Кладбище домашних животных

62

           

           Whenhesawthebillowsofsmoke,hisfirstthoughtwasthatthiswassomethingelsetolayatthedoorofVictorPascow,whoseemed,inhisdying,tohaveremovedsomesortofcrashbarrierbetweentheseordinarypeopleandanextraordinaryrunofbadluck.Butthatwasstupid,andLouis’shousewastheproof.Itstoodcalmandwhite,alittlepieceofclean-limbedNewEnglandarchitectureinthemid-morningsun.

           Peoplewererunningtowardtheoldduck’shouse,andasStevebankedhisbikeacrosstheroadandpulledintoLouis’sdriveway,hesawamandashupontotheoldduck’sporch,approachthefrontdoor,andthenretreat.Itwaswellthathedid;amomentlatertheglasspaneinthecenterofthedoorblewout,andflamesboiledthroughtheopening.Ifthefoolactuallyhadgottenthedooropen,theblowoutwouldhavecookedhimlikealobster.

           StevedismountedandputtheHondaonitskickstand,Louismomentarilyforgotten.Hewasdrawnbyalltheoldmysteryoffire.Maybehalfadozenpeoplehadgathered;exceptforthewould-be-hero,wholingeredontheCrandalls"lawn,theykeptarespectfuldistance.Nowthewindows,betweentheporchandthehouseblewout.Glassdancedintheair.Thewould-beheroduckedandranforit.Flamesranuptheinnerwalloftheporchlikegropinghands,blisteringthewhitepaint.AsStevewatched,oneoftherattaneasychairssmoulderedandthenexplodedintoflame.

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