Девять рассказов
Down at the Dinghy
Herjokeofanameaside,hergeneralunprettinessaside,shewas-intermsofpermanentlymemorable,immoderatelyperceptive,small-areafaces—astunningandfinalgirl.Shewentdirectlytotherefrigeratorandopenedit.Asshepeeredinside,withherlegsapartandherhandsonherknees,shewhistled,unmelodically,throughherteeth,keepingtimewithalittleuninhibited,pendulumactionofherrearend.SandraandMrs.Snellweresilent.Mrs.Snellputouthercigarette,unhurriedly.
"Sandra..."
"Yes,ma’am?"SandralookedalertlypastMrs.Snell’shat.
"Aren’tthereanymorepickles?Iwanttobringhimapickle."
"Heet’em,"Sandrareportedintelligently."Heet’embeforehewenttobedlastnight.Therewasonlytwoleft."
"Oh.Well,I’llgetsomeWhenIgotothestation,IthoughtmaybeIcouldlurehimoutofthatboat."BooBooshuttherefrigeratordoorandwalkedovertolookoutofthelake-frontwindow."Doweneedanythingelse?"sheasked,fromthewindow.
"Justbread."
"Ileftyourcheckonthehalltable,Mrs.Snell.Thankyou."
"O.K.,"saidMrs.Snell."IhearLionel’ssupposetaberunnin’away."Shegaveashortlaugh.
"Certainlylooksthatway,"BooBoosaid,andslidherhandsintoherhippockets.,
"Atleasthedon’trunveryfaraway,"Mrs.Snellsaid,givinganothershortlaugh.
Atthewindow,BooBoochangedherpositionslightly,sothatherbackwasn’tdirectlytothetwowomenatthetable."No,"shesaid,andpushedbacksomehairbehindherear.Sheadded,purelyinformatively.
