"Sheri S. Tepper - The Fresco" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tepper Sherri)

matter what she did, and ordinarily she kept a wary eye on him. Today she ignored him as she fiddled
with the trash until the car went away too fast, squealing before it got to the stop sign, only half stopping
before screeching around the corner and away.
Six months ago there had been two injured, one dead. A trial date months in the future. And a judge
with no more sense than to accept that "don't lock him up, he's a working man" argument. She had
explained the situation to his lawyer. Benita's father paid Bert when and if he showed up at the salvage
yard. Since he didn't often show up, he wasn't really a working man. The public defender said his first
duty was to his client, and it would go easier on him if he were a man with a job and a family to support.
"But he's not," she said.
The lawyer gave her a mulish stare. "Well, he must contribute something. The house . . .тАЭ
"Right. His mother left him the house when she died. Bert sold his last piece of art thirteen years ago.
For the last ten years, I've paid the property taxes and maintenance, because that's the last time Bert
worked for money. Last year Bert took out a mortgage on the house so he could pay cash for a new car,
which he said he needed for a new delivery job he was taking. I don't know what happened to the job, but
he borrowed on the car for drinking and gambling money. When he was picked up for drunk driving, they
impounded the car and the finance agency repossessed it. I haven't made any of the mortgage payments
and the house is about to be foreclosed. That's Bert's contribution to the family welfare.тАЭ
"You didn't make the mortgage payments?" the lawyer had asked, as though she had done something
unfamiliar.
She had stared at him, making him shift uncomfortably. "It isn't my house, as Bert often reminds me.
I didn't borrow on it. Foreclosure is sixty days away.тАЭ
"And when they foreclose?"
"Bert won't have anywhere to live.тАЭ
"Neither will you," he challenged.
"I'm moving in with my father," she said. "Alone. My father doesn't like Bert.тАЭ
Actually, she planned to rent a small apartment when the time came, but that was no one's business
but hers. As it turned out, nothing she had said made any difference, for the lawyer totally ignored it, as
did La Raza judge. Typical. As time passed, more and more of the elected magistrates were women, but
they were still too few and far between.
She shut the garage door and went into the house, rubbing her forehead. If Bert followed his usual
pattern, he'd spend the afternoon with his drinking buddies, maybe Larry, but just as likely that had been
misdirection on his part. The police would show up sooner or later, and he wouldn't want her to know
where he really was. During the afternoon he'd go through stage one, which was boisterous conviviality,
and stage two, slightly morose nostalgia, and when they ran out of beer, he'd move on to stage three,
which might bring him home to tear the house apart, looking for liquor or money he thought he might
have hidden sometime in the past. He was always sure one of his old caches was still there and if he didn't
find one, it was because Benita had stolen his money or thrown out his liquor. That's usually when he hit
her, if she was around. Stage four involved belligerence and violence, and she had this cube-thing to
protect. Bert had the car, however, and she had no way to go except, maybe, call a cab, and they were so
expensive . . .
An audible click. Like that little relay switch. There was money. There, beneath her hand, was
money. Quite a lot of money. She had planned to leave after the foreclosure, because that would focus
Bert's belligerence on the bank rather than on herself. But here under her hand was the opportunity to do it
now. So call a cab. Pack a bag. Take Sasquatch to a kennel so Bert couldn't take out his temper on the
dog. The money was right there, and even though she hadn't earned it yet, she planned to earn it, she
could start earning it!
Right away, here came the marching ghosts. Mami and Papa wouldn't approve. It wasn't fair to Goose
and Marsh. The children might not like the idea . . .
She felt a flash of that same pain she'd felt up in the hills, momentary, fleeting, like a splinter being
pulled out, a moment's pang, but then the ache went away, and so did the ghosts, leaving her mind even