"Howard Waldrop - The Ugly Chickens" - читать интересную книгу автора (Waldrop Howard)

Weeds grew everywhere. There were signs of fences, a flattened pile of
wood that had once been a barn. Further behind the house were the
outhouse remains. Half a rusted pump stood in the backyard. A flatter
spot showed where the vegetable garden had been; in it a single wild
tomato, pecked by birds, lay rotting. I passed it. There was lumber from
three outbuildings, mostly rotten and green with algae and moss. One
had been a smokehouse and woodshed combination. Two had been
chicken roosts. One was larger than the other. It was there I started to
poke around and dig.

Where? Where? I wish I'd been on more archaeological digs, knew the
places to look. Refuse piles, midden heaps, kitchen scrap piles,
compost boxes. Why hadn't I been born on a farm so I'd know
instinctively where to search?

I prodded around the grounds. I moved back and forth like a setter
casting for the scent of quail. I wanted more, more. I still wasn't
satisfied.




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Dusk. Dark, in fact. I trudged into the Kraits' front yard. The toe sack I
carried was full to bulging. I was hot, tired, streaked with fifty years of
chicken shit. The Kraits were on their porch. Jim Bob lumbered down
like a friendly mountain.

I asked him a few questions, gave them a Xerox of one of the dodo
pictures, left them addresses and phone numbers where they could
reach me.

Then into the rent-a-car. Off to Water Valley, acting on information
Jennifer Krait gave me. I went to the postmaster's house at Water
Valley. She was getting ready for bed. I asked questions. She got on the
phone. I bothered people until one in the morning. Then back into the
trusty rent-a-car.

On to Memphis as the moon came up on my right. Interstate 55 was a
glass ribbon before me. WLS from Chicago was on the radio.

I hummed along with it, I sang at the top of my voice.