"Michael Flynn - Melodies of the Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flynn Michael)

Carter were throwing a party.
That damned old woman. Damn all of them. Shambling, crackling,
brittle, dried-out old husks, clinging fingernail-tight to what was left of
life. . . .
I jammed my hands in my pockets and stood there. For how long, I do
not know. It might have been five minutes or half an hour. Finally the light
on the second floor went out. Then I turned back to the house and
reentered through the garage. The right-hand stall was still empty.
 Consuela sat at the kitchen table near the French doors, cradling a
ceramic mug shaped like an Olmec head. Half the live-in nurses in the
country are Latin; and half of those are named Consuela. The odor of
cocoa filled the room, and the steam from the cup wreathed her broad, flat
face, lending it a sheen. More Indio than Lodino, her complexion
contrasted starkly with her nurse's whites. Her jet-black hair was pulled
severely back, and was held in place with a plain, wooden pin.
"Good evening, Nurse," I said. "Is Dee-dee down for the night?"
"Yes, Doctor. She is."
I glanced up at the ceiling. "I usually tuck her in."
She gave me an odd look. "Yes, you do."
"Well. I was running a little late today. Did she miss me?"
Consuela looked through the French doors at the back yard. "She did."
"I'll make it up to her tomorrow."
She nodded. "I'm sure she would like that."
I shed my coat and carried it to the hall closet. A dim night light glowed
at the top of the stairwell. "Has Mrs. Wilkes called?"
"An hour ago." Consuela's voice drifted down the hallway from the
kitchen. "She has a big case to prepare for tomorrow. She will be late."
I hung the coat on the closet rack and stood quietly still for a moment
before closing the door. Another big case. I studied the stairs to the upper
floor. Brenda had begun getting the big cases when Deirdre was eighteen
months and alopecia had set in. Brenda never tucked Dee-dee into bed
after that.
Consuela was washing her cup at the sink when I returned to the
kitchen. She was short and dark and stocky. Not quite chubby, but with a
roundness that scorned New York and Paris fashion. I rummaged in the
freezer for a frozen dinner. Brenda had picked Consuela from among a
dozen applicants. Brenda was tall and thin and blonde.
I put the dinner in the microwave and started the radiation. "I met an
interesting woman today," I said.
Consuela dried her cup and hung it on the rack. "All women are
interesting," she said.
"This one hears music in her head." I saw how that piqued her interest.
"We all do," she said, half-turned to go.
 I carried my microwaved meal and sat at the table. "Not like this. Not
like hearing a radio at top volume."
She hesitated a moment longer; then she shrugged and sat across the
table from me. "Tell me of this woman."
I moved the macaroni and cheese around on my plate. "I spoke with Dr.
Wing over the car phone. He believes it may be a case of 'incontinent
nostalgia,' or Jackson's Syndrome."