"Paul Park - A Man on Crutches" - читать интересную книгу автора (Park Paul)

down again.
Now I can say I knew it, I knew it, I knew I had found something. And maybe
Barbara, testing that drawer, had felt the same thing. Maybe that was why sheтАЩd gone
away, unable to proceed. Memories of feelings are so colored by the lights thrown
back on them; here, now, I can be sure I knew. I searched for the key for almost an
hour. The window to the parking lot was completely dark when I found it, hanging
from a nail in the closet, high up above the door frame. I knew as soon as I touched
it what it was.
Almost I was afraid of finding something trivial. So at first I leafed impatiently
through the modelsтАЩ head shots in the first part of the drawer. There was nothing
distinctive about them except for the neatness with which they were arranged -
Male/Blonde, Female/Blonde, Male/Dark, Female/Dark - each category in a separate
hanging folder.
But the drawer slid out and out. There were short stories in manuscript,
creased in thirds, as if they had been sent through the mail. I thumbed through them,
looking for the seamy parts - one was full of hard homosexual imagery. It was a
story about a father chastising his young son.
I found a manilla envelope containing pages and pages of small notations, all
in my fatherтАЩs printing. тАЬF.H., 11/2/79, 1 pm? #3 onlyтАЭ - the dates went back fifteen
years. More photographs in another envelope, snapshots this time. All women, all
ages, some naked, most not. I recognized some people from the funeral, also Elaine.
She was standing in the woods, a red sweater tied around her waist.
The final two folders in the drawer contained letters from a single
correspondent, and what looked liked copies of my fatherтАЩs replies. At first I was
excited, and repulsed also to find myself in such company - the first file was labeled
тАЬLetters: Jack.тАЭ There were hundreds of them, and it took me a while to decide that
they were not from me.
My fathersтАЩ contained no salutation or signature, just a solid block of text,
often without paragraphs. The other man sometimes wrote by hand; the first letters
were in a childish script, and they were difficult to read. Difficult even to glance at - I
leafed forward to the spring of 1982, when he started using a typewriter. He said,
тАЬDear Jerry,тАЭ which had been my fatherтАЩs nickname. Once: тАЬDear Father.тАЭ Once:
тАЬDear Dad.тАЭ One was signed, тАЬYour loving son.тАЭ тАЬYour loving son, Jack.тАЭ
This was a game theyтАЩd played, perhaps in place of sex - a make-believe
father, a make-believe son. тАЬDear Dad,тАЭ one letter read. тАЬIтАЩm happy to have got the
chance to see you when you were in town. IтАЩm still excited from your visit, and I
donтАЩt have so much to say, only that IтАЩm glad you had a chance to see the
apartment, and see I was not being so extravagant. I know you will always think I
spend my money on expensive things, so IтАЩm glad you could be with me and share
my life, if only for one night. Next time you should stay for longer. Dinner was
delicious. I havenтАЩt had a meal like that since the semester started.тАЭ
The box by the door included an unopened phone bill; I had seen it as I came
in. My stepmother had put it there, intending, I suppose, to pay it later. I retrieved it
now and cut it open - pages of long-distance calls, many to a single number in
Oakland. My father had accepted collect calls from the same phone, sometimes
twice a day.
I sat back in my fatherтАЩs chair. And this is the part I donтАЩt remember well - I
sat there a long time. IтАЩd like to think that I was shocked, disgusted, hurt, but I donтАЩt
think itтАЩs true. Only I was looking at my fatherтАЩs phone, imagining his hand on the
receiver, his lips so close to it - how many times? Nothing remained of any words