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Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 83 из 425On another I was trying to cope with the strange thing that had just happened, and the equally strange thing I thought I was hearing—that the little girl I had carried off the white line had the name we had planned to give our child, if our child turned out to be a girl. “Kia,” I said. Marvelled, really. As if my touch might break her, I tentatively stroked the back of her head. Her hair was sun-warm and fine. “No,” Mattie said. “That’s the best she can say it now. Kyra, not Kia. It’s from the Greek. It means ladylike.” She shifted, a little self-conscious. “I picked it out of a baby-name book. While I was pregnant, I kind of went Oprah. Better than going postal, I guess.”
“It’s a lovely name,” I said. “And I don’t think you’re a bad mom.” What went through my mind right then was a story Frank Arlen had told over a meal at Christmas—it had been about Petie, the youngest brother, and Frank had had the whole table in stitches. Even Petie, who claimed not to remember a bit of the incident, laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. One Easter, Frank said, when Petie was about five, their folks had gotten them up for an Easter-egg hunt. The two parents had hidden loo lol over a hundred colored hard-boiled eggs around the house the evening before, after getting the kids over to their grandparents’. A high old Easter morning was had by all, at least until Johanna looked up from the patio, where she was counting her share of the spoils, and shrieked.
There was Petie, crawling gaily around on the second-floor overhang at the back of the house, not six feet from the drop to the concrete patio.
Mr. Arlen had rescued Petie while the rest of the family stood below, holding hands, frozen with horror and fascination. Mrs. Arlen had repeated the Hail Mary over and over (“so fast she sounded like one of the Chipmunks on that old “Witch Doctor’ record,” Frank had said, laughing harder than ever) until her husband had disappeared back into the open bedroom window with Petie in his arms. Then she had swooned to the pavement, breaking her nose. When asked for an explanation, Petie had told them he’d wanted to check the rain-gutter for eggs. I suppose every family has at least one story like that; the survival of the world’s Peties and Kyras is a convincing argument—in the minds of parents, anyway for the existence of God. “I was so scared,” Mattie said, now looking fourteen again. Fifteen at most.
“But it’s over,” I said. “And Kyra’s not going to go walking in the road anymore. Are you, Kyra?” She shook her head against her mother’s shoulder without raising it. I had an idea she’d probably be asleep before Mattie got her back to the good old doublewide.
“It’s a lovely name,” I said. “And I don’t think you’re a bad mom.” What went through my mind right then was a story Frank Arlen had told over a meal at Christmas—it had been about Petie, the youngest brother, and Frank had had the whole table in stitches. Even Petie, who claimed not to remember a bit of the incident, laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. One Easter, Frank said, when Petie was about five, their folks had gotten them up for an Easter-egg hunt. The two parents had hidden loo lol over a hundred colored hard-boiled eggs around the house the evening before, after getting the kids over to their grandparents’. A high old Easter morning was had by all, at least until Johanna looked up from the patio, where she was counting her share of the spoils, and shrieked.
There was Petie, crawling gaily around on the second-floor overhang at the back of the house, not six feet from the drop to the concrete patio.
Mr. Arlen had rescued Petie while the rest of the family stood below, holding hands, frozen with horror and fascination. Mrs. Arlen had repeated the Hail Mary over and over (“so fast she sounded like one of the Chipmunks on that old “Witch Doctor’ record,” Frank had said, laughing harder than ever) until her husband had disappeared back into the open bedroom window with Petie in his arms. Then she had swooned to the pavement, breaking her nose. When asked for an explanation, Petie had told them he’d wanted to check the rain-gutter for eggs. I suppose every family has at least one story like that; the survival of the world’s Peties and Kyras is a convincing argument—in the minds of parents, anyway for the existence of God. “I was so scared,” Mattie said, now looking fourteen again. Fifteen at most.
“But it’s over,” I said. “And Kyra’s not going to go walking in the road anymore. Are you, Kyra?” She shook her head against her mother’s shoulder without raising it. I had an idea she’d probably be asleep before Mattie got her back to the good old doublewide.