Читать книгу The City - Dean Koontz, Dean Koontz - Страница 17

With the pendant in my pocket, it seemed that the cloud-free summer sky blazed bluer than ever. The day was warm, and this part of the city looked cleaner than the part that we’d come from. As noon approached, the trunk shadows shrank toward the trees, and the web of branch shadows spread equally in all directions as if spooled out by spiders. The sun spangled the big pond, and through the quivers of light, we watched scores of fat koi that swam there from spring through autumn before being moved to indoor aquariums. Mom bought a twenty-five-cent bag of bread cubes, and the fish ventured right up to us, fins wimpling, mouths working, and we fed them.

I felt the most unexpected tenderness toward those koi, because they were so beautiful and colorful and, I don’t know, like music made flesh. My mom kept pointing to this one and that one—how red, how orange, how yellow, how golden—and suddenly I couldn’t talk about them because my throat grew tight. I knew if I talked about them, my voice would tremble, and I might even tear up. I wondered what was wrong with me. They were just fish. Maybe I was turning sissy, but at least I fed the last of the bread to them without embarrassing myself.

Almost half a century later, I feel that same tenderness toward nearly everything that swims and flies and walks on all fours, and I’m not embarrassed. Creation moves and astonishes if you let it. When I realize how unlikely it is that anything at all should live on this world spun together from dust and hot gases, that creatures of almost infinite variety should at night look up at the stars, I know that it’s all more fragile than it appears, and I think maybe the only thing that keeps the Earth alive and turning is our love for it.

That day in the park, after the koi, we walked the paths through the groves of trees and through the picnic grounds and around the baseball field. There weren’t as many people as I expected, probably because it was a workday. But when we started to talk about lunch, two guys, maybe sixteen or seventeen, fell in behind us, walking close to us, moving faster if we moved faster, slowing when we did. They were talking about girls they dated the night before, how hot the girls were and things they did to them. They wanted my mother to hear. I didn’t know all the words they used, didn’t understand everything they were bragging about having done, but I knew they were being rotten. That kind of thing didn’t happen often back then. It just didn’t. People wouldn’t tolerate it. People weren’t so afraid in those days. I threw the two trash talkers a couple of mean looks, and my mother said, “No, Jonah,” and kept walking toward the Kellogg Parkway exit from the Commons. But the braggarts talked filthier and started to comment on my mother’s shapeliness.

Finally she stopped and turned to them, one hand in her purse, and said, “Back off.”

One of them was a white kid, the other a mulatto, which was a word we used back then, meaning half black, half white. They were cocky and grinning, hoping to terrify her a little if nothing else.

The white one raised his eyebrows. “Back off? This here’s a public park, sugar. Ain’t it a public park, bro?”

His friend said, “It’s damn sure public. Man, the front view’s even more righteous than her ass.”

My mom raised her purse, her hand buried in it, and said, “You have a death wish?”

The white guy’s grin went from Cheshire to shark. “Sugar, there ain’t hardly any legal guns in this city, so what you’ve got in that purse is just a tampon.”

She stared at him as if he were a cockroach with pretensions, standing upright and talking, but a cockroach nonetheless. “Listen, shithead, do I look like some schoolteacher who cares what the law says? Look at me. You think I’m some hotel maid or dime-store clerk? Is that really what I look like to you, asshole? What I’ve got is a drop gun, no history to it. I kill you both, throw down the piece, and when the jackboots show up, I tell ’em you pulled the heat, it was robbery, but you fumbled, dropped it, I snatched it, thought you might have another one, so I used it. Either you walk away or we do it now, I don’t care which.”

All the wicked fun had gone out of their grins. They looked now as if they were wincing in pain, though there was cold fury in their eyes. I didn’t know how it might go, even in bright sunshine with other strollers in view, but my fear was exceeded by an exhilarating amazement. Sylvia’s performance had been so convincing that she almost seemed to be someone other than my mom, who never used bad language and who was as likely to be carrying a gun as I was likely to have earned a black belt in karate.

The two creeps salvaged their pride by insulting her—“Bitch” and “Skank” and worse—but they backed off and turned away. We stood watching them until we were certain they wouldn’t come back.

My mother said, “Just because you heard me use a couple of nasty words doesn’t mean you ever can.”

I was speechless, but for different reasons from the one that had rendered me silent by the koi pond.

“Jonah? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then tell me what I said.”

“Not to use nasty words.”

“Do you understand why I used them?”

“You faked out those guys.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

“You faked them out big-time.”

She smiled and took her hand out of her purse and zippered the purse shut and said, “How do you feel about lunch?”

“I’d like some.”

Surrounding Riverside Commons were fancy homes, but we had to walk only ten minutes or so to some shops and other businesses.

We had gone about a block when I asked, “What’s a tampon? That guy said you didn’t have a gun, all you had was a tampon.”

“It’s nothing, just a kind of sponge.”

“You mean like the one on the kitchen-sink drainboard?”

“Not exactly like that.”

“Like the ones they use at the car wash over on Seventh Street?”

“No, not that big.”

“Why would he think you had a sponge in your purse?”

“Well, because I do. Women do.”

“Why do you carry a sponge in your purse?”

“I like to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what? You mean like if you spill something?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you ever needed it?”

“Sometimes.”

“You’re a very neat person,” I said. “I try to be neat, too.”

We were passing a bus stop, and she said she needed to sit down on the bench, and when she sat there, she started laughing so that tears came to her eyes.

Sitting beside her, looking around but seeing nothing hilarious, I said, “What’s so funny?”

She shook her head and took a Kleenex from her purse and blotted her eyes. She tried to stop laughing but couldn’t, and finally she said, “I was just thinking about those two idiot delinquents.”

“They weren’t funny, Mom. They were scary.”

“They were scary,” she agreed. “But silly, too, in a way. Maybe I’m just laughing with relief, neither of us hurt.”

“Boy, you sure faked them out.”

She said, “And you kept your cool.”

When she finished blotting her eyes and blowing her nose, she tossed the Kleenex in a waste can beside the bench.

I said, “Are you sometimes able to fool idiots like them because the tampon sponge is shaped like a gun?”

That started her laughing again. I decided she had a case of the giggles, like when something strikes you a lot funnier than it really is but then for some reason everything seems funny until finally the giggles go away, sort of like hiccups.

Between giggles she said, “Honey … tampon isn’t … a nasty word. But you … shouldn’t use it anyway.”

“I shouldn’t? Why?”

“It’s not a word … little boys … should use.”

“How old do I have to be to use it?”

“Twenty-five,” she said, and just the number made her laugh harder.

“Okay, but is it still all right to say sponge?”

And there she went again.

Soon some people came along who were waiting for the bus, and we got up and let them have the bench and continued toward the shops. Walking seemed to cure my mom, and I was glad for that. I’d worried that the two delinquents might show up, because I was certain Mom wouldn’t fake them out again if she was unable to stop giggling.

We couldn’t afford to dine out often, and when we did dine out, we always went to the lunch counter in Woolworth’s, because as an employee Sylvia got a discount. That day, however, we went to a real restaurant, which she said was French, and I was relieved when it turned out they spoke English. The place had a holding bar with a scalloped canopy and a big mirror at the back, a black-and-white checkerboard floor, black tables and chairs with white tablecloths, and black booths with black-vinyl cushions and white cloths. The salt and pepper shakers were heavy and looked like crystal, and I was afraid to use them because if I broke one it would probably cost a fortune.

They had a few items for kids, including a cheeseburger, so of course I ordered that with fries and Coca-Cola. My mom had a green salad with sliced chicken breast on top and a glass of Chardonnay, and then we had what I called the best pudding in the history of the world and what Mom called crème brûlée.

We were waiting for that dessert when I leaned across the table and whispered, “How can we afford this?”

She whispered, “We can’t. We aren’t paying.”

Clutching the edge of the table, I said, “What’ll they do to us when they find out?”

“We’re not paying, your father is.”

Alarmed, I said, “He’s not coming back?”

“You know that quart mayonnaise jar he puts his pocket change in every night? When I packed his things for him, I didn’t pack that.”

“Maybe he’ll come back for it.”

“He won’t,” she said with conviction.

“But isn’t it wrong to take his money?”

“No, it’s his security deposit.”

“His what?”

“Landlords make you put down a security deposit, some hard cash, when you move in, so if you damage the apartment before you move out, they already have the money to cover it and don’t have to chase you for it. Your father never paid his share of rent since he moved back in, and he did some damage yesterday. He sure did some damage. So I kept his jar of change as a security deposit, and now he’s buying us a fancy good-bye lunch.”

Years would pass before I had crème brûlée again and could learn if it really was the best pudding in history or if it just tasted so good because of the circumstances. Nothing could have been better, after all, than the gift of an expensive good-bye lunch from my father without him there to ruin it.

That afternoon, we saw a funny movie starring Peter Sellers, and that evening I spent with Mr. and Mrs. Lorenzo, where I fell asleep on their sofa with Mr. Gluck’s pendant held tightly in my right hand. Sometimes I half woke and thought I could feel the feather fluttering softly. When my mother came home after midnight, following a four-hour set at Slinky’s, Mr. Lorenzo carried me up to our apartment, and I was so sleepy that Mom tucked me in bed in my underwear rather than make me get into pajamas. She wanted to put the pendant safely in a nightstand drawer, but I held fast to it.

I dreamed of a great white bird as big as an airplane, and I rode on its back with no fear of falling, the world sparkling below, forests and fields and mountains and valleys and seas where ships sailed, and then the city, our city. People looked up and they pointed and waved, and I waved back at them, and it was only when the bird began to sing that I realized it wasn’t as big as an airplane anymore and wasn’t in fact a bird anymore, but was instead my mother dressed all in flowing white silk, with wings more beautiful than those of a swan. Carried safely upon her back, I could feel her heart beating, her pure heart beating so steady and strong.