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

I didn't look up when I heard him coming. He hesitated in the doorway--I knew he was there because he was between me and the light--and he cleared his throat. Then he came in, stumbling a little as he stepped over the lintel. And after a minute or two he put his hand on my shoulder.
"Tom," he said. "Tommy, boy . . ."
I moved my shoulder a little. His hand fell away.
His feet scuffled in the wood chips, and pretty soon I could sense the semi-darkness and I knew he was standing back in front of the door. He was staring off across the long broad fields, raising his eyes above the red clay soil to the horizon, looking across the fiery-red plains of Hell with its endless gauntlet of dead-brown imps--the cotton, the cotton, cotton, cotton--closing his eyes to them and seeing only the horizon and its towering ranks of derricks. Steel giants, snorting and chuckling amongst themselves; sneering wonderingly at the cotton and the bent-backed pigmies amidst it. Huffing and puffing and belching up gold.
"Look, Tom," he said, softly. "Come an' look at 'em." And I stayed where I was.
"You hear me, boy?" he said. And I got up.
You do things out of habit. You keep on for a little while.
I went to the door and stood with him.
"Look at 'em," he whispered. "Just lookit that." Then he said, "Tuh-wenty-fi-uhv thousand dol-lars!" He said it just like the oil scout had said it. He repeated it a second time, and he started to do it a third. But his voice was dragging, and he gulped and swallowed midway of the twenty-five, and he didn't finish.
"God damn his eternal soul," he said.
And I said it after him.
"It's his fault! Everything's happened is his fault! He ain't fitten to live!"
"No," I said, "he isn't."
He started to look at me, but I reckon those oil derricks were a sight prettier; and habit was strong in him, too. Anyway, if he had an idea that we weren't goddamning the same person, he didn't show it.

6
There's not much to do by way of entertainment around a cropper's shack, even as nice a one, one that's actually two, as ours. And that's probably as it should be because, most of the year anyhow, you've got plenty to do outside. But sometimes it's kind of hard to bear, just sitting and not doing.
It's hard when you've got nothing to do but think--and you've got something to think with--and your thinking won't seem to lead anywhere.
We had an early supper, and Pa seemed a little out of himself. He didn't holler at Mary hardly at all, and a couple of times he passed dishes to me. And I guess that sounds like a pretty commonplace thing, but it wasn't with Pa. I couldn't remember when he'd ever done it before.
After supper he went over into the parlor and read the Bible for an hour or so, the Old Testament where most of the first-class curses are called down on people. He read to himself, he didn't speak out loud, I mean, but his lips kept moving with the words, and I could read them, too, just by watching him.
Finally, he closed the book and sat staring straight into the lamp flame. Then he sighed and took off his dime-store glasses and tucked them into the bib-pocket of his overalls.
"Guess I'll go to bed," he said. "Good time to catch up on my sleep these rainy nights."
I didn't say anything. His trying to make conversation took me by surprise.
"You don't need to though," he said. "Stay up as long as you want."
I guess he was surprised then himself, because he ducked his head suddenly and hurried out. He went across the breezeway and out on the porch, and he stayed there a minute or two--taking a leak, I suppose, to save a wet trip to the privy. Then he stamped back inside and his bedroom door slammed shut.
Mary looked across at me from the settee. "What's got into him?"
"Just trying to be decent," I said.
"Huh," she grunted, "he's got a sight of practicin' to do before he makes out. Mean ol' devil. You wait. I bet I fix hint one of these days."
"Yeah?" I wasn't really listening to her. I couldn't imagine her fixing anyone unless she fainted and fell on 'em.
"You think I won't, but I betcha I do. I'll take the chop ax to him!"
"No," I said. "Don't even think that, Mary."
"Well. . . they's other ways. Bound to be some way of puttin' him in the hole."
I yawned and put my hand over my mouth. "Why do you stay on, Mary? He can't make you."
"Well, I . . . I . . ." Her eyes went sort of empty, and she began fumbling with the safety-pin at the neck of her dress. Her fingers moved faster and faster, and that was the only light in her eyes there was, the glint of a pin.
I'd asked her a pretty sorry question. You don't ask the dead why they don't get up and walk.
"Sho', now," I said, "listen to me talk! How in tall cane would I make out without you to do for me?"
"You"--she stopped fumbling with the pin. "I bet you'd really miss me, wouldn't you?"
"Why, you know I would," I said.
She blushed, as much as she could under the tan, and looked pleased. And I thought, what about her? What'll happen to her if I pull out? And I figured it wouldn't make too much difference.
"Reckon I'll turn in myself," I said, and stood up. "How about you?"
"Might as well," she said.
I went over and kissed her on the cheek, and she held onto me a minute, brushing my hair back. She pressed herself against me, turning her head against my chest.
"Tommy... you want me to rubyour back for you? Igot some good chicken fat in the kitchen."
"It's all right," I said. "It doesn't hurt anymore."
"I don't mind. I jus' soon as not, Tommy. I like doin' things for you."
"It's all right," I said.
"I'd--I'd do m-most anything you asked me, Tommy. . . .You ask me somethin' an' see if I won't."
"Goodnight," I said, and I gave her a little slap on the bottom and went into my bedroom. I closed the door and sat down on the bed. And after a moment or two I realized I was holding my breath. I took my shoes off and stretched out, lying still to keep the cornshucks from rustling.
It was dark, there not being any windows. The only light came from the crack under the door. I heard her shoes creak, and the light all but vanished, and I knew she'd turned the wick down; just leaving the usual night-light in case someone had to get up. Then her door closed, and there was a soft _clump-clump_ as her shoes came off. And her mattress creaked and rattled.
It rattled and rattled, and I lay still, almost not breathing. Then there was a little scraping thud against the partition, and she whispered.