. "Oh, Merribell, Merribell..."
"Please." Connie's voice is hoarse and jagged, as if he's been shot in
the larynx. "Please ... please," he beseeches. Tears roll from his eyes,
tickling his cheeks as they fall.
"It's not _her_ job to absolve you," says Valerie.
Connie snuffles the mucus back into his nose. "I know."
"The boat leaves tomorrow."
"Boat?" Connie runs his sleeve across his face, blotting his tears.
"A rescue vessel," his parishioner explains. Sliding her hands beneath
his armpits, she raises him inch by inch to his feet. "Rather like Noah's