Мгла
The Coming of the Storm.
"Thatdoesn’tmakeitanybetter,"shesaidinanupset,scoldingvoice."Yourmother’sdresser...ournewsofa...thecolourTV..."
"Shhh,"Isaid."Gotosleep."
"Ican’t,"shesaid,andfiveminuteslatershehad.
Istayedawakeforanotherhalfhourwithonelitcandleforcompany,listeningtothethunderwalkandtalkoutside.Ihadafeelingthatthereweregoingtobealotofpeoplefromthelakefrontcommunitiescallingtheirinsuranceagentsinthemorning,alotofchainsawsburringascottageownerscutupthetreesthathadfallenontheirroofsandbatteredthroughtheirwindows,andalotoforangeCMPtrucksontheroad.
Thestormwasfadingnow,withnosignofanewsquallcomingin.Iwentbackupstairs,leavingSteffandBillyonthebed,andlookedintothelivingroom.Theslidingglassdoorhadheld.Butwherethepicturewindowhadbeentherewasnowajaggedholestuffedwithbirchleaves.ItwasthetopoftheoldtreethathadstoodbyouroutsidebasementaccessforaslongasIcouldremember.Lookingatitstop,nowvisitinginourlivingroom,IcouldunderstandwhatSteffhadmeantbysayinginsurancedidn’tmakeitanybetter.Ihadlovedthattree.Ithadbeenahardcampaignerofmanywinters,theonetreeonthelakesideofthehousethatwasexemptfrommyownchainsaw.Bigchunksofglassontherugreflectedmycandle-flameoverandover.IremindedmyselftowarnSteffandBilly.Theywouldwanttoweartheirslippersinhere.Bothofthemlikedtosloparoundbarefootinthemorning.
Iwentdownstairsagain
