Мгла
After the Storm. Norton. A Trip to Town.
Ihadafunnyfeelingthathehadbeenstandingbehindmeforthelastfiveminutesorso,clearinghisthroatdecorouslyunderthechainsaw’saggressiveroar.Ihadn’tgottenareallygoodlookathimthissummer.Hehadlostweight,butitdidn’tlookgood.Itshouldhave,becausehehadbeencarryingaroundanextratwentypounds,butitdidn’t.HiswifehaddiedthepreviousNovember.Cancer.AggieBibbertoldSteffythat.Aggiewasourresidentnecrologist.Everyneighborhoodhasone.FromthecasualwayNortonhadofragginghiswifeandbelittlingher(doingitwiththecontemptuouseaseofaveteranmatadorinsertingbanderillasinanoldbull’slumberingbody),Iwouldhaveguessedhe’dbegladtohavehergone.Ifasked,Imightevenhavespeculatedthathe’dshowupthissummerwithagirltwentyyearsyoungerthanhewasonhisarmandasillymy-cock-has-died-and-gone-to-heavengrinonhisface.Butinsteadofthesillygrintherewasonlyanewbatchofagelines,andtheweighthadcomeoffinallthewrongplaces,leavingsagsandfoldsanddewlapsthattoldtheirownstory.ForonepassingmomentIwantedonlytoleadNortontoapatchofsunandsithimbesideoneofthefallentreeswithmycanofbeerinhishand,anddoacharcoalsketchofhim.
"Hi,Dave,"hesaid,afteralongmomentofawkwardsilence-asilencethatwasmadeevenlouderbytheabsenceofthechainsaw’sracketandroar.Hestopped,thenblurted:"Thattree.Thatdamntree.I’msorry.Youwereright."
Ishrugged.
Hesaid,"Anothertreefellonmycar."
