"Robert Reed - Birdy Girl" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

I'm done with lunch and I'm done watching when one team's whipped. One-sided
games are never fun. Instead, I go out back to do a little work. Watering and
weeding. I do everything by hand. No gardening drones for me, thank you. I
work until the heat gets old, then I sit in one of the adirondacks that I
built last year. Woodworking; it sounds like a fine, noble hobby until you
make your first wobbly chair. I'm sitting in the shade, wobbling, and some
little motion catches my eye. Above the grapevine on the back fence is a face.
The face is watching me. For an instant, I'm guessing that it's another Birdy
Girl. But then she waves at me, and I realize that it isn't like that. She
waves, and I wave back, and then I find some reason to stand and stretch and
head back inside again.

Our cat is sprawled out on the living room floor. The doll is beside him,
scratching his eyes and telling him that he's a pretty kitty. A beautiful
kitty. Then it looks up at me, remarking, "You've got to be curious. So ask me
questions." And I say, "I don't want to." Then it tells me, "Genevieves are
curious and adventurous. We watch and we remember. And we have a distinct,
rather quirky sense of humor." So I say, "Prove it." And just like that, the
doll reaches under the sofa, pulling out the hunting knife that I use on
boxes. The tanned face smiles, big white teeth showing. And with both hands,
it lifts the weapon, saying, "How about it? A little knife fight before
dinner?"

What can I do? I laugh. I can't help myself. And the doll laughs with me,
neatly flipping the knife and catching it by the back of the blade, and
walking forwards, she hands the hilt up to me. She gives it up. And that's
when I start thinking of her as being "her," and that's how our first
conversation gets rolling.




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After Genevieve goes clubbing again, I mention to my wife, "Someone's living
in the Coldsmith house." She asks, "Who?" while looking down at her
embroidery: a picture of a farmhouse and horse-drawn wagons. I tell her,
"There was a kid in the backyard. A girl. Maybe five, maybe less." Which makes
her look at me. "Just one child?" she asks. "That's all I saw," I report. She
wants details, but she doesn't ask. All the obvious questions have obvious
answers, and what's the point in hearing what you know already? So down goes
her head, hands working the needle again.
It's past two when Genevieve finally gets home. I'm the one who hears the cat
door, my wife sleeping as if dead. I slip out of bed and into shorts and I
meet the girl midway. She's carrying her spiked shoes, trying to be quiet. Her
short skirt looks jacked up too high, and her hair could stand a good combing.
And that's not all I'm thinking now. She just stands there, smiling, swinging
her little shoes with her arms out straight. It's as if she know what's going
on inside my idiot head.