"Mary Rosenblum - Rainmaker" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenblum Mary)

there, crowding around like it was a booth at the county fair.

"Let's go, Donny." Uncle Kenny threw off his seatbelt like he was mad. "Time to
further your education."

Relieved, I scrambled out after, wondering if I could find someone I knew and
get myself invited over for the afternoon. Uncle Kenny would buy that.

The crowd around the umbrella parted to let my uncle through, and I followed,
looking hard for a face...any face. I saw a bunch of people I knew --Mr. Franke,
who managed the Thriftway, and the lady who always worked the cash register at
the Payless. No kids, though. Then I saw Mrs. Kramer, my English teacher. I
stopped short, like I was skippin, g school, even though it was summer. It made
me feel funny, seeing her there in blue jeans like anybody, with my uncle
pushing past her.

"We see the world clearly, when we're children." A man's rich voice rose over
the murmur of the crowd. It sounded like velvet feels and it sent shivers down
my back. "When we're very young, we believe what we see. It's only as we grow up
that we learn to doubt B to disbelieve the things that we once knew were real.
When we were children, we knew we could summon the rain -- or wish it away."

"I don't remember making it rain." Mrs. Kramer spoke up in her late-homework
tone and I craned my neck trying to see, because I bet that guy was cringing.

"Our yesterdays change to suit today's belief." The man sounded like he was
smiling. "Haven't you ever listened to the arguments at a family reunion.* You
don't really need me, but if you can't remember how to bring the rain
yourselves, you can pay me to do it."

I forgot about Uncle Kenny and pushed forward, not even noticing who I was
shouldering past. The man's words made me shiver again -inside this time, like
taking too deep a breath of frosty winter air. I was waiting for Mrs. Kramer to
cut him off at the knees, like she does when you tell her how the goat ate your
homework, but she didn't say anything.

"You got a vendor permit, mister?" Uncle Kenny spoke quietly, but everybody
stopped talking right away. He was like that. He could walk into a noisy bar and
talk in a normal voice and everybody would shut up to hear him. "You got to have
a permit to peddle stuff in this town." He stepped forward, and I could see the
man now, squinting from the umbrella's shade. He didn't look like he sounded. He
was small, kind of soft and pudgy, with a round sweating face and black hair
that More would have wanted to neaten up. I was disappointed, I guess.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff." He spread his hands. "I didn't know I needed a permit to
talk."

"Folks work hard for their money around here." My uncle hooked his thumbs in his
gun belt. "The government takes a big bite and maybe, if beef prices are high
enough, we can pay the mortgage and feed our kids on what's left." He paused,