"Ward Moore - The Fellow who Married the Maxill Girl" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moore Ward)

don't you say something? My dad'll sure run you off. That's a funny kind of humming. Can you whistle?
There's a piece they got a record of in school—I can whistle the whole thing. It's called Flight of the
Bumblebee. Want to hear me? Like this … Gee, you don't need to look so miserable. I guess you just
don't like music. That's too bad. I thought when you were humming like that—the way you are now, too,
and I think it sounds real nice even if you don't like my whistle—you must like music. All us Maxills do.
My Dad can play the fiddle better than anybody …"

She told Nan later (because Nan had been the sister who had most to do with taking care of her) he
hadn't seemed just not to understand, like a Mexican or something, but acted as though he wouldn't have
caught on even if he'd known the meaning of every single word. He came close, still humming, though a
different tune if you could call it that; it was more like snatches of odd melodies. He put his hands—she
didn't notice them particularly then—very gently on her face. The touch made her feel good.

He walked with her to the house—it seemed right and natural—with his arm lightly around her shoulder.
"He don't talk," she told Nan; "he don't even whistle or sing. Just hums, sort of. Suppose Dad'll run him
off. Maybe he's hungry."

"Your face—" began Nan, then swallowed and looked from the child to him. She was in bad humor,
frowning, ready to ask what he wanted or tell him sharply to be off. "Go wash your face," she ordered
Josey, staring after her as she obediently took down the enameled basin and filled it. The muscles in
Nan's cheek relaxed. "Come in," she said to him; "there's a hot apple pie."

He stood there, humming, making no move, smiling pleasantly. Involuntarily she smiled back, though she
had been in a mood and the shock of Josey's face was still in her mind. It was hard to tell his age; he
didn't look as though he shaved, but there was no adolescent down, and his eyes had mature assurance.
She puzzled over the strangely light color; darkandhandsome had always been an indivisible word to her,
yet she thought them and the pale hair quite exciting.

"Come in," she repeated; "there's a hot apple pie."

He looked at her, at the kitchen behind her, at the unpromising acres over his shoulder. You might have
thought he'd never seen such ordinary sights before. She took his sleeve—the feel of it sent prickles
through her thumb and fingers as though she'd touched something live instead of inert, touched silk
expecting cotton, metal anticipating wood—and pulled him through the door. He didn't hold back or,
once inside, seem ill at ease. He merely acted—strange. As though he didn't know a chair was for sitting
on or a spoon was for cutting the flaky crust and scooping up the juicy, sticky, drippy filling, or even that
the pie was for putting in the mouth, tasting, chewing, swallowing, eating. The horrid thought of mental
deficiency crossed her mind, to be dismissed by the sight of him, so unequivocally whole and
invulnerable. Still …

Josey ran to her. "Nan, Nan— I looked in the mirror! Look at me. My face!"

Nan nodded, swallowing again, glancing swiftly at him and away. "It must have been that last
prescription. Or else you're just growing out of it, baby."

"The—the thing! It's lighter. Faded."

The birthmark, angry and purple, had receded in size and color. The skin around it was clear and vibrant.
Nan put her fingers wonderingly on the smooth cheek and stooped to kiss her sister. "I'm so happy."