"Rosenblum-CaliforniaDreamer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenbaum Benjamin)

"Fine."

Silence. The rasp of the dying woman's breathing filled the kitchen. "She was an
artist," Ellen said too loudly. "She did collages. When they started selling, I
quit my job and we moved out here." You supported me, Rebecca had said,
grinning. While I was a starving artist. Now you get to be my kept woman. "I
took care of her. She needed a full-time keeper when she was working."

Beth nodded politely, eyes on the bedroom door. "Where is she now?"

"She's dead." The words caught Ellen by surprise. "She was in . . . San
Francisco. When the Quake happened." She set the plate of sandwiches down in
front of Beth with a small thump, aware of the pill bottle up on the top shelf.
"I'll get you some water."

"I'm really sorry." Beth touched her hand. "That your friend died."

"Me, too," Ellen whispered.

Storm wind whined around the comers of the house, banging a loose piece of
gutter against the eaves. Shadows were creeping into the corners. She switched
on the fluorescent lantern, hung it on its hook above the table. The shadows
cast by its gentle swinging made the watercolor Rebecca smile, but her eyes
looked sad. "In a hundred years, we'll have forgotten how California looked
before the Quake," Ellen murmured. "Everything will seem so normal."

"We lived in Berkeley." Beth lifted a corner of bread, stared at the yellow slab
of cheese beneath. "We had an apartment near the doctor's office where More was
a nurse. I was across the street telling Cara about Mr. Walther's giving me a
referral at school and all of a sudden we fell down. I saw our building sway,
like it was made out of robber. Pieces cracked out of it and started falling.
Cars were crashing into things and Cara was screaming. Her voice sounded so
small. All you could hear was this giant roar. I thought . . . Mom was dead."

"She wasn't dead." Beth had won that terrible lottery and Ellen had lost.
Outside, the wind rattled the screen door against its hook. Beth was trembling
and Ellen's twinge of anger metamorphosed suddenly into sympathy. "C'mon, eat."
She put her arm around Beth's shoulders. Eat, she had said a hundred times a
week to Rebecca. You can't live on corn chips and pop, you idiot. "Take your
time. I'll check on your more," she said.

The lantern streaked Rebecca's bedroom with dim light and shadow. Beth's mother
-- Laura -- lay still beneath the light sheet. She didn't react as Ellen wiped
her hot face with a washcloth. Her breathing was shallow and uneven. Outside,
wind fluttered the shingles with the sound of cards riffling in a giant hand. No
helicopter would land to save her.

"Ellen?" Beth's butterfly touch made Ellen jump, raised gooseflesh on her arms.
"What's wrong?"