JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 238 из 425The front of his chair jutted over the place where I had fallen (I could see the short tracks of my sneakers just to the left of the bitch’s partially exposed roots), and although the forward wheels were still grounded, the crumbly earth was running out from beneath them in dry little avalanches that rolled down the slope and pit-a-patted into the water, creating interlocking ripple patterns. Whitmore was clinging to the back of the chair, yanking on it, but it was much too heavy for her; if Devote was to be saved, he would have to save himself. Standing waist-deep in the lake with my clothes floating around me, I rooted for him to go over.
The purplish claw of his left hand recaptured the silver toggle switch after several attempts. One finger hooked it backward, and the chair reversed away from the embankment with a final shower of stones and dirt. Whitmore leaped prankishly to one side to keep her feet from being run over. Devote fiddled some more with his controls, turned the chair to face me where I stood in the water, some seven feet out from the overhanging birch, and then nudged the chair forward until he was on the edge of The Street but safely away from the drop off. Whitmore had turned away from us entirely; she was bent over with her butt poking in my direction. If I thought about her at all, and I can’t remember that I did, I suppose I thought she was getting her breath back. Devote appeared to be in the best shape of the three of us, not even needing a hit from the oxygen mask sitting in his lap. The late light was full in his face, making him look like a half-rotted jack-o’-lantern which has been soaked with gas and set on fire. “Enjoying your swim?” he asked, and laughed.
I looked around, hoping to see a strolling couple or perhaps a fisherman looking for a place where he could wet his line one more time before dark… and yet at the same time I hoped I’d see no one. I was angry, hurt, and scared. Most of all I was embarrassed. I had been dunked in the lake by a man of eighty-five… a man who showed every sign of hanging around and making sport of me. I began wading to my right—south, back toward my house. The water was about waist-deep, cool and almost refreshing now that I was used to it. My sneakers squelched over rocks and submerged tree-branches. The ankle I’d twisted still hurt, but it was supporting me. Whether it would continue to once I got out of the lake was another question. Devore twiddled his controls some more. The chair pivoted and came rolling slowly along The Street, keeping pace with me easily. “I didn’t introduce you properly to Rogette, did I?” he said. “She was quite an athlete in college, you know. Softball and field hockey were her specialties, and she’s held onto at least some of her skills. Rogette, demonstrate your skills for this young man.” Whitmore passed the slowly moving wheelchair on the left. For a moment she was blocked out by it.
The purplish claw of his left hand recaptured the silver toggle switch after several attempts. One finger hooked it backward, and the chair reversed away from the embankment with a final shower of stones and dirt. Whitmore leaped prankishly to one side to keep her feet from being run over. Devote fiddled some more with his controls, turned the chair to face me where I stood in the water, some seven feet out from the overhanging birch, and then nudged the chair forward until he was on the edge of The Street but safely away from the drop off. Whitmore had turned away from us entirely; she was bent over with her butt poking in my direction. If I thought about her at all, and I can’t remember that I did, I suppose I thought she was getting her breath back. Devote appeared to be in the best shape of the three of us, not even needing a hit from the oxygen mask sitting in his lap. The late light was full in his face, making him look like a half-rotted jack-o’-lantern which has been soaked with gas and set on fire. “Enjoying your swim?” he asked, and laughed.
I looked around, hoping to see a strolling couple or perhaps a fisherman looking for a place where he could wet his line one more time before dark… and yet at the same time I hoped I’d see no one. I was angry, hurt, and scared. Most of all I was embarrassed. I had been dunked in the lake by a man of eighty-five… a man who showed every sign of hanging around and making sport of me. I began wading to my right—south, back toward my house. The water was about waist-deep, cool and almost refreshing now that I was used to it. My sneakers squelched over rocks and submerged tree-branches. The ankle I’d twisted still hurt, but it was supporting me. Whether it would continue to once I got out of the lake was another question. Devore twiddled his controls some more. The chair pivoted and came rolling slowly along The Street, keeping pace with me easily. “I didn’t introduce you properly to Rogette, did I?” he said. “She was quite an athlete in college, you know. Softball and field hockey were her specialties, and she’s held onto at least some of her skills. Rogette, demonstrate your skills for this young man.” Whitmore passed the slowly moving wheelchair on the left. For a moment she was blocked out by it.