JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 212 из 425Devore wasn’t in attendance, nor was the lovely Rogette. I did spot Mattie behind the casually maintained chickenwire barrier on the first-base line. John Storrow was beside her, wearing jeans and a polo shirt, his red hair mostly corralled by a Mets cap. They stood watching the game and chatting like old friends for two innings before they saw me—more than enough time for me to feel envious of John’s position, and a little jealous as well.
Finally someone lofted a long fly to center, where the edge of the woods served as the only fence. The center fielder backed up, but it was going to be far over his head. It was hit to my depth, off to my right. I moved in that direction without thinking, high-footing through the shrubs that formed a zone between the mown outfield and the trees, hoping I wasn’t running through poison ivy. I caught the softball in my outstretched left hand, and laughed when some of the spectators cheered.
The center fielder applauded me by tapping his bare right hand into the pocket of his glove. The batter, meanwhile, circled the bases serenely, knowing he had hit a ground-rule home run.
I tossed the ball to the fielder and as I returned to my original post among the candy-wrappers and beer cans, I looked back in and saw Mattie and John looking at me.
If anything confirms the idea that we’re just another species of animal, one with a slightly bigger brain and a much bigger idea of our own importance in the scheme of things, it’s how much we can convey by gesture when we absolutely have to. Mattie clasped her hands to her chest, tilted her head to the left, raised her eyebrows—My hero. I held my hands to my shoulders and flipped the palms skyward Shucks, ma’am, ’t’warn’t nothin. John lowered his head and put his fingers to his brow, as if something there hurt—Iu lucky sonofabitch.
With those comments out of the way, I pointed at the backstop and shrugged a question. Both Mattie and John shrugged back. An inning later a little boy who looked like one giant exploding freckle ran out to where I was, his oversized Michael Jordan jersey churning around his shins like a dress.
“Guy down there gimme fifty cent to say you should call im later on at his hotel over in the Rock,” he said, pointing at John. “He say you gimme another fifty cent if there was an answer.”
“Tell him I’ll call him around nine-thirty,” I said. “I don’t have any change, though. Can you take a buck?”
“Hey, yeah, swank.” He snatched it, turned away, then turned back.
He grinned, revealing a set of teeth caught between Act I and Act II.
Finally someone lofted a long fly to center, where the edge of the woods served as the only fence. The center fielder backed up, but it was going to be far over his head. It was hit to my depth, off to my right. I moved in that direction without thinking, high-footing through the shrubs that formed a zone between the mown outfield and the trees, hoping I wasn’t running through poison ivy. I caught the softball in my outstretched left hand, and laughed when some of the spectators cheered.
The center fielder applauded me by tapping his bare right hand into the pocket of his glove. The batter, meanwhile, circled the bases serenely, knowing he had hit a ground-rule home run.
I tossed the ball to the fielder and as I returned to my original post among the candy-wrappers and beer cans, I looked back in and saw Mattie and John looking at me.
If anything confirms the idea that we’re just another species of animal, one with a slightly bigger brain and a much bigger idea of our own importance in the scheme of things, it’s how much we can convey by gesture when we absolutely have to. Mattie clasped her hands to her chest, tilted her head to the left, raised her eyebrows—My hero. I held my hands to my shoulders and flipped the palms skyward Shucks, ma’am, ’t’warn’t nothin. John lowered his head and put his fingers to his brow, as if something there hurt—Iu lucky sonofabitch.
With those comments out of the way, I pointed at the backstop and shrugged a question. Both Mattie and John shrugged back. An inning later a little boy who looked like one giant exploding freckle ran out to where I was, his oversized Michael Jordan jersey churning around his shins like a dress.
“Guy down there gimme fifty cent to say you should call im later on at his hotel over in the Rock,” he said, pointing at John. “He say you gimme another fifty cent if there was an answer.”
“Tell him I’ll call him around nine-thirty,” I said. “I don’t have any change, though. Can you take a buck?”
“Hey, yeah, swank.” He snatched it, turned away, then turned back.
He grinned, revealing a set of teeth caught between Act I and Act II.