The Wallcreeper. Nell Zink

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Epigraph

       The Wallcreeper

       Also by Nell Zink

       About the Author

       About the Publisher

Epigraph

      I kill where I please because it is all mine.

      —Ted Hughes

The Wallcreeper

      I was looking at the map when Stephen swerved, hit the rock, and occasioned the miscarriage. Immediately obvious was my sticky forehead. Maybe I was unconscious for a couple of seconds, I don’t know. Eventually I saw Stephen poking around the front of the car and said, “Jesus, what was that.”

      He leaned in at the window and said, “Hey, you’re bleeding. Hold on a second.” He crossed behind the car, looked both ways, and retrieved the bird from the opposite ditch.

      I opened the door and put my feet outside, threw up, and lay down, not in the vomit but near it. The fir tops next to me had their roots at the bottom of a cliff.

      “Can I use this bread bag?” Stephen asked. “Tiff? Tiff?” He kneeled next to me. “That was stupid of me. I shouldn’t touch you after handling this bird. Can you hear me? Tiff?”

      He helped me into the back seat and I lay down on the bread. He said head wounds always bleed like that. I said he should have kept quiet. I lost the ability to see and began to hyperventilate a bit. The car pulled back on to the road. From the passenger seat the wallcreeper said, “Twee.”

      “Open the bag!” I cried.

      “Twee!” it said again.

      Stephen pulled over and busied himself with it for a moment. He said, “I thought it was dead. I just wanted to get it off the road. I was going to have it prepared or something, I don’t know. You should see its wings. For me it’s a lifer. It’s like the most wonderful bird. But it’s a species of least concern and actually they’re all over the place except anyplace you would normally go. I identified it even before I hit it. Tichodroma muraria! It was unmistakable, just like they said it would be. So this is great. Dead is not a tick as far as I’m concerned. I identified it before I hit it anyway. It really is unmistakable. You should see it, Tiff. I’m rambling on like this because you might have a concussion and you’re not supposed to sleep.”

      “Put on music.”

      The wallcreeper protested. “Twee!”

      I stayed awake by retching, and Stephen drove defensively but swiftly back to Interlaken.

      When I awoke—I mean the next time I was allowed a cup of coffee—Stephen steadied my hand on the mug and said, “I have a surprise for you. But it’s in the kitchen.”

      “I don’t think I can get up.”

      “Well, it can’t come in here.”

      “It will have to wait.” I slurped and he winced. I drank more quietly.

      “Twee,” said the wallcreeper.

      “You didn’t!” I laughed. But my—what am I going to call it? My down there plays a minor role in several scenes to come. It appeared to be connected to the underside of my stomach with shock cords stretched too tight. I rolled over on my side and coughed. I wasn’t pregnant, I noticed. I clenched my hands into claws and cried like a drift log in heavy surf. Stephen put his hands on my ears. Much later he told me he thought if I couldn’t hear myself I might stop. He said it reminded him of feedback mounting in an amplifier.

      Our СКАЧАТЬ