"James Patrick Kelly - Don't Stop" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

hour.
Lisa believed that Crispin was an angel right through fourth grade, even though
he didn’t really act the part. He never once glowed with divine glory like the angels in
pictures. He certainly didn’t have wings. And he would never come into St. Brigit’s.
He’d lurk just outside the double arched doors when Lisa and her mother went to
Mass on Sunday. You’d think a guardian angel would want to get closer to God.
But then what kind of cruel God would curse a little girl with an angel only she could
see? Eventually Lisa came to envy Crispin out there, drinking in the sweet blue sky
while she was trapped in the flicker of candles and the prayerful gloom and her
mother’s widowed melancholy.
Not long after that she saw her first dead person. Mrs. Grapelli had lived three
houses down from the Schoonovers on Bank Street.
Lisa tries to run year round but bad weather sometimes defeats her best
intentions. Running in the rain makes her shoes feel like concrete blocks. She missed
this morning’s workout because of the storm. But skies are clearing now and she
can dodge any leftover puddles. The late afternoon sun rides her shoulders as she
starts along the Squamscott River at an easy nine-minute-mile pace. The change in
weather has brought more than the usual traffic onto the path that the Conservation
Commission paved over the old railroad right-of-way: Anne What’s-Her-Name in
chartreuse and pink nylon, firm of muscle and purpose, pushing her baby in a
stroller; that pop-eyed man who bought the McCrillises’ overpriced McMansion;
Helen Barone, the girls’ soccer coach at Tuck Academy, who was killed by a drunk
driver over in Barnstead; ancient Hiram Foster in tatty sweatpants, rerunning the
track meets of his youth; some little boys who are chasing each other just because
it’s Tuesday. As she jogs past a pair of high-school girls in spandex shorts and
halter-tops, one of them staggers and then doubles over as if she’s been punched.
Alarmed, Lisa turns and jogs in place to see if she’s all right. But the girl isn’t hurt;
she’s laughing. “What?” says her companion, giggling. “What?” But Lisa knows:
they’re laughing at her because they’re young and sleek and oblivious and she’s
forty-two and stringy and the town headcase who sees far too much, including dead
people. Of course, Matt would probably say that she’s just being paranoid. Matt
always sounds so reasonable, even when he’s wrong. For instance, he wants her to
move in with him, even though he refuses to believe in Crispin. But Lisa knows that
Matt cares for her. He’s trying to understand, even though he probably never will.
 Crispin slips past the girls, although of course they have no way of knowing
that. He prefers to stay behind her, Crispin does. Doesn’t like to catch up.
The path ends at the Squamscott Bridge and she pulls up at the light on Route
23, marking time while she waits for it to change. Her Trances pad against the
sidewalk and she takes stock of herself. Her left calf is still a little tight but it’s not a
problem. Her cheeks are hot and she can feel blood shouting in her ears. She
breathes deeply against the stretch of her sports bra. She is aroused by today’s run;
it’s been happening a lot lately. Lisa thinks about what it would be like if she were
going home to Matt’s condo instead of her mother’s house. She imagines him
inviting her to his bed. Their bed. No babe, he says, don’t bother with a shower.
She breathes. I love the way you smell. He breathes. We’ll take one together. His
voice is like a feather tickling her ear. Afterward. She grins and traces his lips with
her forefinger. They kiss, their breath mingling. The buttons of his shirt yield to her
touch and she slides her hand through the hair on his chest. He eases her nylon
shorts around her hips. They slither down her legs and catch at her ankles.
The light changes.