"Paul Preuss - Human Error" - читать интересную книгу автора (Preuss Paul)

dresser. "Take care of the kids' savings, okay?"

She nodded and turned. He followed her down the stairs, his overstuffed bag slung over his
shoulder. "Come on, gang, we're off," he shouted.

Theresa leaped into the hall at the foot of the stairs, all knees and elbows, her hand half-covering her
face. Harold frowned. "Theresa, take your thumb out of your mouth."

She popped it with a sound like a cork coming out of a bottle. "Mommy said we couldn't go to the
airport this time," she announced wetly.

"Oh?" Harold looked at his wife.

"Time for a private chat," she said.

"Oh." Harold's smile faded. What kid was it this time? Agnes, was she going to drop out, get
married? Or Gary, he'd put some girl in the family way. Or Paul, he'd been making noises about refusing
to register for the draft. Or . . .

"Don't worry, Harry, nobody's in trouble," said Marian with a faint smile. "I'll tell you all about it."

"Okay. 'Bye, girls." No reply. "Good-bye, Donna," he called, a bit louder, poking his head into the
family room. The thirteen-year-old turned away from the TV movie long enough to wave absently.

Theresa tagged along to the double garage. Anthony had left the garage door open, and the cold
was bitter. Marian slid into the front seat of the rusted brown Ford station wagon as Harold retrieved his
briefcase and slung his bag into the back. Theresa perched on the rear bumper of the black Cadillac,
Harold's business car, and watched.

Oblivious to the cold, the scrawny little girl waved dutifully as her father backed the wagon down
the icy drive, narrowly missing the sagging spruce.

As he turned into the street Harold saw Theresa, before she went inside the house, stick her thumb
back in her mouth. In the front yard Anthony kept pounding ice, refusing to glance up.

On the turnpike trailer trucks whined past, their multiple tires hissing in the slush, bouncing on the
eroded concrete. Harold kept the wipers going to push the freezing mud off the windshield. The car
heater was stuck on high; the interior was stifling. "What's the big secret?" he asked.

"I'm pregnant, Harry," Marian said.

He gaped at her, then hastily looked back at the road. "Marian, you're forty-four years old."

"It's God's will, Harry," she said gently.

"God doesn't take the risk," said Harold bitterly. He glanced at her again. Her face was closed,
disapproving. "Sorry. No disrespect." He had to keep such thoughts to himself, he'd learned that long
ago. Marian wouldn't hear of artificial birth control, so they practiced the rhythm method. Religiously.
There was no other word for it.