JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 86 из 425Unless someone wanders in off the road and asks for something like shrimp tetrazzini. If that happened he’d probably drop dead of a heart attack.”
“Yeah. Well, when I get copies of the new book, I’ll drop one off.” The smile continued to hang in there, but now it shaded toward caution. “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Noonan.”
“No, but I will. My agent gets me fifty comps. I find that as I get older, they go further.” Perhaps she heard more in my voice than I had meant to put there—people do sometimes, I guess. ’11 right. I’ll look forward to it.” I took another look at the baby, sleeping in that queerly casual way they have—her head tilted over on her shoulder, her lovely little lips pursed and blowing a bubble. Their skin is what kills me—so fine and perfect there seem to be no pores at all. Her Sox hat was askew. Mattie watched me reach in and readjust it so the visor’s shade fell across her closed eyes. “Kyra,” I said. Mattie nodded. “Ladylike.”
“Kia is an African name,” I said. “It means ’season’s beginning.” “I left her then, giving her a little wave as I headed back to the driver’s side of the Chevy. I could feel her curious eyes on me, and I had the oddest feeling that I was going to cry. That feeling stayed with me long after the two of them were out of sight; was still with me when I got to the Village Cafe. I pulled into the dirt parking lot to the left of the off-brand gas pumps and just sat there for a little while, thinking about Jo and about a home pregnancy-testing kit which had cost twenty-two-fifty. A little secret she’d wanted to keep until she was absolutely sure. That must have been it; what else could it have been? “Kia,” I said. “Season’s beginning.” But that made me feel like crying again, so I got out of the car and slammed the door hard behind me, as if I could keep the sadness inside that way.
Buddy Jellison was just the same, all right—same dirty cooks’ whites and splotchy white apron, same black hair under a paper cap stained with either beef-blood or strawberry juice. Even, from the look, the same oatmeal-cookie crumbs caught in his ragged mustache. He was maybe fifty-five and maybe seventy, which in some genetically favored men seems to be still within the farthest borders of middle age. He was huge and shambly—probably six-four, three hundred pounds—and just as full of grace, wit, and joie de vivre as he had been four years before. “You want a menu or do you remember?” he grunted, as if I’d last been in yesterday.
“Yeah. Well, when I get copies of the new book, I’ll drop one off.” The smile continued to hang in there, but now it shaded toward caution. “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Noonan.”
“No, but I will. My agent gets me fifty comps. I find that as I get older, they go further.” Perhaps she heard more in my voice than I had meant to put there—people do sometimes, I guess. ’11 right. I’ll look forward to it.” I took another look at the baby, sleeping in that queerly casual way they have—her head tilted over on her shoulder, her lovely little lips pursed and blowing a bubble. Their skin is what kills me—so fine and perfect there seem to be no pores at all. Her Sox hat was askew. Mattie watched me reach in and readjust it so the visor’s shade fell across her closed eyes. “Kyra,” I said. Mattie nodded. “Ladylike.”
“Kia is an African name,” I said. “It means ’season’s beginning.” “I left her then, giving her a little wave as I headed back to the driver’s side of the Chevy. I could feel her curious eyes on me, and I had the oddest feeling that I was going to cry. That feeling stayed with me long after the two of them were out of sight; was still with me when I got to the Village Cafe. I pulled into the dirt parking lot to the left of the off-brand gas pumps and just sat there for a little while, thinking about Jo and about a home pregnancy-testing kit which had cost twenty-two-fifty. A little secret she’d wanted to keep until she was absolutely sure. That must have been it; what else could it have been? “Kia,” I said. “Season’s beginning.” But that made me feel like crying again, so I got out of the car and slammed the door hard behind me, as if I could keep the sadness inside that way.
Buddy Jellison was just the same, all right—same dirty cooks’ whites and splotchy white apron, same black hair under a paper cap stained with either beef-blood or strawberry juice. Even, from the look, the same oatmeal-cookie crumbs caught in his ragged mustache. He was maybe fifty-five and maybe seventy, which in some genetically favored men seems to be still within the farthest borders of middle age. He was huge and shambly—probably six-four, three hundred pounds—and just as full of grace, wit, and joie de vivre as he had been four years before. “You want a menu or do you remember?” he grunted, as if I’d last been in yesterday.