"Alan Dean Foster - To The Vanishing Point" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

ears via the tiny wire that connected earphones and Walkman.
Though he would never have said so among peers, Frank didn't consider
his daughter's musical taste all that bad. It wasn't so very different from
what he'd been chastised for listening to when he was her age. But it was one
thing to appreciate, another to be addicted. Wendy only removed the damn
earphones to bathe and to sleep, and he wasn't sure about the latter.
Fascinating sights were whizzing past outside the motor home and the only time
his daughter opened her eyes was to change tapes.
Even when she paused briefly between concerts it was difficult to get
her to pay attention to the country they were passing through. Worse, she was
just old and smart enough to come up with a new word each week to describe her
father. The current pejorative-of-the-month was "droll." As in his telling her
plaintively, "Why don't you watch some of this scenery? Why the hell do you
think I took off the extra time and shelled out the extra bucks to rent this
palace on wheels so we could drive and look and learn instead of flying?" And
her rolling her eyes and replying, "Oh, Daddy. How droll."
He would have welcomed the comment from Steven, who was ten. He would
have welcomed anything from Steven, so long as it didn't sound like a whine.
His son was two years too old to still be a whiner. Overweight, unattractive,
he only displayed enthusiasm when they drew near the next Burger King or
McDonald's or Carl's Junior. Anything but a Wendy's, because that was the name
of his despised, contemptuous older sister.
Frank settled back into the thickly padded seat. Two junkies he was
raising. One addicted to indecipherable music, the other to junk food. He
glanced to his right, and his expression softened. God knew Alicia tried her
best. The children were just going through a phase, she would assure him. That
was her favorite line and she clung to it like a talisman, reciting it like a
prayer. Just going through a phase. No matter what the problem was, it was
just a phase. Heavy metal, it's just a phase. Overeating, a phase. Cats and
dogs phasing out now. Scarred bass guitarists and Big Macs phasing in.
He was being too hard on himself, he knew. His kids could be worse.
Steven might grow out of his gluttony, and at least Wendy wasn't into drugs.
Not so far as he knew.
Alicia still had that glow. She'd never been truly beautiful, but there
was a serenity about her he'd always found attractive. The maid helped
maintain that aura, as did the money. She'd been much more hyper when they'd
met. Success bred in contentment, bred out her early nervousness and
uncertainty. They enjoyed each other's company, and that was more important
than superficial physical attractiveness. Besides, he was no Cary Grant
himself.
She'd been ambivalent about this project all along, but she'd agreed to
renting the motor home and driving to Vegas instead of flying as usual because
he'd been so enthusiastic. He knew she'd done it for that reason and not
because she thought it was the right way to go. The warm feeling prompted him
to reach over with his right hand and pat her thigh. She looked back and
smiled that familiar half-certain smile of hers.
"Love you, too."
He returned his attention to the empty highway ahead. The big engine
sang to itself beneath the hood. The outside thermometer read ninety-eight and
rising. Other vehicles, even eighteen-wheelers, were scarce this morning.