JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 141 из 425”
“If she really balks, you know what to do, don’t you?”
“I think so. Thanks, John.”
“One way or another, we’ll talk very soon,” he said, and hung up.
I sat where I was for awhile. Once I pushed the button which opened the line on the cordless phone, then pushed it again to close it. I had to talk to Mattie, but I wasn’t quite ready yet. I decided to take a walk instead. If she really balks, you know what to do, don’t you? Of course.
Remind her that she couldn’t afford to be proud. That she couldn’t afford to go all Yankee, refusing charity from Michael Noonan, author of Being Two, The Red-Shirt Man, and the soon-to-be-published Helen’s Promise. Remind her that she could have her pride or her daughter, but likely not both. Hey, Mattie, pick one.
I walked almost to the end of the lane, stopping at Tidwell’s Meadow with its pretty view down to the cup of the lake and across to the White Mountains. The water dreamed under a hazy sky, looking gray when you tipped your head one way, blue when you tipped it the other. That sense of mystery was very much with me. That sense of Manderley. Over forty black people had settled here at the turn of the century—lit here for awhile, anyway—according to Marie Hingerman (also according to A History of Castle County and Castle Rock, a weighty tome published in 1977, the county’s bicentennial year). Pretty special black people, too: most of them related, most of them talented, most of them part of a musical group which had first been called The Red-Top Boys and then Sara Tidwell and the Red-Top Boys. They had bought the meadow and a good-sized tract of lakeside land from a man named Douglas Day. The money had been saved up over a period of ten years, according to Sonny Tidwell, who did the dickering (as a Red-Top, Son Tidwell had played what was then known as “chickenscratch guitar”).
There had been a vast uproar about it in town, and even a meeting to protest “the advent of these darkies, which come in a Horde.” Things had settled down and turned out okay, as things have a way of doing, more often than not. The shanty town most locals had expected on Day’s Hill (for so Tidwell’s Meadow was called in 1900, when Son Tid-well bought the land on behalf of his extensive clan) had never appeared. Instead, a number of neat white cabins sprang up, surrounding a larger building that might have been intended as a group meeting place, a rehearsal area, or perhaps, at some point, a performance hall.
“If she really balks, you know what to do, don’t you?”
“I think so. Thanks, John.”
“One way or another, we’ll talk very soon,” he said, and hung up.
I sat where I was for awhile. Once I pushed the button which opened the line on the cordless phone, then pushed it again to close it. I had to talk to Mattie, but I wasn’t quite ready yet. I decided to take a walk instead. If she really balks, you know what to do, don’t you? Of course.
Remind her that she couldn’t afford to be proud. That she couldn’t afford to go all Yankee, refusing charity from Michael Noonan, author of Being Two, The Red-Shirt Man, and the soon-to-be-published Helen’s Promise. Remind her that she could have her pride or her daughter, but likely not both. Hey, Mattie, pick one.
I walked almost to the end of the lane, stopping at Tidwell’s Meadow with its pretty view down to the cup of the lake and across to the White Mountains. The water dreamed under a hazy sky, looking gray when you tipped your head one way, blue when you tipped it the other. That sense of mystery was very much with me. That sense of Manderley. Over forty black people had settled here at the turn of the century—lit here for awhile, anyway—according to Marie Hingerman (also according to A History of Castle County and Castle Rock, a weighty tome published in 1977, the county’s bicentennial year). Pretty special black people, too: most of them related, most of them talented, most of them part of a musical group which had first been called The Red-Top Boys and then Sara Tidwell and the Red-Top Boys. They had bought the meadow and a good-sized tract of lakeside land from a man named Douglas Day. The money had been saved up over a period of ten years, according to Sonny Tidwell, who did the dickering (as a Red-Top, Son Tidwell had played what was then known as “chickenscratch guitar”).
There had been a vast uproar about it in town, and even a meeting to protest “the advent of these darkies, which come in a Horde.” Things had settled down and turned out okay, as things have a way of doing, more often than not. The shanty town most locals had expected on Day’s Hill (for so Tidwell’s Meadow was called in 1900, when Son Tid-well bought the land on behalf of his extensive clan) had never appeared. Instead, a number of neat white cabins sprang up, surrounding a larger building that might have been intended as a group meeting place, a rehearsal area, or perhaps, at some point, a performance hall.