"Knight, Damon - Special Delivery" - читать интересную книгу автора (Knight Damon)

High-school teachers without seniority weren't supposed to be married. Or graduate physics students, for that matter.
He mixed two stiff highballs and carried them back into the living room. "Here you are. Skoal."
"Ah," she said appreciatively. "That tastes -- Ugh." She set the glass down and stared at it with her mouth half open.
"What's the matter now?"
She turned her head carefully, as if she were afraid it would come off. "Len, I don't know. Mama."
"That's the second time you've said that. What is this all -- "
"Said what?"
"Mama. Look, kid, if you're -- "
"I didn't." She looked a little feverish.
"Sure you did," said Len reasonably. "Once when you were looking at the baby book, and then again just now, after you said ugh to the highball. Speaking of which -- "
"Mama drink milk," said Moira, speaking with exaggerated clarity. Moira hated milk. Len swallowed half his highball, turned and went silently into the kitchen.
When he came back with the milk, Moira looked at it as if it contained a snake. "Len, I didn't say that."
"Okay."
"I didn't. I didn't say mama and I didn't say that about the milk." Her voice quavered. "And I didn't laugh at you when you fell down."
"It was somebody else."
"It was." She looked down at her gingham-covered bulge. "You won't believe me. Put your hand there. A little lower."
Under the cloth her flesh was warm and solid against his palm. "Kicks?" he inquired.
"Not yet. Now," she said in a strained voice. "You in there. If you want your milk, kick three times."
Len opened his mouth and shut it again. Under his hand there were three squirming thrusts, one after the other.
Moira closed her eyes, held her breath and drank the milk down in one long horrid gulp.

"Once in a great while," Moira read, "cell cleavage will not have followed the orderly pattern that produces a normal baby. In these rare cases some parts of the body will develop excessively, while others do not develop at all. This disorderly cell growth, which is strikingly similar to the wild cell growth that we know as cancer -- " Her shoulders moved convulsively. "Bluh."
"Why do you keep reading that stuff if it makes you feel that way?"
"I have to," she said absently. She picked up another book from the stack. "There's a page missing."
Len attacked the last of his egg in a noncommittal manner. "Wonder it's held together this long," he said. This was perfectly just; the book had had something spilled on it, partially dissolving the glue, and was in an advanced state of anarchy; however the fact was that Len had tom out the page in question four nights ago, after reading it carefully: the topic was "Psychoses in Pregnancy."
Moira had now decided that the baby was male, that his name was Leonardo (not referring to Len but to da Vinci), that he had informed her of these things along with a good many others, that he was keeping her from her favorite foods and making her eat things she detested, like liver and tripe, and that she had to read books of his choice all day long in order to keep him from kicking her in the bladder.
It was miserably hot; Commencement was only two weeks away, Len's students were fish-eyed and galvanic by turns. Then there was the matter of his contract for next year, and the possible opening at Oster High, which would mean more money, and the Parent-Teacher's thing tonight at which Superintendent Greer and his wife would be regally present....
Moira was knee-deep in Volume I of Der Untergang des Abendlandes, moving her lips; an occasional guttural escaped her.
Len cleared his throat. "Moy?"
"...und also des tragischen -- what in God's name he means by that -- What, Len?"
He made an irritated noise. "Why not try the English edition?"
"Leo wants to learn German. What were you going to say?"
Len closed his eyes for a moment. "About this PTA business -- you sure you want to go?"
"Well, of course. it's pretty important, isn't it? Unless you think I look too sloppy -- "
"No. No, damn it. But are you feeling up to it?"
There were faint violet crescents under Moira's eyes; she had been sleeping badly. "Sure," she said.
"All right. And you'll go see the sawbones tomorrow."
"I said I would."
"And you won't say anything about Leo to Mrs. Greer or anybody -- "
She looked slightly embarrassed. "No. Not till he's born, I think, don't you? It would be an awful hard thing to prove -- you wouldn't even have believed me if you hadn't felt him kick."
This experiment had not been repeated, though Len had asked often enough; all little Leo had wanted, Moira said, was to establish communication with his mother -- he didn't seem to be really interested in Len at all. "Too young," she explained.
And still... Len recalled the frogs his biology class had dissected last semester. One of them had had two hearts. This disorderly cell growth... like a cancer. Unpredictable: extra fingers or toes -- or a double helping of cortex?
"And I'll burp like a lady, if at all," Moira said cheerfully.

When the Conningtons arrived, the room was empty except for the ladies of the committee, two nervously smiling male teachers and the impressive bulk of Superintendent Greer. Card-table legs skreeked on the bare floor; the air was heavy with wood polish and musk.
Greer advanced, beaming fixedly. "Well, isn't this nice. How are you young folks this warm evening?"
"Oh, we thought we'd be earlier, Mr. Greer," said Moira with pretty vexation. She looked surprisingly schoolgirlish and chic; the lump that was Leo was hardly noticeable unless you caught her in profile. "I'll go right now and help the ladies. There must be something I can still do."
"No, now, we won't hear of it. But I'll tell you what you can do -- you can go right over there and say hello to Mrs. Greer. I know she's dying to sit down and have a good chat with you. Go ahead now -- don't worry about this husband of yours; I'll take care of him."
Moira receded into a scattering of small shrieks of pleasure, at least half of them arcing across a gap of mutual dislike.
Greer, exhibiting perfect dentures, exhaled Listerine. His pink skin looked not only scrubbed but disinfected; his gold-rimmed glasses belonged in an optometrist's window, and his tropical suit had obviously come straight from the cleaner's. It was impossible to think of Greer unshaven, Greer smoking a cigar, Greer with a smudge of axle grease on his forehead, or Greer making love to his wife.