JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 69 из 425“Well it must have been, there’s nothing there,” I said. The sound of your voice when you’re alone can be either scary or reassuring. That time it was the latter. I bent over, picked up Bill’s note, and stuffed it into my back pocket.
Then I rummaged out my keyring. I stood under the stoop light in the big, swooping shadows of the light-struck moths, picking through my keys until I found the one I wanted.!t had a funny disused look, and as I rubbed my thumb along its serrated edge, I wondered again why I hadn’t come down here-except for a couple of quick broad daylight errands—in all the months and years since Jo had died. Surely if she had been alive, she would have insisted- But then a peculiar realization came to me: it wasn’t just a matter of since Jo died. It was easy to think of it that way—never once during my six weeks on Key Largo had I thought of it any other way—but now, actually standing here in the shadows of the dancing moths (it was like standing under some weird organic disco ball) and listening to the loons out on the lake, I remembered that although Johanna had died in August of 1994, she had died in Derry. It had been miserably hot in the city… so why had we been there? Why hadn’t we been sitting out on our shady deck on the lake side of the house, drinking iced tea in our bathing suits, watching the boats go back and forth and commenting on the form of the various water-skiers? What had she been doing in that damned Rite Aid parking lot to begin with, when during any other August we would have been miles from there? Nor was that all. We usually stayed at Sara until the end of September—it was a peaceful, pretty time, as warm as summer. But in ’93 we’d left with August only a week gone. I knew, because I could remember Johanna going to New York with me later that month, some kind of publishing deal and the usual attendant publicity crap. It had been dog-hot in Manhattan, the hydrants spraying in the East Village and the uptown streets sizzling. On one night of that trip we’d seen The Phantom of the Opera.
Near the end Jo had leaned over to me and whispered, “Oh fuck! The Phantom is snivelling again!” I had spent the rest of the show trying to keep from bursting into wild peals of laughter. Jo could be evil that way. Why had she come with me that August? Jo didn’t like New York even in April or October, when it’s sort of pretty. I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember. All I was sure of was’ that she had never been back to Sara Laughs after early August of 1993… and before long I wasn’t even sure of that.
I slipped the key into the lock and turned it.
Then I rummaged out my keyring. I stood under the stoop light in the big, swooping shadows of the light-struck moths, picking through my keys until I found the one I wanted.!t had a funny disused look, and as I rubbed my thumb along its serrated edge, I wondered again why I hadn’t come down here-except for a couple of quick broad daylight errands—in all the months and years since Jo had died. Surely if she had been alive, she would have insisted- But then a peculiar realization came to me: it wasn’t just a matter of since Jo died. It was easy to think of it that way—never once during my six weeks on Key Largo had I thought of it any other way—but now, actually standing here in the shadows of the dancing moths (it was like standing under some weird organic disco ball) and listening to the loons out on the lake, I remembered that although Johanna had died in August of 1994, she had died in Derry. It had been miserably hot in the city… so why had we been there? Why hadn’t we been sitting out on our shady deck on the lake side of the house, drinking iced tea in our bathing suits, watching the boats go back and forth and commenting on the form of the various water-skiers? What had she been doing in that damned Rite Aid parking lot to begin with, when during any other August we would have been miles from there? Nor was that all. We usually stayed at Sara until the end of September—it was a peaceful, pretty time, as warm as summer. But in ’93 we’d left with August only a week gone. I knew, because I could remember Johanna going to New York with me later that month, some kind of publishing deal and the usual attendant publicity crap. It had been dog-hot in Manhattan, the hydrants spraying in the East Village and the uptown streets sizzling. On one night of that trip we’d seen The Phantom of the Opera.
Near the end Jo had leaned over to me and whispered, “Oh fuck! The Phantom is snivelling again!” I had spent the rest of the show trying to keep from bursting into wild peals of laughter. Jo could be evil that way. Why had she come with me that August? Jo didn’t like New York even in April or October, when it’s sort of pretty. I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember. All I was sure of was’ that she had never been back to Sara Laughs after early August of 1993… and before long I wasn’t even sure of that.
I slipped the key into the lock and turned it.