"Thompson, Jim - Cropper's Cabin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Jim)

I stopped on the porch, and kicked the mud off my shoes. I wiped them solewards and sideways against the sacking Mary had laid out. I went into the kitchen.
"Well," said Pa. "What you doin' home?"
He was sitting down with his jeans' legs rolled up and his feet in a pan of water. He looked mighty sour. I figured he hadn't had such a good time bragging about Matthew Ontime getting his come-uppance.
"What you doin' home?" he repeated. "Why ain't you in school?"
I looked at Mary, but of course, there wasn't any help there. She looked like she was about to keel over herself.
"You get into some trouble? Is that it?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"They kicked you out?"
"What's the difference?" I said. "What difference does it make, Pa? We can't stay here on ten acres. We'll have to find a new place to crop, and . . ."
"They kicked you out. You got kicked out. I brought you up out of nothing, and pushed you up into something to be proud of, and now you've went and pushed yourself back. Almighty God writ His will as plain as day, an' you set yourself against it. You flouted _His_ will."
"Pa." I said. "I couldn't help it. All I did was . . ."
"He gave me a stone, an' I was to bring bread in return. An' you set yourself against Him."
He held his hand out, and Mary scurried forward with a towel. He took one foot, then the other, out of the pan, drying them carefully, wiping between each toe. He got up, dropping the towel on the chair, and went into his bedroom. He came out with a long, thick harness strap.
"Face up to that wall," he said.
Mary moaned softly and threw her apron up over her face. Pa shot her a glance, flexing the harness strap. He jerked his head at me.
"You better do what I tell you, boy," he said. "You better do it fast."
I had a mind to do it. He couldn't hurt me much more than I already was, and maybe it would give me the push away from him that I needed. Maybe it would take away the maybe about what I was going to say to Donna. If I got to see her.
But--
But I couldn't let him go ahead. It would be mean spite to let him, because I knew how he'd feel afterward when he found out the truth. I knew how bad he'd feel: If I was going to make a break, all right, but it was my job to make it. I couldn't spite him into making it for me.
"Pa," I said, "I didn't . . ."
"Face up there!"
"But I didn't."
His arm went up in a swift looping motion, and the harness strap zinged and popped. It whipped around my neck, and he jerked on it, and I went down. I toppled forward, going down on my hands and knees. The strap uncoiled and he swung it again.
And it did hurt. It always hurt. And this time it did something worse than hurt, something evil and sickening. And I knew I'd better stop him fast. It came to me that what I was feeling must be hate, and it sickened and scared me. Because despite all the put-on, I'd guess I'd never known what it meant to hate until then. Somehow I'd never learned how to hate.
And if it was like this, I didn't want to learn any more. I knew I hadn't better.
The strap came down on my back again--the third, the fourth time. And he swung it again. I started to get up, and he'd shifted ends; and the buckle whipped around my shoulders, nicking me in the corner of my mouth.
I stood up.
He looked at me, and he took a step backward, and his hand trembled when he pointed to the floor.
"Y-you better get down there, boy."
I started to shake my head. Then I nodded. "All right," I said, "if that's the way you want it."
"I seen it coming on. I seen you settin' yourself up . . ."
"Go ahead," I said. "Don't bother talking yourself into it. It ought to be easy for you by now."
"I"--he backed away another step. I guess he'd had to because I'd edged toward him. I'd done it without knowing it, my eyes fixed on his, the blood welling across my lips-- "what's wrong with you, son?"
"Go ahead," I said. "Go on, Pa. You know what's wrong. Everything's wrong, and always was. That's how you get your exercise, takin' it out of me. Go on. What's the sense in stopping now?"
"I'm tellin' you, boy. You better . . ."
"Make me," I said. "Make me tell you, Pa."
He brought the strap up fast. It whistled and popped as he swung it up above his head. And I grinned at him, feeling the bad feeling that was now good to feel. It was like a coon must feel when a trap gets him, and he has to chew off a leg to get out.
I laughed, and the strap came down.
It fell from his hand to the floor.
"Tell me, Tom. I'm asking you to . . ."
I told him, watching what happened to his face, and for a little, I guess, it felt good. But I knew it wasn't good, so I stopped looking at him. I talked as fast as I could, and still make it clear, so's it would be over with fast for him.
I finished, and he stood clenching and unclenching his hands, his head sagged lower than I'd ever seen it on his turkey-gobbler neck. Then he pushed it back, so's he could look at me, and his lips moved.
"That--that's just the way it was, son?"
"You know I wouldn't steal anything, Pa."
"No--what I meant--I mean you didn't tell 'em? You didn't tell 'em you--we--was hungry?"
"No," I said, "I didn't shame you, Pa. I just let 'em think I was a thief."
He nodded, and some of the pain went out of his face. It seemed to leap from his to mine. And I turned quickly, before he could see it, and went out the door.
I ran across the yard, ducking under the clothes lines, and into the old cowbarn that we used as a woodshed. I sat down on the chopping block and buried my face in my hands. And I tried to work up into tears. I tried as hard as I could, and the tears wouldn't come; and it was worse than learning what hate was.
I guess it's the worst thing there is when you lose everything you've lived by, and you can't even cry about it. Because it's not even worth that much, a single solitary tear.
And it never was.