"Dan Simmons - The River Styx Runs Upstream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons Dan)

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What thou lovest well remains
the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft
from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy
true heritage...
тАФEzra Pound, Canto LXXXI
I loved my mother very much. After her funeral, after the coffin was lowered, the
family went home and waited for her return.
I was only eight at the time. Of the required ceremony I remember little. I recall that
the collar of the previous year's shirt was far too tight and that the unaccustomed tie
was like a noose around my neck. I remember that the June day was too beautiful for
such a solemn gathering. I remember Uncle Will's heavy drinking that morning and
the bottle of Jack Daniels he pulled out as we drove home from the funeral. I
remember my father's face.
The afternoon was too long. I had no role to play in the family's gathering that day,
and the adults ignored me. I found myself wandering from room to room with a
warm glass of Kool-Aid, until finally I escaped to the backyard. Even that familiar
landscape of play and seclusion was ruined by the glimpse of pale, fat faces staring
out from the neighbor's windows. They were waiting. Hoping for a glimpse. I felt
like shouting, throwing rocks at them. In-stead I sat down on the old tractor tire we
used as a sand-box. Very deliberately I poured the red Kool-Aid into the sand and
watched the spreading stain digging a small pit.
They're digging her up now.
I ran to the swing set and angrily began to pump my legs against the bare soil. The
swing creaked with rust, and one leg of the frame rose out of the ground.
No, they've already done that, stupid. Now they're hooking her up to big
machines. Will they pump the blood back into her?
I thought of bottles hanging. I remembered the fat, red ticks that clung to our dog in
the summer. Angry, I swung high, kicking up hard even when there was no more
height to be gained.
Do her fingers twitch first? Or do her eyes just slide open like an owl waking up?
I reached the high point of my arc and jumped. For a second I was weightless and I
hung above the earth like Superman, like a spirit flying from its body. Then gravity
claimed me and I fell heavily on my hands and knees. I had scraped my palms and
put grass stain on my right knee. Mother would be angry.
She's being walked around now. Maybe they're dress-ing her like one of the
mannikins in Mr. Feldman's store window.
My brother Simon came out to the backyard. Although he was only two years older,
Simon looked like an adult to me that afternoon. An old adult. His blond hair, as
re-cently cut as mine, hung down in limp bangs across a pale forehead. His eyes
looked tired. Simon almost never yelled at me. But he did that day.
"Get in here. It's almost time."
I followed him through the back porch. Most of the relatives had left, but from the
living room we could hear Uncle Will. He was shouting. We paused in the hallway to
listen.
"For Chrissakes, Les, there's still time. You just can't do this."
"It's already done."
"Think of the ... Jesus Christ ... think of the kids."