"Wilson-Retired" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Robin)

"Yeah. Course you're not," said Pop, sympathy in his voice. "Nobody ever is, and
I think you're smart for takin' a shot at this. I mean, what do any of us our
age have to lose? Lot of people, young guys, I mean when I was a young guy, I
figured when you're up in your sixties, up there, and you're on retirement and
the kids're gone and the damn dog has died and you're sittin' back takin' it
easy, well you quit worryin' about makin' money and chasin' tail and like that,
but -- yeah -- the pension's okay and the social security helps a lot and we got
the doublewide paid for and it is kinda easy street, and Marianne and me, we
still have a round and round she goes every once in a while. So hell, I don't
blame you gettin' shook about what that guy, that black doc told you. I would of
too, it was me."

Modesty did not permit him to tell Arnie of his first post-operative week when,
unworried for the first time in months by the thing growing in his groin, he had
chased a giggling Marianne around the doublewide more than once. He retrieved
his hook and switched to a fresh angel fly. The boat shivered briefly. He looked
up and Arnie was gone, just like that.

Although Arnie's puckery little pink scar was not in a place where he could show
it to others, or indeed see it himself without some uncomfortable contortions
and a hand mirror borrowed from his wife's dressing table -- one of those jobs
that magnifies; the first view, pucker or no, horrifying him -- he was a
satisfied customer.

Once again, the Elderclinic provided confirmation. Arnie turned his head and
coughed, the black doc withdrew his gloved finger and shook his head and ordered
a new round of X-rays. Arnie dressed, went down the hall to the sign that said
"X-ray" with an arrow pointing left, and turned right, a spring in his step.
Home again, he shared his good news with his Louella, who received it with mixed
but on the whole positive emotions and who quickly shared the tale with a couple
of other auxiliary ladies.

Word spread in the club. By Memorial Day, Pop had ferried nine more people out
to the inlet: Annie Hague with the lump in her left breast, Chuck Binder with
the growth they said probably wasn't cancerous yet but we'd better do a biopsy
anyway and watch it, Sandy Teeters and the thing in his colon, and a bunch of
others who didn't say and Pop didn't ask. Every Saturday afternoon for two and a
half months, he had sat in rain and sun, wind and calm, fishing -- almost always
without catching anything worth keeping--while the harvest went on and the
membership of the Retired Men's Social Club & Ladies' Auxiliary grew
progressively healthier, progressively more satisfied with things just the way
they were.

By the 4th of July it was five more -- two lumpectomies, a pulmonary node, and
two unknowns -- and Pop was growing weary. No, far more than weary: sick to
death of dealing with problems ranging from sick to death.

"I'm sorry about the kids," he apologized to Marianne on the Tuesday after the
4th, as they sat in the cluttered little kitchen in the doublewide. Marianne had