"Robert F. Young - The Grownup People's Feet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

The Grown-up People’s Feet
There are things we remember because we can't forget them and there are things we remember
because we don't want to forget them, and there are a few very special things that possess both qualities.
It was late in September of that last year, and Mary Ellen had driven in to town to pick me up from
work. She pulled over to the corner of Main and Central where I was waiting, and I got into the car.
Laurie was standing on the front seat, her blue eyes enormous with the marvel of a new discovery.
"Dad, I can read!" she shouted the moment she saw me. "I can read now, Dad!"
I pinched her button nose but she hardly noticed. She had a small red primary reader in her hands,
opened to a brightly colored picture of a little girl in a swing with a little boy pushing her. Beneath the
picture was a series of short paragraphs in large clear print.
"Listen to me, Dad! Listen: 'Jane is a girl. John is a boy. I see Jane. I see John!' "
"What do you think of our little Edna St. Vincent Millay?" Mary Ellen said, watching the red light.
"I think she's just wonderful!"
The light turned green, and we went up the big hill that led out of the little town on 30. It was late in
September, as I said, but the hills and the fields along the highway were still brushed with the faded green
of summer and the sky was hazily blue. Houses were a washed white and the violet shadows of elms and
maples made unpremeditated patterns on close-cropped lawns. An empty tandem rumbled past us,
touching the shoulder and whirring up a cloud of dust.
" 'Oh, look at Jane. Oh, look at John.' "
"You can read 'Bed in Summer' to me now, Laurie," I said.
She looked up from the book. I still can't forget the way her eyes were. They made you think of
deep blue lakes with the sun sparkling in them for the first time.
"Sure, Dad," she said. "I'll read it to you."
Mary Ellen turned off 30 and started up our road. "Don't you think Stevenson might be a little difficult
for her, dear?"
"Oh, no," Laurie said. "You don't understand, Mother. I can read now!"
"You can help her over the rough spots, Mary L.," I said . . . "What's for supper, by the way?"
"Roast beef. It's still in the oven." She turned into the drive and braked by the forsythia bush.
Our house was on a rise and you could look down and see the highway with the cars hurrying back
and forth like busy metallic beetles. Beyond the highway there was a fine view of the lake. On clear days
you could see Canada. It was hazy that day though, and all you could see was the milky blueness of the
lake interblending with the misted blueness of the sky. An intermittent wind kept rustling the big maples in
the yard.
I got the evening paper out of the roadside tube, went over to the verandah and sat on the swing.
Laurie was already there, the primary reader opened on her knees. We drifted gently back and forth.
" 'I see Jane,' " Laurie read. " 'I see John.' "
The wind kept ruffling the paper, making the headlines crawl. They were concerned with the bomb,
as usual. Beneath, them was the same old dismal story of potential megatons and potential megadeaths.
After awhile I let the paper slip from my hands and listened to Laurie and the wind, and the sounds Mary
Ellen was making as she set the dining room table.
I can still hear the pleasant clatter of dishes, and I can still hear the soft rushing sound of the wind; but
most of all I can hear Laurie's sweet child's voice saying over and over: " 'Jane is a girl. John is a boy. I
see Jane. I see John . . ."
A boy and a girl and a bomb, and presently Mary Ellen calling, "Come to supper!"
What I remember most, though, was the last right of day, and the three of us sitting on the porch
swing. Laurie sat in the middle, a Child's Garden of Verses on her lap, opened to "Bed in Summer."
" 'In—' " she read.
" 'In winter,' " Mary Ellen prompted.
 " 'In winter I get up at night—' "
" 'And—' "