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The Colorado Kid :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 73 из 81Then she burst out, halflaughing and halfserious: “But I almost wish you hadn’t told me, if you were going to leave me hanging! It’ll beweeks before I get this out of my mind!”
“It’s been twentyfive years, and it’s still not out of ours,” Vince said. “And at least you know why we didn’t tell that guy from theGlobe.”
“Yes. I do.”
He smiled and nodded. “You’ll do all right, Stephanie. You’ll do fine.” He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze, then started for the door, grabbing his narrow reporter’s notebook from his littered desk on his way by and stuffing it into his back pocket. He was ninety but still walked easy, his back only slightly bent with age. He wore a gentleman’s white shirt, its back crisscrossed with a gentleman’s suspenders. Halfway across the room he stopped and turned to her again. A shaft of late sunlight caught his babyfine white hair and turned it into a halo.
“You’ve been a pleasure to have around,” he said. “I want you to know that.”
“Thank you.” She hoped she didn’t sound as close to tears as she suddenly felt. “It’s been wonderful. I was a little dubious at first, but…but now I guess it goes right back at you. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“Have you thought about staying? I think you have.”
“Yes. You bet I have.”
He nodded gravely. “Dave and I have spoken about that. It’d be good to have some new blood on the staff. Some young blood.”
“You guys’ll go on for years,” she said.
“Oh yes,” he said, offhandedly, as if that were a given, and when he died six months later, Stephanie would sit in a cold church, taking notes on the service in her own narrow reporter’s book, and think: He knew it was coming. “I’ll be around for years yet. Still, if you wanted to stay, we’d like to have you. You don’t have to answer one way or another now, but consider it an offer.”
“All right, I will. And I think we both know what the answer will be.”
“That’s fine, then.” He started to turn, then turned back one last time. “School’s almost out for the day, but I could tell you one more thing about our business. May I?”
“Of course.”
“There are thousands of papers andtens of thousands of people writing stories for em, but there are only two types of stories. There are news stories, which usually aren’t stories at all, but only accounts of unfolding events. Things like that don’thave to be stories. People pick up a newspaper to read about the blood and the tears the way they slow down to look at a wreck on the highway, and then they move on.
“It’s been twentyfive years, and it’s still not out of ours,” Vince said. “And at least you know why we didn’t tell that guy from theGlobe.”
“Yes. I do.”
He smiled and nodded. “You’ll do all right, Stephanie. You’ll do fine.” He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze, then started for the door, grabbing his narrow reporter’s notebook from his littered desk on his way by and stuffing it into his back pocket. He was ninety but still walked easy, his back only slightly bent with age. He wore a gentleman’s white shirt, its back crisscrossed with a gentleman’s suspenders. Halfway across the room he stopped and turned to her again. A shaft of late sunlight caught his babyfine white hair and turned it into a halo.
“You’ve been a pleasure to have around,” he said. “I want you to know that.”
“Thank you.” She hoped she didn’t sound as close to tears as she suddenly felt. “It’s been wonderful. I was a little dubious at first, but…but now I guess it goes right back at you. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“Have you thought about staying? I think you have.”
“Yes. You bet I have.”
He nodded gravely. “Dave and I have spoken about that. It’d be good to have some new blood on the staff. Some young blood.”
“You guys’ll go on for years,” she said.
“Oh yes,” he said, offhandedly, as if that were a given, and when he died six months later, Stephanie would sit in a cold church, taking notes on the service in her own narrow reporter’s book, and think: He knew it was coming. “I’ll be around for years yet. Still, if you wanted to stay, we’d like to have you. You don’t have to answer one way or another now, but consider it an offer.”
“All right, I will. And I think we both know what the answer will be.”
“That’s fine, then.” He started to turn, then turned back one last time. “School’s almost out for the day, but I could tell you one more thing about our business. May I?”
“Of course.”
“There are thousands of papers andtens of thousands of people writing stories for em, but there are only two types of stories. There are news stories, which usually aren’t stories at all, but only accounts of unfolding events. Things like that don’thave to be stories. People pick up a newspaper to read about the blood and the tears the way they slow down to look at a wreck on the highway, and then they move on.