JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 173 из 425The lapels cut off some of the letters of the message, so it looked like this:
ORMA ER OUN I knew what it said anyway—in dreams you almost always know, don’t you?
NOV&tar SPERM COUNT, a Village Cafe yuck-it-up special if ever there was one. I was in the north bedroom dreaming all this, and here I woke up enough to know I was dreaming. . except it was like waking into another dream, because Bunter’s bell was ringing madly and there was someone standing in the hall. Mr. Normal Sperm Count? No, not him. The shadow-shape falling on the door wasn’t quite human. It was slumped, the arms indistinct. I sat up into the silver shaking of the bell, clutching a loose puddle of sheet against my naked waist, sure it was the shroud-thing out there—the shroud-thing had come out of its grave to get me. “Please don’t,” I said in a dry and trembling voice. “Please don’t, please.” The shadow on the door raised its arms. “It ain’t nuthin but a barn-dance sugar/” Sara Tidwell’s laughing, furious voice sang…
“It ain’t nuthin but a round-and-round/” I lay back down and pulled the sheet over my face in a childish act of denial… and there I stood on our little lick of beach, wearing just my undershorts. My feet were ankle-deep in the water. It was warm the way the lake gets by midsummer.
My dim shadow was cast two ways, in one direction by the scantling moon which rode low above the water, in another by the Japanese lantern with the moth caught inside it. The man who’d been standing on the path was gone but he had left a plastic owl to mark his place. It stared at me with frozen, gold-ringed eyes. “Hey Irish!” I looked out at the swimming float. Jo stood there. She must have just climbed out of the water, because she was still dripping and her hair was plastered against her cheeks. She was wearing the two-piece swimsuit from the photo I’d found, gray with red piping. “It’s been a long time, Irish—what do you say?”
“Say about what?” I called back, although I knew. “About this!” She put her hands over her breasts and squeezed. Water ran out between her fingers and trickled across her knuckles. “Come on, Irish,” she said from beside and above me, “come on, you bastard, let’s go.” I felt her strip down the sheet, pulling it easily out of my sleep-numbed fingers.
I shut my eyes, but she took my hand and placed it between her legs. As I found that velvety seam and began to stroke it open, she began to rub the back of my neck with her fingers.
“You’re not Jo,” I said. “Who are you?”
But no one was there to answer. I was in the woods. It was dark, and on the lake the loons were crying. I was walking the path to Jo’s studio.
ORMA ER OUN I knew what it said anyway—in dreams you almost always know, don’t you?
NOV&tar SPERM COUNT, a Village Cafe yuck-it-up special if ever there was one. I was in the north bedroom dreaming all this, and here I woke up enough to know I was dreaming. . except it was like waking into another dream, because Bunter’s bell was ringing madly and there was someone standing in the hall. Mr. Normal Sperm Count? No, not him. The shadow-shape falling on the door wasn’t quite human. It was slumped, the arms indistinct. I sat up into the silver shaking of the bell, clutching a loose puddle of sheet against my naked waist, sure it was the shroud-thing out there—the shroud-thing had come out of its grave to get me. “Please don’t,” I said in a dry and trembling voice. “Please don’t, please.” The shadow on the door raised its arms. “It ain’t nuthin but a barn-dance sugar/” Sara Tidwell’s laughing, furious voice sang…
“It ain’t nuthin but a round-and-round/” I lay back down and pulled the sheet over my face in a childish act of denial… and there I stood on our little lick of beach, wearing just my undershorts. My feet were ankle-deep in the water. It was warm the way the lake gets by midsummer.
My dim shadow was cast two ways, in one direction by the scantling moon which rode low above the water, in another by the Japanese lantern with the moth caught inside it. The man who’d been standing on the path was gone but he had left a plastic owl to mark his place. It stared at me with frozen, gold-ringed eyes. “Hey Irish!” I looked out at the swimming float. Jo stood there. She must have just climbed out of the water, because she was still dripping and her hair was plastered against her cheeks. She was wearing the two-piece swimsuit from the photo I’d found, gray with red piping. “It’s been a long time, Irish—what do you say?”
“Say about what?” I called back, although I knew. “About this!” She put her hands over her breasts and squeezed. Water ran out between her fingers and trickled across her knuckles. “Come on, Irish,” she said from beside and above me, “come on, you bastard, let’s go.” I felt her strip down the sheet, pulling it easily out of my sleep-numbed fingers.
I shut my eyes, but she took my hand and placed it between her legs. As I found that velvety seam and began to stroke it open, she began to rub the back of my neck with her fingers.
“You’re not Jo,” I said. “Who are you?”
But no one was there to answer. I was in the woods. It was dark, and on the lake the loons were crying. I was walking the path to Jo’s studio.