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Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 47 из 425” He grinned, revealing teeth that were crooked and a little yellow, but all his own. “I like getting to the first names. It’s like being able to take off your tie. Was quite a little cap of wind we had, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, “but it’s warming up nicely now.” The thermometer had made one of its nimble March leaps, climbing from twenty-five degrees the night before to fifty that morning. Better than the rise in air-temperature, the sun was warm again on your face. It was that warmth that had coaxed me out of the house. “Spring’ll get here, I guess. Some years it gets a little lost, but it always seems to find its way back home.” He sipped his coffee, then set the cup down. “Haven’t seen you at the Red Cross lately.”
“I’m recycling,” I said, but that was a fib; I’d come eligible to give another pint two weeks ago. The reminder card was up on the refrigerator. It had just slipped my mind.
“Next week, for sure.”
“I only mention it because I know you’re an A, and we can always use that.”
“Save me a couch.”
“Count on it. Everything going all right? I only ask because you look tired. If it’s insomnia, I can sympathize, believe me.” He did have the look of an insomniac, I thought—too wide around the eyes, somehow. But he was also a man in his mid- to late seventies, and I don’t think anyone gets that far without showing it. Stick around a little while, and life maybe only jabs at your cheeks and eyes. Stick around a long while and you end up looking like Jake La Motta after a hard fifteen. I opened my mouth to say what I always do when someone asks me if I’m all right, then wondered why I always felt I had to pull that tiresome Marlboro Man shit, just who I was trying to fool. What did I think would happen if I told the guy who gave me a chocolate-chip cookie down at the Red Cross after the nurse took the needle out of my arm that I wasn’t feeling a hundred percent? Earthquakes? Fire and flood? Shit. “No,” I said, “I really haven’t been feeling so great, Ralph.”
“Flu? It’s been going around.”
“Nah. The flu missed me this time, actually. And I’ve been sleeping all right.” Which was truemthere had been no recurrence of the Sara Laughs dream in either the normal or the high-octane version. “I think I’ve just got the blues.”
“Well, you ought to take a vacation,” he said, then sipped his coffee. When he looked up at me again, he frowned and set his cup down. “What? Is something wrong?” No, I thought of saying. You were just the first bird to sing into the silence, Ralph, that’s all.
“Yes,” I said, “but it’s warming up nicely now.” The thermometer had made one of its nimble March leaps, climbing from twenty-five degrees the night before to fifty that morning. Better than the rise in air-temperature, the sun was warm again on your face. It was that warmth that had coaxed me out of the house. “Spring’ll get here, I guess. Some years it gets a little lost, but it always seems to find its way back home.” He sipped his coffee, then set the cup down. “Haven’t seen you at the Red Cross lately.”
“I’m recycling,” I said, but that was a fib; I’d come eligible to give another pint two weeks ago. The reminder card was up on the refrigerator. It had just slipped my mind.
“Next week, for sure.”
“I only mention it because I know you’re an A, and we can always use that.”
“Save me a couch.”
“Count on it. Everything going all right? I only ask because you look tired. If it’s insomnia, I can sympathize, believe me.” He did have the look of an insomniac, I thought—too wide around the eyes, somehow. But he was also a man in his mid- to late seventies, and I don’t think anyone gets that far without showing it. Stick around a little while, and life maybe only jabs at your cheeks and eyes. Stick around a long while and you end up looking like Jake La Motta after a hard fifteen. I opened my mouth to say what I always do when someone asks me if I’m all right, then wondered why I always felt I had to pull that tiresome Marlboro Man shit, just who I was trying to fool. What did I think would happen if I told the guy who gave me a chocolate-chip cookie down at the Red Cross after the nurse took the needle out of my arm that I wasn’t feeling a hundred percent? Earthquakes? Fire and flood? Shit. “No,” I said, “I really haven’t been feeling so great, Ralph.”
“Flu? It’s been going around.”
“Nah. The flu missed me this time, actually. And I’ve been sleeping all right.” Which was truemthere had been no recurrence of the Sara Laughs dream in either the normal or the high-octane version. “I think I’ve just got the blues.”
“Well, you ought to take a vacation,” he said, then sipped his coffee. When he looked up at me again, he frowned and set his cup down. “What? Is something wrong?” No, I thought of saying. You were just the first bird to sing into the silence, Ralph, that’s all.