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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 24 из 160“Just-makes it seem like a good idea?”
“Have you ever wanted to kill something else? Something bigger than a dog?”
I try to answer but there is something in my throat. I clear it. “Yes,” I say.
“A person?”
“Nobody in particular, Dad. Just-” I shrug again.
“Why didn't you?”
“It's-I thought you wouldn't like it. You and Mom.”
“That's all that stopped you?”
“I, uh-I didn't want you, um, mad at me. Uh… you know. Disappointed.”
I steal a glance at Harry. He is looking at me, not blinking. “Is that why we took this trip, Dad? To talk about this?”
“Yes,” Harry says. “We need to get you squared away.”
Squared away, oh yes, a completely Harry idea of how life is lived, with hospital corners and polished shoes. And even then I knew; needing to kill something every now and then would pretty much sooner or later get in the way of being squared away.
“How?” I say, and he looks at me long and hard, and then he nods when he sees that I am with him step for step.
“Good boy,” he says. “Now.” And in spite of saying now, it is a very long time before he speaks again. I watch the lights on a boat as it goes past, maybe two hundred yards out from our little beach. Over the sound of their motor a radio is blasting Cuban music. “Now,” Harry says again, and I look at him. But he is looking away, across the dying fire, off into the future over there somewhere. “It's like this,” he says. I listen carefully. This is what Harry says when he is giving you a higher-order truth. When he showed me how to throw a curve ball, and how to throw a left hook. It's like this , he would say, and it always was, just like that.
“I'm getting old, Dexter.” He waited for me to object, but I didn't, and he nodded. “I think people understand things different when they get older,” he says. “It's not a question of getting soft, or seeing things in the gray areas instead of black and white. I really believe I'm just understanding things different. Better.” He looks at me, Harry's look, Tough Love with blue eyes.
“Okay,” I say.
“Ten years ago I would have wanted you in an institution somewhere,” he says, and I blink. That almost hurts, except I've thought of it myself. “Now,” he says, “I think I know better. I know what you are, and I know you're a good kid.”
“No,” I say, and it comes out very soft and weak, but Harry hears.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “You're a good kid, Dex, I know that.
“Have you ever wanted to kill something else? Something bigger than a dog?”
I try to answer but there is something in my throat. I clear it. “Yes,” I say.
“A person?”
“Nobody in particular, Dad. Just-” I shrug again.
“Why didn't you?”
“It's-I thought you wouldn't like it. You and Mom.”
“That's all that stopped you?”
“I, uh-I didn't want you, um, mad at me. Uh… you know. Disappointed.”
I steal a glance at Harry. He is looking at me, not blinking. “Is that why we took this trip, Dad? To talk about this?”
“Yes,” Harry says. “We need to get you squared away.”
Squared away, oh yes, a completely Harry idea of how life is lived, with hospital corners and polished shoes. And even then I knew; needing to kill something every now and then would pretty much sooner or later get in the way of being squared away.
“How?” I say, and he looks at me long and hard, and then he nods when he sees that I am with him step for step.
“Good boy,” he says. “Now.” And in spite of saying now, it is a very long time before he speaks again. I watch the lights on a boat as it goes past, maybe two hundred yards out from our little beach. Over the sound of their motor a radio is blasting Cuban music. “Now,” Harry says again, and I look at him. But he is looking away, across the dying fire, off into the future over there somewhere. “It's like this,” he says. I listen carefully. This is what Harry says when he is giving you a higher-order truth. When he showed me how to throw a curve ball, and how to throw a left hook. It's like this , he would say, and it always was, just like that.
“I'm getting old, Dexter.” He waited for me to object, but I didn't, and he nodded. “I think people understand things different when they get older,” he says. “It's not a question of getting soft, or seeing things in the gray areas instead of black and white. I really believe I'm just understanding things different. Better.” He looks at me, Harry's look, Tough Love with blue eyes.
“Okay,” I say.
“Ten years ago I would have wanted you in an institution somewhere,” he says, and I blink. That almost hurts, except I've thought of it myself. “Now,” he says, “I think I know better. I know what you are, and I know you're a good kid.”
“No,” I say, and it comes out very soft and weak, but Harry hears.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “You're a good kid, Dex, I know that.