JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 81 из 425Saving little kids is my specialty.
Still, I was relieved to see that she lived close by—less than a quarter of a mile from the place where our respective vehicles were parked with their tails almost touching—and when I thought about it, it stood to reason. A child as young as the bathing beauty couldn’t have walked far… although this one had already demonstrated a fair degree of determination.
I thought Mother’s haggard look was even more suggestive of the daughter’s will. I was glad I was too old to be one of her future boyfriends; she would have them jumping through hoops all through high school and college. Hoops of fire, likely.
Well, the high-school part, anyway. Girls from the doublewide side of town did not, as a general rule, go to college unless there was a juco or a voke-tech handy. And she would only have them jumping until the right boy (or more likely the wrong one) came sweeping around the Great Curve of Life and ran her down in the highway, her all the while unaware that the white line and the crossmock were two different thngs. Then the whole cycle would repeat itself.
Christ almighty, Noonan, quit it, I told myself. She’s three years old and you’ve already got her with three kids of her own, two with ringworm and one retarded.
“Thank you so much,” Mattie repeated.
“That’s okay,” I said, and snubbed the little girl’s nose. Although her cheeks were still wet with tears, she grinned at me sunnily enough in response. “This is a very verbal little girl.”
“Very verbal, and very willful.” Now Mattie did give her child a little shake, but the kid showed no fear, no sign that shaking or hitting was the order of most days. On the contrary, her smile widened. Her mother smiled back. And yes-once you got past the slopped-together look of her, she was most extraordinarily pretty. Put her in a tennis dress at the Castle Rock Country Club (where she’d likely never go in her life, except maybe as a maid or a waitress), and she would maybe be more than pretty. A young Grace Kelly, perhaps. Then she looked back at me, her eyes very wide and grave. “Mr. Noonan, I’m not a bad mother,” she said.
I felt a start at my name coming from her mouth, but it was only momentary. She was the right age, after all, and my books were probably better for her than spending her afternoons in front of General hospital and One Life to Live. A little, anyway. “We had an argument about when we were going to the beach. I wanted to hang out the clothes, have lunch, and go this afternoon. Kyra wanted—” She broke off.
Still, I was relieved to see that she lived close by—less than a quarter of a mile from the place where our respective vehicles were parked with their tails almost touching—and when I thought about it, it stood to reason. A child as young as the bathing beauty couldn’t have walked far… although this one had already demonstrated a fair degree of determination.
I thought Mother’s haggard look was even more suggestive of the daughter’s will. I was glad I was too old to be one of her future boyfriends; she would have them jumping through hoops all through high school and college. Hoops of fire, likely.
Well, the high-school part, anyway. Girls from the doublewide side of town did not, as a general rule, go to college unless there was a juco or a voke-tech handy. And she would only have them jumping until the right boy (or more likely the wrong one) came sweeping around the Great Curve of Life and ran her down in the highway, her all the while unaware that the white line and the crossmock were two different thngs. Then the whole cycle would repeat itself.
Christ almighty, Noonan, quit it, I told myself. She’s three years old and you’ve already got her with three kids of her own, two with ringworm and one retarded.
“Thank you so much,” Mattie repeated.
“That’s okay,” I said, and snubbed the little girl’s nose. Although her cheeks were still wet with tears, she grinned at me sunnily enough in response. “This is a very verbal little girl.”
“Very verbal, and very willful.” Now Mattie did give her child a little shake, but the kid showed no fear, no sign that shaking or hitting was the order of most days. On the contrary, her smile widened. Her mother smiled back. And yes-once you got past the slopped-together look of her, she was most extraordinarily pretty. Put her in a tennis dress at the Castle Rock Country Club (where she’d likely never go in her life, except maybe as a maid or a waitress), and she would maybe be more than pretty. A young Grace Kelly, perhaps. Then she looked back at me, her eyes very wide and grave. “Mr. Noonan, I’m not a bad mother,” she said.
I felt a start at my name coming from her mouth, but it was only momentary. She was the right age, after all, and my books were probably better for her than spending her afternoons in front of General hospital and One Life to Live. A little, anyway. “We had an argument about when we were going to the beach. I wanted to hang out the clothes, have lunch, and go this afternoon. Kyra wanted—” She broke off.