JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 56 из 425“Thanks for saying.”
“You’ll get your share of carrot-cakes, chummy.” He laughed, but a little doubtfully, as if afraid he was committing an impropriety. “I can eat a lot of carrot-cake,” I said, “and if folks overdo it, well, hasn’t Kenny Auster still got that big Irish wolfhound?”
“Yuh, that thing’d eat cake til he busted!” Bill cried in high good humor. He cackled until he was coughing. I waited, smiling a little myself. “Blueberry, he calls that dog, damned if I know why. Ain’t he the gormiest thing!” I assumed he meant the dog and not the dog’s master. Kenny Auster, not much more than five feet tall and neatly made, was the opposite of gormy, that peculiar Maine adjective that means clumsy, awkward, and clay-footed. I suddenly realized that I missed these people—Bill and Brenda and Buddy Jellison and Kenny Auster and all the others who lived year-round at the lake. I even missed Blueberry, the Irish wolfhound, who trotted everywhere with his head up just as if he had half a brain in it and long strands of saliva depending from his jaws. “I’ve also got to get down there and clean up the winter blowdown,” Bill said. He sounded embarrassed. “It ain’t bad this year—that last big storm was all snow over our way, thank God—but there’s still a fair amount of happy crappy I ain’t got to yet. I shoulda put it behind me long before now. You not using the place ain’t an excuse. I been cashing your checks.” There was something amusing about listening to the grizzled old fart beating his breast; Jo would have kicked her feet and giggled, I’m quite sure. “If everything’s right and running by July Fourth, Bill, I’ll be happy.”
“You’ll be happy as a clam in a mudflat, then. That’s a promise.” Bill sounded as happy as a clam in a mudflat himself, and I was glad. “Going-ter come down and write a book by the water? Like in the old days? Not that the last couple ain’t been fine, my wife couldn’t put that last one down, but—”
“I don’t know,” I said, which was the truth. And then an idea struck me.
“Bill, would you do me a favor before you clean up the driveway and turn Brenda Meserve loose?”
“Happy to if I can,” he said, so I told him what I wanted.
Four days later, I got a little package with this laconic return address: DEN/GEN DELV/Tg-90 (DAVA scoa0. I opened it and shook out twenty photographs which had been taken with one of those little cameras you use once and then throw away.
“You’ll get your share of carrot-cakes, chummy.” He laughed, but a little doubtfully, as if afraid he was committing an impropriety. “I can eat a lot of carrot-cake,” I said, “and if folks overdo it, well, hasn’t Kenny Auster still got that big Irish wolfhound?”
“Yuh, that thing’d eat cake til he busted!” Bill cried in high good humor. He cackled until he was coughing. I waited, smiling a little myself. “Blueberry, he calls that dog, damned if I know why. Ain’t he the gormiest thing!” I assumed he meant the dog and not the dog’s master. Kenny Auster, not much more than five feet tall and neatly made, was the opposite of gormy, that peculiar Maine adjective that means clumsy, awkward, and clay-footed. I suddenly realized that I missed these people—Bill and Brenda and Buddy Jellison and Kenny Auster and all the others who lived year-round at the lake. I even missed Blueberry, the Irish wolfhound, who trotted everywhere with his head up just as if he had half a brain in it and long strands of saliva depending from his jaws. “I’ve also got to get down there and clean up the winter blowdown,” Bill said. He sounded embarrassed. “It ain’t bad this year—that last big storm was all snow over our way, thank God—but there’s still a fair amount of happy crappy I ain’t got to yet. I shoulda put it behind me long before now. You not using the place ain’t an excuse. I been cashing your checks.” There was something amusing about listening to the grizzled old fart beating his breast; Jo would have kicked her feet and giggled, I’m quite sure. “If everything’s right and running by July Fourth, Bill, I’ll be happy.”
“You’ll be happy as a clam in a mudflat, then. That’s a promise.” Bill sounded as happy as a clam in a mudflat himself, and I was glad. “Going-ter come down and write a book by the water? Like in the old days? Not that the last couple ain’t been fine, my wife couldn’t put that last one down, but—”
“I don’t know,” I said, which was the truth. And then an idea struck me.
“Bill, would you do me a favor before you clean up the driveway and turn Brenda Meserve loose?”
“Happy to if I can,” he said, so I told him what I wanted.
Four days later, I got a little package with this laconic return address: DEN/GEN DELV/Tg-90 (DAVA scoa0. I opened it and shook out twenty photographs which had been taken with one of those little cameras you use once and then throw away.