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Bullet Park :: Cheever John
Страница: 127 из 131The rhythm of thunder, thought Lewellen, was like the rhythm of a large orgasm. He liked that.
He could see against the clear afterglow in the northwest clouds of black smoke rising from the ghetto on the riverbanks. The wind was from the south, and if there had been any shooting he would not have heard it.
Tony Nailles, who would direct traffic, came over the lawn with a flashlight. "Hi Tony," said Lewellen. "You want a drink?" "I'd like a beer," Tony said. "There isn't any beer," said Lewellen, "why don't you have a gin and tonic?" As Tony went over to one of the two bars, a car came up the drive and stopped on the lawn. It was the Wickwires. They were, as always, impeccably dressed and incandescently charming but he wore dark glasses and had a piece of court plaster over one eye. "What a divine idea to have a tent," she exclaimed. She was in a wheelchair.
Nailles, stepping into the bathroom, found Nellie naked and took her in his arms. "If we're going to do it," Nellie said, "let's do it before I take my bath." They did. Then Nailles prepared to dress. Nellie had put his clothes on the bed and, standing naked above them, Nailles felt a powerful reluctance to dress. Having, in his experience with trains, learned something about the mysterious polarities that moved him, he wondered what would happen if his unwillingness to dress turned into a phobia. Would he spend the rest of his life padding naked around the bedroom while poor Nellie tried to conceal his condition from the rest of the world? He did not cherish his nakedness but he detested his suit. Spread out on the bed it seemed to claim a rectitude and a uniformity that was repulsively unlike his nature. Did he want to go to the party in a fig leaf, a tiger skin, nothing at all? Something like that.
Nailles thought about his mother. He had visited her on Tuesday night. "Are you feeling any better, Mother," he had asked. "Would you like Tony to come and see you. Is there anything I can get you." She had not replied for nearly a month. Then from some part of his mind, deeper than memory, he heard singing:
The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow,
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow."
Dressed, Nailles began to look for his wallet. It would be in the jacket pocket of the suit he had worn that afternoon. When he reached into the pocket he found it empty. The empty pocket seemed mysteriously portentous, as if he had asked some grave questions about pain and death and had got no answer; had been told there was none.
He could see against the clear afterglow in the northwest clouds of black smoke rising from the ghetto on the riverbanks. The wind was from the south, and if there had been any shooting he would not have heard it.
Tony Nailles, who would direct traffic, came over the lawn with a flashlight. "Hi Tony," said Lewellen. "You want a drink?" "I'd like a beer," Tony said. "There isn't any beer," said Lewellen, "why don't you have a gin and tonic?" As Tony went over to one of the two bars, a car came up the drive and stopped on the lawn. It was the Wickwires. They were, as always, impeccably dressed and incandescently charming but he wore dark glasses and had a piece of court plaster over one eye. "What a divine idea to have a tent," she exclaimed. She was in a wheelchair.
Nailles, stepping into the bathroom, found Nellie naked and took her in his arms. "If we're going to do it," Nellie said, "let's do it before I take my bath." They did. Then Nailles prepared to dress. Nellie had put his clothes on the bed and, standing naked above them, Nailles felt a powerful reluctance to dress. Having, in his experience with trains, learned something about the mysterious polarities that moved him, he wondered what would happen if his unwillingness to dress turned into a phobia. Would he spend the rest of his life padding naked around the bedroom while poor Nellie tried to conceal his condition from the rest of the world? He did not cherish his nakedness but he detested his suit. Spread out on the bed it seemed to claim a rectitude and a uniformity that was repulsively unlike his nature. Did he want to go to the party in a fig leaf, a tiger skin, nothing at all? Something like that.
Nailles thought about his mother. He had visited her on Tuesday night. "Are you feeling any better, Mother," he had asked. "Would you like Tony to come and see you. Is there anything I can get you." She had not replied for nearly a month. Then from some part of his mind, deeper than memory, he heard singing:
The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow,
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow."
Dressed, Nailles began to look for his wallet. It would be in the jacket pocket of the suit he had worn that afternoon. When he reached into the pocket he found it empty. The empty pocket seemed mysteriously portentous, as if he had asked some grave questions about pain and death and had got no answer; had been told there was none.