"David Eddings - Losers, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eddings David)

And so autumn ground drearily on with dripping skies and the now-bare trees glistening wet and black in the rain. Isabel grew increasingly waspish, and finally announced that she was leaving for a few weeks. "I've got to get some sun," she said. "This rain's driving me up the wall."

"Where are you going?" Raphael asked her.

"Phoenix maybe. Vegas-I don't know. I haven't decided yet. I've got to get away from the rain for a while."

There was nothing he could say. He knew he had no real hold on her, and he even welcomed the idea in a way. His visits had become almost a duty, and he had begun to resent her unspoken demands upon him.

After he had seen her off at the airport outside Portland, he walked back to his car almost with the sense of having been liberated.

On his first weekend date with Marilyn he felt vaguely guilty-almost like an unfaithful husband. The weekends had always belonged to Isabel. He had not been entirely honest with Marilyn about those weekends. It was not that he had lied, exactly; rather, he had let her believe that Isabel was elderly, an old friend of his family, and that his weekly visits were in the nature of an obligation.

After the movie they drove to their special spot in the country and began the customary grappling. Perhaps because the weekends had always been denied to her and this evening was somehow stolen and therefore illicit, Marilyn responded to his caresses with unusual passion, shuddering and writhing under his hands. Finally she pulled free of him for an instant, looked at him, and spoke quite simply. "Let's," she said, her voice thick and vibrant.

And so they did.

It was awkward, since they were both quite tall, and the steering wheel was horribly in the way, but they managed.

And afterward she cried. He comforted her as best he could and later drove her home, feeling more than a little ashamed of himself. There had been some fairly convincing evidence that, until that night, Marilyn had been one of the girls one would normally take to a school dance.

The next time they used the backseat. It was more satisfactory, and this time she did not cry. Raphael, however, was still a bit ashamed and wished they had not done it. Something rather special seemed to have been lost, and he regretted it.

After several weeks Isabel returned, her fair skin slightly tanned and her temper improved.

Flood accompanied Raphael to the lake on the first weekend, his eyes bright and a knowing smile on his face.

Raphael was moody and stalked around the house, stopping now and then to stare out at the rain, and drinking more than was usual for him. It was time, he decided, to break off the affair with Isabel. She was too wise for him, too experienced, and in a way he blamed her for having planted that evil seed that had grown to its full flower that night in the front seat of his car. If it had not been for her insinuating suggestions, his relationship with Marilyn might still be relatively innocent. Beyond that, she repelled him now. Her overripe figure seemed to have taken on a faint tinge of rottenness, and the smooth sophistication that had attracted him at first seemed instead to be depravity now-even degeneracy. He continued to drink, hoping to incapacitate himself and thus avoid that inevitable and now-disgusting conclusion of the evening.

"Our Angel has fallen, I'm afraid," Flood said after dinner when they were all sitting in front of the crackling fireplace.

"Why don't you mind your own business, Damon?" Raphael said, his words slurring.

"Has he been naughty?" Isabel asked, amused.

"Repeatedly. He's been coming in with claw marks on his back from shoulder to hip."

"Why don't you keep your goddamn mouth shut?" Raphael snapped.

"Be nice, dear," Isabel chided him, "and don't try to get muscular. My furniture's too expensive for that sort of foolishness."

"I just want him to keep his mouth shut, that's all." Raphael's words sounded mushy even to him.

"All right then. You tell me. Was it that girl?"

He glared sulkily into the fireplace.

"This won't be much of a conversation if you won't talk to me. Did she really scratch you, Angel? Let me see." She came across the room to him and tugged at his 'shirt.

"Lay off, 'Bel," he warned; pushing her hands away. "I'm not in the mood for any of that."