JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 75 из 425There had been no shroud-thing to greet me, of course… but I had an idea it might well find me in my dreams.
Sometimes—for me, at least—there’s a transitional bump between waking and sleeping. Not that night. I slipped away without knowing it, and woke the next morning with sunlight shining in through the window and the bedside lamp still on. There had been no dreams that I could remember, only a vague sensation that I had awakened sometime briefly in the night and heard a bell ringing, very thin and far away.
The little girl—actually she wasn’t much more than a baby-came walking up the middle of Route 68, dressed in a red bathing suit, yellow plastic flip-flops, and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap turned around backward. I had just driven past the Lakeview General Store and Dickie Brooks’s All-Purpose Garage, and the speed limit there drops from fifty-five to thirty-five. Thank God I was obeying it that day, otherwise I might have killed her. It was my first day back. I’d gotten up late and spent most of the morning walking in the woods which run along the lakeshore, seeing what was the same and what had changed. The water looked a little lower and there were fewer boats than I would have expected, especially on summer’s biggest holiday, but otherwise I might never have been away.
I even seemed to be slapping at the same bugs. Around eleven my stomach alerted me to the fact that I’d skipped breakfast. I decided a trip to the Village Cafe was in order. The restaurant at Warrington’s was trendier by far, but I’d be stared at there. The Village Cafe would be better—if it was still doing business. Buddy Jelli-son was an ill-tempered fuck, but he had always been the best fry-cook in western Maine and what my stomach wanted was a big greasy Vil-lageburger. Now this little girl, walking straight up the white line and looking like a majorette leading an invisible parade. At thirty-five miles per hour I saw her in plenty of time, but this road was busy in the summer, and very few people bothered creeping through the reduced-speed zone. There were only a dozen Castle County police cruisers, after all, and not many of them bothered with the TR unless they were specifically called there. I pulled over to the shoulder, put the Chevy in t,^vac, and was out before the dust had even begun to settle. The day was muggy and close and still, the clouds seeming Low enough to touch. The kid—a little blondie with a snub nose and scabbed knees—stood on the white line as if it were a tightrope and watched me approach with no more fear than a fawn.
“Hi,” she said. “I go beach. Mummy ’on’t take me and I’m mad as hell.
Sometimes—for me, at least—there’s a transitional bump between waking and sleeping. Not that night. I slipped away without knowing it, and woke the next morning with sunlight shining in through the window and the bedside lamp still on. There had been no dreams that I could remember, only a vague sensation that I had awakened sometime briefly in the night and heard a bell ringing, very thin and far away.
The little girl—actually she wasn’t much more than a baby-came walking up the middle of Route 68, dressed in a red bathing suit, yellow plastic flip-flops, and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap turned around backward. I had just driven past the Lakeview General Store and Dickie Brooks’s All-Purpose Garage, and the speed limit there drops from fifty-five to thirty-five. Thank God I was obeying it that day, otherwise I might have killed her. It was my first day back. I’d gotten up late and spent most of the morning walking in the woods which run along the lakeshore, seeing what was the same and what had changed. The water looked a little lower and there were fewer boats than I would have expected, especially on summer’s biggest holiday, but otherwise I might never have been away.
I even seemed to be slapping at the same bugs. Around eleven my stomach alerted me to the fact that I’d skipped breakfast. I decided a trip to the Village Cafe was in order. The restaurant at Warrington’s was trendier by far, but I’d be stared at there. The Village Cafe would be better—if it was still doing business. Buddy Jelli-son was an ill-tempered fuck, but he had always been the best fry-cook in western Maine and what my stomach wanted was a big greasy Vil-lageburger. Now this little girl, walking straight up the white line and looking like a majorette leading an invisible parade. At thirty-five miles per hour I saw her in plenty of time, but this road was busy in the summer, and very few people bothered creeping through the reduced-speed zone. There were only a dozen Castle County police cruisers, after all, and not many of them bothered with the TR unless they were specifically called there. I pulled over to the shoulder, put the Chevy in t,^vac, and was out before the dust had even begun to settle. The day was muggy and close and still, the clouds seeming Low enough to touch. The kid—a little blondie with a snub nose and scabbed knees—stood on the white line as if it were a tightrope and watched me approach with no more fear than a fawn.
“Hi,” she said. “I go beach. Mummy ’on’t take me and I’m mad as hell.