JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 225 из 425“She didn’t tell you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“She thought she might write something about Sara and the Red-Tops for one of the local papers.” Bill was picking his words very slowly. I have a clear memory of that, and of how hot the sun was, beating down on my neck, and the sharpness of our shadows on the asphalt. He began to pump his gas, and the sound of the pump’s motor was also very sharp. “I think she even mentioned Yankee magazine. I c’d be wrong about that, but I don’t think I am.” I was speechless. Why would she have kept quiet about the idea to try her hand at a little local history? Becahse she might have thought she was poaching on my territory? That was ridiculous. She had known me better than that… hadn’t she? “When did you have this conversation, Bill? Do you remember?”
“Coss I do,” he said. “Same day she come down to take delivery of those plastic owls. Only I raised the subject, because folks had told me she was asking around.”
“Prying?”
“I didn’t say that,” he said stiffly, “you did.” True, but I thought prying was what he meant.
“Go on.”
“Nothing to go on about. I told her there were sore toes here and there on the TR, same as there are anyplace, and asr her not to tread on any corns if she could help it. She said she understood. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. All I know is she kep’ on asking questions.
Listenin to stories from old fools with more time than sense.”
“When was this?”
“Fall of ’93, winter and spring of ’94. Went all around town, she did even over to Motton and Harlow—with her notebook and little tape-recorder. Anyway, that’s all I know.”
I realized a stunning thing: Bill was lying. If you’d asked me before that day, I’d have laughed and told you Bill Dean didn’t have a lie in him. And he must not have had many, because he did it badly.
I thought of calling him on it, but to what end? I needed to think, and I couldn’t do it here—my mind was roaring. Given time, that roar might subside and I’d see it was really nothing, no big deal, but I needed that time. When you start finding out unexpected things about a loved one who’s been dead awhile, it rocks you. Take it from me, it does.
Bill’s eyes had shifted away from mine, but now they shifted back. He looked both earnest and—I could have sworn it—a little scared.
“She ast about little Kerry Auster, and that’s a good example of what I mean about steppin on sore toes.
“What are you talking about?”
“She thought she might write something about Sara and the Red-Tops for one of the local papers.” Bill was picking his words very slowly. I have a clear memory of that, and of how hot the sun was, beating down on my neck, and the sharpness of our shadows on the asphalt. He began to pump his gas, and the sound of the pump’s motor was also very sharp. “I think she even mentioned Yankee magazine. I c’d be wrong about that, but I don’t think I am.” I was speechless. Why would she have kept quiet about the idea to try her hand at a little local history? Becahse she might have thought she was poaching on my territory? That was ridiculous. She had known me better than that… hadn’t she? “When did you have this conversation, Bill? Do you remember?”
“Coss I do,” he said. “Same day she come down to take delivery of those plastic owls. Only I raised the subject, because folks had told me she was asking around.”
“Prying?”
“I didn’t say that,” he said stiffly, “you did.” True, but I thought prying was what he meant.
“Go on.”
“Nothing to go on about. I told her there were sore toes here and there on the TR, same as there are anyplace, and asr her not to tread on any corns if she could help it. She said she understood. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. All I know is she kep’ on asking questions.
Listenin to stories from old fools with more time than sense.”
“When was this?”
“Fall of ’93, winter and spring of ’94. Went all around town, she did even over to Motton and Harlow—with her notebook and little tape-recorder. Anyway, that’s all I know.”
I realized a stunning thing: Bill was lying. If you’d asked me before that day, I’d have laughed and told you Bill Dean didn’t have a lie in him. And he must not have had many, because he did it badly.
I thought of calling him on it, but to what end? I needed to think, and I couldn’t do it here—my mind was roaring. Given time, that roar might subside and I’d see it was really nothing, no big deal, but I needed that time. When you start finding out unexpected things about a loved one who’s been dead awhile, it rocks you. Take it from me, it does.
Bill’s eyes had shifted away from mine, but now they shifted back. He looked both earnest and—I could have sworn it—a little scared.
“She ast about little Kerry Auster, and that’s a good example of what I mean about steppin on sore toes.