"Thompson, Jim - Now and on Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Jim)

"That's too bad, dear. You've got to get more rest."
She allowed me to stroke her for a few moments; then she sat up brightly and pushed me away.
"And you're tired, too," she declared. "You've already said you were. Now you lie down while I help Mom get dinner."
She pulled an apron over her head, and I flopped back on the pillows.
"Give Mom a dollar," I said.
"What for?"
"For the groceries I got."
Roberta seemed to see the sack for the first time. "What'd you get that stuff for? We've got two pounds of beans up in the cupboard. Why didn't Mom cook them?"
"I don't know. I wasn't here."
"They were right there in the cupboard. She must have seen them."
"No harm done. We can eat them some other time. Now please go on and do whatever you have to do, and give Mom that dollar."
"I'll think about it," said Roberta.
Somehow I was on my feet, and the veins in my throat were choking me.
"_God damn it! Give Mom that dollar!_"
Mom opened the door.
"Did someone call me?" she asked.
"No, Mom," I said. "I was just telling Roberta about supper--about the groceries. To give you the dollar I borrowed."
"Why, I don't need it," said Mom. "If you're short why don't you just keep it?"
"Oh, we've got plenty, Mom," said Roberta. "We've got all kinds of money. You just wait a minute."
She began fishing around in her purse, fetching out nickels, dimes, and pennies, and spreading them out on the dresser.
"Why don't you give her a dollar bill?" I said. "Now I'll have it for Mom in just a moment," said Roberta in a neat voice. "I'll get it, all righty . . . here you are, Mom. There's twenty. Twenty-five. Forty. Sixty. Eighty-three. Ninety-three. Oh, I guess I'm seven cents short. Do you mind if I give it to you tomorrow?"
"Just keep it all until some other time," said Mom. Roberta picked up the change. "You can have it now if you want it."
Mom went out.
I lay staring at Roberta in the mirror. She met my eyes for a moment, then looked away.
"How much were the groceries?"
"Seventy cents. I've got thirty cents left, if that's what you're driving at."
"I suppose you're going to buy something to drink with it?"
"I won't disappoint you. I'm going to get a quart of wine."
"You shouldn't, Jimmie. You know what the doctor told you."
"Death, where is thy sting?" I said.
Roberta went out, too.
Pretty soon Mack came toddling back, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There isn't an ounce of fat on him, but he's practically as broad as he is long.
"Hi, Daddy."
"Hi, boy. What's the good word?"
"Save-a money."
"What'd you do downtown? Ride an airplane?"
"Yop. Saw a bitey, too."
"A real honest-to-God bitey?"
"Yop."
"What'd he look like?"
Mack grinned. "Look like a bitey."
Then he went out. I have bitten on that joke of his a thousand times, but it is the only one he knows and I think a sense of humor should be encouraged.
Roberta shut herself up in the bedroom with the kids about nine, and Mom was busy in the bathroom working on her bunions. Frankie was still out, so I had the front room to myself. Not that I minded. I arranged a couple of chairs--one for my feet--just like I wanted them. Then I went around to the liquor store and bought my wine.
I thought the clerk was rather patronizing; but it could have been my imagination. Wine-drinkers aren't regarded very highly in California--not when they drink the kind of stuff I bought. The better California wines are largely exported. The cheaper ones, sold locally, are made of dregs, heavily fortified with raw alcohol.
In Los Angeles there are places where you can buy stiff drinks of this poison for two cents and a full pint for as little as six. And you can count as many as fifty addicts in a single block. "Wine-o-s," they are dubbed, and their lives are as short, fortunately, as they are unmerry. The jails and hospitals are filled with them always, undergoing the "cure." A nightly average of forty dead are picked up out of flophouses, jungles, and boxcars.
So--I got home, sat down with my feet up, and took a big slug. It tasted watery, but strong. I took another slug, and I didn't mind the taste. I was leaning back against the cushions, smoking and wiggling my toes and anticipating the next drink, when Frankie came in.
She made straight for the divan and took off her shoes. She is the big hearty perfectly composed type, the counterpart of Pop except for her blonde hair.
"Drunk again?" she inquired conversationally.
"Getting. Want a shot?"
"Not that stuff. I've already had three Scotches anyway. 'S'matter? Roberta?"