"Nicola Griffith - Song of Bullfrogs, Cry of Geese" - читать интересную книгу автора (Griffith Nicola)

clubhouse; a feast for birds and bees.

The gasoline drums were lashed down, to stop them moving around the flatbed during the drive to
Duluth. Henry untied the first and trundled it forward on its casters until it rested by the tailgate.

Inside the clubhouse the dark was hot and moist; a roach whirred when I uncoiled the hose. Back out in
the sun I blew through it to clear any other insects, and spat into the dust. I put one end in the first drum.

I always hated the first suck but this time I was lucky and avoided a mouthful of gas. We didn't speak
while the drums drained. It was an unseasonable May: over ninety degrees and humid as hell. Just
standing was tiring.

"I don't mind walking the rest," I said to Henry.

"No need." He pulled himself back up into the flatbed. More slowly this time. I didn't bother wasting my
energy telling him not to use up his trying to impress a woman who was not in the least bit interested.

Jud started up the truck then let it coast the twenty yards down the slope to the apartment building I was
using. When he cut the engine, we just sat there, listening to it tick, unwilling to step down and start the
hauling around of cases that would leave us aching and tired for a week. Jud and I had worked out a
routine long ago: I would go and get the trolley; he would unbolt the tailgate and slide out the ramp; he'd
lift cases onto the trolley; I'd trundle them into the apartment. About halfway through we'd stop for iced
tea, then swap chores and finish up.

This time, when I went to get the trolley, it was Henry who rattled the bolts on the tailgate and
manhandled the ramp down from the flatbed in a squeal of metal. I did my third of the lifting and carrying,
but it felt all wrong.

When we were done, and the cans of tuna and tomato and cat food, the sacks of flour and beans, the
packets and cases and bottles and tins were all heaped in the middle of the living room floor and we'd
bolted the tailgate back up, I invited them both into the cool apartment for iced tea. We sat. Henry wiped
his face with a bandanna and sipped.

"That's good on a dusty throat, Ms. O'Connell."

"Molly."

He nodded acknowledgement. I felt Jud watching, and waited for the inevitable. "Nice place you have
here, Molly. Jud tells me you've stayed here on your own for almost three years." It was closer to two
since Helen died, but I let that pass. "You ever had any accidents?"

"One or two, nothing I couldn't handle."

"Bet they gave you a scare. Imagine if you broke your leg or something: no phone, nobody for twenty
miles around to help. A person could die out here." His tanned face looked earnest, concerned, and his
eyes were very blue. I looked at Jud, who shrugged: he hadn't put him up to this.

"I'm safe enough," I said to Henry.

He caught my tone and didn't say anything more right away. He looked around again, searching for a