JК
Something Happened :: Хеллер Джозеф
Страница: 390 из 398Yesterday I looked outthe window of a bus and thought I saw Charlie Chaplin strolling along the avenue and believed I knew him. It wasn't Charlie Chaplin and I didn't know him.
My memory may be starting to fail me. I have trouble with names now and with keeping in correct order the digits of telephone numbers that have long been familiar to me. Pairs of digits from other telephone numbers push their way in. After all these years, I am not always certain anymore whether the seven-seven belongs in the first segment of Penny's phone number and the eight-seven in the latter or vice versa. I don't know every time if Red Parker's phone number is two-eight-o-two or two-o-eight-two. I do know Penny is pregnant again — not by me. I have given her money for the abortion. She will insist on paying me back when she's saved enough from the money she receives monthly from her parents in Wilmington. It used to be that every cocktail waitress I ran into had one divorce and two children who lived outside the city with the girl's mother. Now they've had two abortions. College students and young models, secretaries, stewardesses, and acting students have had one. Graduate students may have two, depending on their field of study. Jane is gone, along with the entire Art Department. (It was unprofitable.)
"Call me," I asked her. "As soon as you're settled. Or even before."
She did. When she called, I said I was busy and would call her back. I haven't. Sometimes when I'm asleep, I try to wake up and can't. Sleep has me in its grip, and that is my dream.
I am trying to get my affairs in order. I have written a list.
"Listen," I say to my wife one day in a quietly decisive manner. "We're going to have to sit down together soon and do some serious thinking about Derek. We're not going to be able to keep him forever, you know."
"I don't want to talk about it."
Neither do I.
I think I'm in terrible trouble. I think I've committed a crime. The victims have always been children.
"Are you angry with me?" I inquire of my boy with an appraising smile, in a voice I keep as bland as possible.
"No. I'm not angry."
A flicker of some kind has crossed his face. My question is disturbing him. I'm almost afraid to go on.
"You don't talk to me much anymore."
"I talk." He shrugs. "I'm talking now." He wiggles with unease, a downcast mood darkening his features. He will not look at me.
"Not as much as you used to. You're always in your room."
He shrugs again. "I like it there.
My memory may be starting to fail me. I have trouble with names now and with keeping in correct order the digits of telephone numbers that have long been familiar to me. Pairs of digits from other telephone numbers push their way in. After all these years, I am not always certain anymore whether the seven-seven belongs in the first segment of Penny's phone number and the eight-seven in the latter or vice versa. I don't know every time if Red Parker's phone number is two-eight-o-two or two-o-eight-two. I do know Penny is pregnant again — not by me. I have given her money for the abortion. She will insist on paying me back when she's saved enough from the money she receives monthly from her parents in Wilmington. It used to be that every cocktail waitress I ran into had one divorce and two children who lived outside the city with the girl's mother. Now they've had two abortions. College students and young models, secretaries, stewardesses, and acting students have had one. Graduate students may have two, depending on their field of study. Jane is gone, along with the entire Art Department. (It was unprofitable.)
"Call me," I asked her. "As soon as you're settled. Or even before."
She did. When she called, I said I was busy and would call her back. I haven't. Sometimes when I'm asleep, I try to wake up and can't. Sleep has me in its grip, and that is my dream.
I am trying to get my affairs in order. I have written a list.
"Listen," I say to my wife one day in a quietly decisive manner. "We're going to have to sit down together soon and do some serious thinking about Derek. We're not going to be able to keep him forever, you know."
"I don't want to talk about it."
Neither do I.
I think I'm in terrible trouble. I think I've committed a crime. The victims have always been children.
"Are you angry with me?" I inquire of my boy with an appraising smile, in a voice I keep as bland as possible.
"No. I'm not angry."
A flicker of some kind has crossed his face. My question is disturbing him. I'm almost afraid to go on.
"You don't talk to me much anymore."
"I talk." He shrugs. "I'm talking now." He wiggles with unease, a downcast mood darkening his features. He will not look at me.
"Not as much as you used to. You're always in your room."
He shrugs again. "I like it there.