Horizon. Sophie Littlefield
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Название: Horizon
Автор: Sophie Littlefield
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежное фэнтези
isbn: 9781472073914
isbn:
Smoke didn’t even know she was there, anyway. Sun-hi said he might never come out of his coma. Zihna said his “energy was growing stronger,” but that was just the hippie way she talked all the time.
“So…what about Valerie?” Sage asked.
“What about her?” Sammi snapped, and then regretted it. She had wondered the same thing. Valerie was always trying to get close to her, asking her about her friends, Sage and Kyra and Phillip and Colton and Kalyan and Shane, offering to make snacks for them all, offering to loan her clothes that Sammi wouldn’t be caught dead in. Valerie was nice, in her boring way—but there was no way Sammi needed another mom.
“Well, Cass is kind of…way hotter than her. I mean, you know?”
“Yeah, but—” But it was still her dad. “I mean, it would be one thing if Dad wasn’t on my shit all the time about every little thing I do. His new thing? Now he doesn’t want me going off the island without telling him first. I’m like, I always tell Red or Zihna, and he says that’s not good enough. If he’s off working or whatever I have to wait until he gets back.”
“Sammi…he’s worried about you. I mean, you’re his kid.”
There was a hollowness to Sage’s voice and too late Sammi remembered the thing that made her an asshole with her friends sometimes—that she still had a parent, which was one more than most of the others here.
Sammi said she was sorry like she always did, and Sage said it didn’t matter like she always did, and they smoked for a while and then they lay down, Sage in her bed and Sammi on the floor under borrowed blankets, and after a while Sage fell asleep in the middle of talking about which actor from Before Phillip looked most like, and Sammi lay awake and tried not to think of her dad and Cass and what they were doing and the sounds they were making, and instead imagined sliding across the wooden floor on her knees like the little kids, being seven again with her mom on the sidelines clapping and saying, Go, go, Sammi-bear.
Chapter 6
“I ALREADY KNEW that,” Luddy said, taking back his guitar after Red had showed him exactly how the chord progression went. They had been among the last people in the community center, the party having wound down to the dregs, all the good food gone and most folks having wandered home with a full belly and a pleasant buzz.
The chord progression was a tricky one, and Red remembered with wistful clarity the day he’d learned it himself. He’d been crashing in a guy’s apartment in San Francisco, not too far from the Haight. Red had a little of Luddy in him back then: insecure and ambitious. He didn’t dare let on how much of a rush he got just being that close to where it all started. Hendrix, Joplin, Garcia—back in those days everyone still remembered the greats.
Red used to get up before the rest of the guys and walk over to the park with his guitar and find a bench. He’d stay a couple of hours, dicking around just for the sheer joy of it, going through the set list first for whatever dive Carmy had managed to book them into—and then he’d play his own stuff. Some of the songs were polished, as perfect as he could make them; others were just a few bars here and there, inspirations that came to him in the early hours of the morning while he lay in bed thinking and smoking after a gig.
Back then, people used to try to give him money all the time, and what the hell, Red didn’t discourage it. A “hey, man” for the guys, a wink for the ladies. He got other offers, too, and now and then he’d take one of the girls home, or if he and Carmy were sharing a room, to her place. It never meant anything. It was just part of the journey, and Red back then was always on a journey. It was in his blood, in his bones. The original ramblin’ man, that was him.
Not anymore, though. Red counted every day that he woke up in the same place, Zihna at his side, as a good day. And the kids—the girls who lived with them, the teenage boys who hung around the house—they were a kick. He taught them all guitar, just for fun. On a good day, it was pure magic. On a bad day, well, then it was still pretty good.
His favorite nights were when the girls got bored and came downstairs looking for something to do. Zihna made tea and snacks, and Red got out board games or cards, and they laughed and played until the girls got sleepy. On nights like that, it sometimes seemed like he had all the time in the world. That was an illusion, of course. Red was fifty-nine this year and well aware that he looked a decade older than that. All that hard living was catching up to him.
There was one more thing he needed to do before he was dead. He’d tried and failed more times than he could count on one hand. Still, he was biding his time. Making a move too soon would be even worse than waiting too long. And he had a feeling he’d have only one more chance.
Chapter 7
IN THE MORNING Cass woke before Ruthie. For a while she lay with her daughter tucked in the curve of her body, wrapped in her arms, watching Ruthie’s hair ruffle in the gentle current of her breath, feeling her good sure slow heartbeat and marveling for the hundredth, the thousandth time at the perfection of her eyelids. They were porcelain fair, with a single faint crease and long curved dark lashes, a tiny miracle, evidence of grace she didn’t deserve.
Her head was thickly cottoned, sharp thorns of ache punctuating the fuzz. Her stomach rolled and burned, and she had a powerful dry-lipped thirst and a faint dizziness. She eased herself out of the covers and crawled onto the carpet, then carefully stood, holding on to the small end table that served as a nightstand for support. A tremor, a shake. A sheen of sweat on her forehead, the backs of her hands.
Self-contempt as real as salt and poison on her tongue.
This morning Cass would not go to the shower house, where a primitive plumbing system had been cobbled together by Earl and his men. The women gathered there, breathing misty clouds in the morning chill, while they scrubbed their faces and brushed their teeth with split kaysev twigs. Cass couldn’t face anyone until she got her daytime mask in place.
She retraced last night’s path down to the water, keeping an eye on the ground in front of her. Not many people came here; besides the problem of the disintegrating dock, the shore sloped too gently to be good for fishing, especially when a steeper drop-off on the other side of the island meant you could practically hang a line into the water and catch bass or sturgeon. Still, there had been enough foot traffic to wear a path from which roots and jagged rocks protruded, ready to trip the inattentive.
Cass reached the water’s edge, and shuffled slowly out onto the dock. The river was wide here, the water calm and lazy; it seemed to flow more rapidly on the other side of the island where the bridge to the mainland was. She knelt at the point where it sagged, and a thin skim of water slid over the slimy wood, inches from her knees. Cass watched the water’s behavior for a moment as she lined up her things—a toothbrush, a cloth, the plastic box of baking soda that she used under her arms—and thought about how pretty it was, the way it followed a design as endless in its variety as it was inevitable. Lapping, dripping, sluicing into every crevice in the wood, every pock and hollow in the shore.
It would be so easy to slip soundlessly into the water, let it find its way into her nostrils, her eyes, her mouth, the breath bubbling out of her as she drifted slowly down into the reeds and muck.
The February-cold water would scour away the stale film left by last night’s wine, the guilt-pall from Dor’s bruising kiss.
A sound interrupted her treacherous train of thought: a crowing burbled cry carried across the water, sharp on the misty morning, sharp and close. СКАЧАТЬ