Мгла
The Coming of the Storm.
Itwasahigh,breathlesswhistling,sometimesdeepeningtoabassroarbeforeglissadinguptoawhoopingscream.
"Godownstairs,"ItoldSteff,andnowIhadtoshouttomakemyselfheard.DirectlyoverthehousethunderwhackedmammothplankstogetherandBillyshrankagainstmyleg.
"Youcometoo!"Steffyelledback.
Inoddedandmadeshooinggestures.IhadtopryBillyoffmyleg."Gowithyourmother.Iwanttogetsomecandlesincasethelightsgooff."
Hewentwithher,andIstartedopeningcabinets.Candlesarefunnythings,youknow.Youlaythembyeveryspring,knowingthatasummerstormmayknockoutthepower.Andwhenthetimetomes,theyhide.
Iwaspawingthroughthefourthcabinet,pastthehalf-ounceofgrassthatSteffandIboughtfouryearsagoandhadstillnotsmokedmuchof,pastBilly’swind-upsetofchatteringteethfromtheAuburnNoveltyShop,pastthedriftsofphotosSteffykeptforgettingtoglueinouralbum.IlookedunderaSearscatalogueandbehindaKewpiedollfromTaiwanthatIhadwonattheFryeburgFairknockingoverwoodenmilkbottleswithtennisballs.
IfoundthecandlesbehindtheKewpiedollwithitsglazeddeadman’seyes.Theywerestillwrappedintheircellophane.Asmyhandclosedaroundthemthelightswentoutandtheonlyelectricitywasthestuffinthesky.Thediningroomwaslitinaseriesofshutter-flashesthatwerewhiteandpurple.DownstairsIheardBillystarttocryandthelowmurmurofSteffsoothinghim.
Ihadtohaveonemorelookatthestorm.
