"Pat Murphy - Peter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Pat)

his name was and he ran out half blinded, to be cut down by three boys, Fair play didn't enter into it-we
were just kids, Kids with death in our hands and a song in our hearts. The air reeked of blood and we
watched Hook leap overboard into the jaws of the crocodile.

Wendy seems to have forgotten all this, She remembers a tidy Neverland, Perhaps she believes the
Disney version, where people died neatly, never soiling their pants.

I look around the room as she talks, chattering about fairy dust and Tinker Bell. The arms of the chairs
are covered with off-white doilies that are a little lumpy and don't lie flat. Wendy's work, no doubt. The
windows are covered with a thin layer of dust, the kind of dirt that hangs in the air of industrial towns,
settling on everything. By the door, the carpet is worn; the underlying threads show through. Wendy
herself looks worn-tired around the eyes, Her hands are a little chapped; she hasn't been taking care of
herself.

Her husband is an actor, or so Wendy says, He gets work now and then-minor parts in minor
productions. Never anything big. He's a good-looking man, in a callow, beardless way. I've met him
once or twice, and I didn't much care for him. When Wendy's reminiscences slow down, I ask about
him. "How's your husband? Getting any work?"

She looks worried. "Oh, he has hopes. He's being considered for a part."

"I see." I see all too well. His sort is always being considered for a part. Always having lunch with a
producer. Always chasing after the dream and never catching it, leaving his wife to grow worn and tired
alone.

"And what about you, Slightly? Are you seeing anyone?"

I've been married three times. And divorced three times. It never takes. The third one was the worst. "I
don't mind that you're gone half the time," my wife told me. "I knew that when we got married, But you're
not looking for a wife. You're looking for a mother to rock you to sleep."

"I've sworn off marriage," I say, "I'm always gallivanting off to some adventure or other."

"You sound so much like him," Wendy says wistfully.

"No. Don't say that. It's not so." But even as I deny her words, I know she's right. He left his mark on
me, just as he left it on her. When all the lost boys came home, I was the one who never fit in. At school,
I told the other kids about our adventures with the pirates, the battles with the redskins, the long
afternoons by the mermaids' lagoon. When kids called me a liar, I fought back with my fists and got a
reputation as a troublemaker, a bad boy. When the other lost boys were promoted to the next grade, I
was kept back. But by that time, it didn't really matter to me. I couldn't talk to them anymore. They were
busy forgetting the island, forgetting Peter, adjusting to the real world.

Wendy is staring into the fire, ignoring me. I care about Wendy, you know. For all the nasty things I say,
I care about her. Though she was just a little girl herself, she tried to be a mother to us all. She tucked us
in; she told us stories, And Peter treated her worse than he treated any of the boys.

When he left us here, he promised to come back each spring and take her to Neverland for a week. She
was supposed to go help with his spring cleaning.