"Ballingrud-SheFoundHeaven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ballingrud Nathan)

Um . . . is anybody there? Um . . .

Beep!

Is anybody there? Um, my name's Paul, and am . . . do you still have the Heaven?
It might belong to More, 'cause she's crying all the time now, and I'm pretty
sure if she had it she'd stop. She doesn't know I'm calling you, so don't tell
her. She might get mad. Right now she's at the store, um, buying something to
drink, so it's okay ff I talk for right now, only don't tell her. I think my dad
stole the Heaven, and he prob'ly just threw it out the window of his truck,
'cause that's what he does with all his trash. More says he's a polluter. Ever
since he left all she does is cry, though, and she won't even talk to me
anymore, so I think if she could have it back everything would be okay again. It
was hers anyway, Dad shouldn't a taken it, but he does stuff like that
sometimes. Um . . . if you could bring it over sometime today, that would be
good. Um . . . bye.

Sally lay naked atop the sheets of her bed, staring at the ceiling. It was
night, and it was hot.

There had been fourteen messages on her answering machine that day. She was
sweating profusely, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Sometimes it seemed as though other people were in her room, but she could not
tell who they were or how long they stayed; they remained a series of vague
recollections that dissipated under prolonged scrutiny.

The most insistent of these memories was that of a young woman sitting at her
bedside, reaching over occasionally to sprinkle Cold water onto her forehead.
She was dressed oddly, in long brown rags and white cloth, and she smelled
vaguely of manure, but she had a kind, radiant face, and her smile was
beautiful. As the woman leaned over her, Sally detected a silvery shine to her
cheeks, but she did not know if these were tears or the light of the moon
reflecting from her face.

At some point in the night Sally arose from her bed and walked to the small
window tucked away above her bureau, and she looked out at the city sprawling
below her. It blazed hotly in the darkness, but with a different kind of light
than she expected; it was possessed of a frantic radiance that suggested fevers
or great holes punched through the crust of the earth. And as she looked more
closely, pressing her forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane, she saw
that these were not city lights at all, but a long, winding procession of
torches, each held aloft by a stumbling bearer, tracing a crooked path through
the rain.

"Westlake Rest Home."

"Yes, I'd like to speak to Ruth Landis, if I may."