"Rog Phillips - The Involuntary Immortals" - читать интересную книгу автора (Phillips Rog)

later, she had accumulated a trunk full of trinkets, pictures, and keepsakes. She
couldnтАЩt take them with her but she could store them; they were all that was left of
forty wonderful years. Someday in the far distant future she would get the trunk out
of storage and open it, and live over again those happy years with Carl.
But nowтАФshe dropped the lid with a bang. In her mind that action symbolized
the closing of the door to the past. She could not close the door to the future, as
Carl had done, nor could she guess how long or how short that future might extend.
Another century? A thousand years? A million? Would she be another legendary
figure moving through time, unable to die?
She slipped the trunk key in the lock and turned it. The click of the lock brought
the first sign of emotion to her smooth, beautiful face. She almost gave way to the
grief she had been holding in. Almost.
In the back of the closet she unearthed three traveling cases. Opening them so
they lay flat on the bed, she took her dresses from the closet and folded them in
carefully. Her toilet articles followed.
Below, the sounds indicated that most of the relatives were departing. Sharp
sounds of footsteps on the front porch, the grinding of starting motors, the snorting
of motors as they caught, and the smooth purr they made as they settled down to
idling speed.
Agnes would be coming up soon. Helen didnтАЩt want that; she couldnтАЩt stand
much more of the accusing look in her daughterтАЩs eyes, the mad thoughts and hatred
in her heart.
She was afraid of Agnes. She knew that; she had sensed thoughts in AgnesтАЩ
baleful eyes. Thoughts of murder and cruelty. She didnтАЩt want to be alone with her in
the same house.
Her fingers were nervous as she locked the last suitcase and slipped the keys in
her handbag. She wished fervently that the halls werenтАЩt carpeted, that she could
hear approaching footsteps. Agnes might this very minute be standing outside her
door, waiting. Waiting for her to come out, or perhaps waiting for the courage to
open the door and face her mother with the gun Carl always kept in his desk.
 There was the window. Helen could climb through the window and step to the
branch of the tree just outside. She could be down and away without running any
risk.
The thought of slipping away from her own home in such a fashion made her
smile to herself. She couldnтАЩt. She did what she had known she would do all the
time, squared her pretty shoulders, held her head up bravely, and opened the door.
The hallway was empty.
She looked down its full length, at its wide ribbon of rich carpet, its high walls so
close together, to the space where the stairway led downwards. It was empty. As
empty as her life.
Agnes wasnтАЩt there! The relief was overwhelming. She had so wanted to be left
alone, to suffer her grief in hallowed silence, have this last night alone with Carl. Carl!
Like a giant sequoia falling majestically in a quiet forest; like the surface of a deep
stream rippling from currents below; she bowed her head and wept. The soft sounds
of her weeping drifted in the empty hall like the sad-sweet cry of the mourning dove
at daybreak when all other sounds are still.
Her smoothly rounded shoulders shook under the loose white blouse she wore.
Her soft hands, with their long, skilled fingers hid her face. Alone she mourned for
her husband and let the salt tears of her grief dampen her cheeks and her hands.
Gradually, peace came. She dried her eyes with a wisp of lace handkerchief and