"Esther M. Friesner - Chestnut Street" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

they react? Every mother's heart chilled at the thought of hysterically
shrieking little ones, mentally scarred for life by sight of the grisly visitor.

Every mother's inner imp whispered that a more likely scenario was the kids
deciding en masse that the skeleton was A: A cinematic special effect; B: Way
cool; C: Late. Halloween was yesterday.

The unpredictable reactions of children aside, there were more practical matters
to consider: The cab was blocking the road. The school bus would never be able
to get past it to make its roundabout turn in the circle at the end of Chestnut
Street.

Mrs. Corinne Halpern had one of the houses on the circle and a little girl in
third grade. She never even allowed Emily to watch the Mighty Morphin' Power
Rangers for fear of nightmares, so she was definitely opposed to the child
seeing this ambulatory boneyard. She took a deep breath, anchored her upper
teeth to her lower lip -- the better to strengthen her resolve -- and marched
right up to the driver's side of the cab.

"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to --" she began. And that was all she did.
She never finished. There was no driver, though a set of assorted keys was
lodged firmly in the ignition, with a red-dyed rabbit'sfoot dangling from the
chain. On the dashboard was one of those crownshaped air fresheners (which Miss
Pennington thought looked darling, but which Miss Talmadge had flatly banned
from their Buick sedan, insisting that the item was the trademark of the Latin
Kings and was death or worse for anyone not of the gang to display). On the seat
was a beaded wooden cover supposed to grant the driver relief from backache and
buttnumb. The rest was silence.

Mrs. Halpern gave a little mew of distress over her discovery and dashed back
into her house, slamming the door behind her. Emily would have to grow up some
day.

For some reason, Mrs. Halpern's aborted sally into heroism became the galvanic
inspiration for her neighbors. Mr. Budd laid down his rake, Mrs. Starrett set
aside her shears and struggled up from her knees from her place among the mums,
the Kittredges linked hands more adamantly than they had that long-ago evening
when they had gone to tell her father that yes they were getting married now.
All up and down Chestnut Street, the forces of neighborhood solidarity converged
on the skeleton and the cab. Several people brought out their cellular phones
with 911 keyed into the autodial, just in case.

They formed a sort of human amoeba around the interloper, leaving a nice big
breathing space between themselves and the bones. The skeleton surveyed the
crowd first from left to right, then right to left. It took a few steps forward,
away from the cab. Its feet clinked and scraped on the pavement like windchimes
still stuck in the shipping box. Those people most directly in its path took a
corresponding number of steps backwards. The skeleton stood still, arms at its
sides, waiting.