"deLuca, Sandy - The Hunter's Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Deluca Sandy)

The Hunter's Moon
by
Sandy deLuca

So you want to know how it all started?
I’m crashing from the speed—still confused about what went down.
I see their faces gray and filled with terror. Death hovers close by.
I hallucinate a lot these days.
Pour me another cup of that coffee—please.
Do I have to wear these handcuffs? I’m not going to run away. You’re two big strong cops and I only weigh about a hundred and ten pounds.
Fine, have it your way.
Could you just put another lump of sugar in my cup? Stir it real good.
I’ll talk now—even if you can’t promise to let me see Andra before you lock me up again.
*
In some ways Andra and me were like most other girls our age. We liked pretty clothes, foxy guys and going out dancing. But our childhoods were different. Not like normal kids.
Dysfunctional. That’s what the shrinks call it.
Andra’s Dad was in prison. Life. For killing her mother.
Her mom liked to fool around. She was pretty—like Andra—and guys crowded around her like pathetic dogs. She particularly liked this gas station attendant over at Elmwood Full Service.
Andra and me used to take the shortcut home from school and we’d see them making out in his car, parked in back of the garage.
It was always the same: Bare legs wrapped tight around the kid’s back, hands tugging at his hair, head thrown back. Ruby lipstick smeared on her chin, sweat dripping from red curls.
Andra’s mother saw us once. She peered at us through slitted eyes—like Mrs. Altieri’s cat when she watched the birds out on the lawn.
A look of sheer happiness passed over her face at that moment, like she was thrilled that her daughter had caught her cheating. Like she was saying, "See, I am a woman, not the piece of trash your father makes me out to be."
Andra didn’t say much about the incident, but not long after that she started giving out to some of the older guys at the high school.
Andra was twelve the first time she got laid.
Before long love in the back seat of an old Lincoln wasn’t enough for Andra’s mom. She started taking the kid home.
Andra’s Dad found them in bed one afternoon when he came home early from work. He carried around a 38 Special. He shot them both before they knew he’d seen them.
Andra didn’t cry.
After that her grandmother took her in. The old lady liked to drink and never really noticed what Andra did or where she went.
My dad had a drinking problem too. It got worst after he hurt his back at the textile mill.
My Mom left him when I was thirteen. She was a waitress next to the hotel downtown. Some guy who came from New York City promised her a better life in Manhattan.
She left with him on Christmas day.
She never said goodbye to me.
She called my Dad one night in March, said the guy had beat her because she wasn’t taking in as much money as the other girls.
She called every night for a whole week, begging to come home. My Dad sent her half his disability check for the bus and some food.
Mom never made it home.
About a month later Dad said they found her body floating in the East River.
I asked if I could have the gold ring she’d left behind. Dad slapped me, then scooped up all the whiskey bottles in the cupboard. He didn’t come out of his room for three days.
Dysfunctional.
Andra and I liked to go to the clubs. We practically lived at them. We didn’t have wheels and we had to bum rides.
We called ourselves hunters right from the start—girls on the prowl, looking for a good time.
We weren’t scared of much.
Andra tucked a switchblade in her boot.
I stole my Dad’s old Colt. You must have found it in my bag when you went through my stuff.
Dad never noticed the gun was gone.
I guess you found the pot too. Is possession still a misdemeanor? I guess it doesn’t matter under the circumstances.
*
Andra and I had jobs at the Outlet Company in Providence. We worked the day shift, except for Thursday when the store stayed opened late. That’s when we had to go in from one to nine. Every other night we were free to party.
I worked in the junior department. It was easy to steal when my supervisor was at lunch. Andra and I had the funkiest outfits and we never spent a dime.
We’d primp and change outfits until we were satisfied with the way we looked. Then we’d make our way to the street, knowing that the guys hanging out at the pool hall were checking us out. And dirty old Mr. Renfield next door was peeking at us through the blinds.
We felt like movie stars—beautiful, skinny, dressed in slinky shorts with matching halters or low-cut dresses with bare backs.