"Steven Gould - Jumper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)

the bedside table. He snored on, oblivious. I took his pants off then, pulling the legs alternately to
work them past his butt. They came free abruptly and his wallet fell from the back pocket. I hung the
pants over the back of a chair, then went through the wallet.

He had eighty bucks plus his plastic. I took three twenties, then started to put it on the dresser,
but stopped. When I folded the wallet, it seemed stiffer than it should, and thicker. I looked closer.
There was a hidden compartment covered by a flap with fake stitching. I got it open and nearly
dropped the wallet. It was full of hundred-dollar bills.

I turned the light off and carried the wallet back to my room, where I counted twenty-two crisp
hundred-dollar bills onto the bed.

I stared down at the money, four rows of five, one row of two, my eyes wide. My ears were
burning and my stomach suddenly hurt. I went back to Dad's room and stared at him for a while.

This was the man who took me to the mission and the secondhand stores to buy clothes for
school. This was the man who made me take peanut butter and jelly to school every day rather than
part with a crummy ninety cents' worth of lunch money. This was the man who beat me when I'd
suggested an allowance for doing the yard work.

I picked up the empty scotch bottle and hefted it, shifted my grip to the neck. It was cold,
smooth, and just the right size for my small hands. The glass didn't slip or shift as I swung it
experimentally. The glass at the base of the bottle was extra thick where the manufacturer had chosen
to give the impression of a bigger bottle. It looked very strong.

Dad snored away, his mouth open, his face slack. His skin, pale normally, looked white as
paper in the overhead light. His forehead, receding, domed, lined, looked egglike, white, fragile. I felt
the base of the bottle with my left hand. It felt more than heavy enough.

Shit.

I put the bottle back down on the table, turned off the light, and went back to my room.

I took notebook paper, cut it dollar-bill-size, and stacked it until it felt as thick as the pile of
hundreds. It took twenty sheets to match the stiffness of the money—maybe it was thicker or just
newer. I put the cut paper in the wallet and put it back in the pocket of his slacks.

Then I went to the garage and took down the old leather suitcase, the one Granddad gave me
when he retired, and packed it with my clothes, toiletries, and the leather-bound set of Mark Twain
that Mom left me.

After I'd closed the suitcase, stripped off my dirty clothes, and put on my suit, I just stood
looking around the room, swaying on my feet. If I didn't start moving soon, I'd drop.

There was something else, something I could use....

I thought of the kitchen, only thirty feet away, down the hall and across the den. Before Mom
left, I'd loved to sit in there while she cooked, just talking, telling her stupid jokes. I closed my eyes
and pictured it, tried to feel it.