JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 110 из 425Mount Washington, New England’s highest, floated in the farthest distance.
I put on the coffee, then went into the living room, whistling. All my imaginings of the last few days seemed silly this morning. Then the whistle died away. The Memo-Scriber’s counter, set to 000 when I went to bed, was now at 012.
I rewound it, hesitated with my finger over the PLAY button, told myself(in Jo’s voice) not to be a fool, and pushed it.
“Oh Mike,” a voice whispered—mourned, almost-on the tape, and I found myself having to press the heel of one hand to my mouth to hold back a scream. It was what I had heard in Jo’s office when the draft rushed past the sides of my face. . only now the words were slowed down just enough for me to understand them. “Oh Mike,” it said again. There was a faint click. The machine had shut down for some length of time. And then, once more, spoken in the living room as I had slept in the north wing: “Oh Mike.”
Then it was gone.
Around nine o’clock, a pickup came down the driveway and parked behind my Chevrolet. The truck was new—a Dodge Ram so clean and chrome-shiny it looked as if the ten-day plates had just come off that morning—but it was the same shade of off-white as the last one and the sign on the driver’s door was the one I remembered: WILLIAM “BILI’ DEAN CAMP CHECKING CARETAKING LIGHT CARPENTRYPLUS his telephone number. I went out on the back stoop to meet him, coffee cup in my hand.
“Mike!” Bill cried, climbing down from behind the wheel. Yankee men don’t hug—that’s a truism you can put right up there with tough guys don’t dance and real men don’t eat quiche—but Bill pumped my hand almost hard enough to slop coffee from a cup that was three-quarters empty, and gave me a hearty clap on the back. His grin revealed a splendidly blatant set of false teeth—the kind which used to be called Roebuckers, because you got them from the catalogue. It occurred to me in passing that my ancient interlocutor from the Lakeview General Store could have used a pair. It certainly would have improved mealtimes for the nosy old fuck. “Mike, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”
“Good to see you, too,” I said, grinning. Nor was it a false grin; I felt all right. Things with the power to scare the living shit out of you on a thundery midnight in most cases seem only interesting in the bright light of a summer morning. “You’re looking well, my friend.” It was true. Bill was four years older and a little grayer around the edges, but otherwise the same. Sixty-five? Seventy? It didn’t matter.
I put on the coffee, then went into the living room, whistling. All my imaginings of the last few days seemed silly this morning. Then the whistle died away. The Memo-Scriber’s counter, set to 000 when I went to bed, was now at 012.
I rewound it, hesitated with my finger over the PLAY button, told myself(in Jo’s voice) not to be a fool, and pushed it.
“Oh Mike,” a voice whispered—mourned, almost-on the tape, and I found myself having to press the heel of one hand to my mouth to hold back a scream. It was what I had heard in Jo’s office when the draft rushed past the sides of my face. . only now the words were slowed down just enough for me to understand them. “Oh Mike,” it said again. There was a faint click. The machine had shut down for some length of time. And then, once more, spoken in the living room as I had slept in the north wing: “Oh Mike.”
Then it was gone.
Around nine o’clock, a pickup came down the driveway and parked behind my Chevrolet. The truck was new—a Dodge Ram so clean and chrome-shiny it looked as if the ten-day plates had just come off that morning—but it was the same shade of off-white as the last one and the sign on the driver’s door was the one I remembered: WILLIAM “BILI’ DEAN CAMP CHECKING CARETAKING LIGHT CARPENTRYPLUS his telephone number. I went out on the back stoop to meet him, coffee cup in my hand.
“Mike!” Bill cried, climbing down from behind the wheel. Yankee men don’t hug—that’s a truism you can put right up there with tough guys don’t dance and real men don’t eat quiche—but Bill pumped my hand almost hard enough to slop coffee from a cup that was three-quarters empty, and gave me a hearty clap on the back. His grin revealed a splendidly blatant set of false teeth—the kind which used to be called Roebuckers, because you got them from the catalogue. It occurred to me in passing that my ancient interlocutor from the Lakeview General Store could have used a pair. It certainly would have improved mealtimes for the nosy old fuck. “Mike, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”
“Good to see you, too,” I said, grinning. Nor was it a false grin; I felt all right. Things with the power to scare the living shit out of you on a thundery midnight in most cases seem only interesting in the bright light of a summer morning. “You’re looking well, my friend.” It was true. Bill was four years older and a little grayer around the edges, but otherwise the same. Sixty-five? Seventy? It didn’t matter.