Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           I’mmoppingnearthewarddoorwhenakeyhitsitfromtheothersideandIknowit’stheBigNursebythewaythelockworkscleavetothekey,softandswiftandfamiliarshebeenaroundlockssolong.SheslidesthroughthedoorwithagustofcoldandlocksthedoorbehindherandIseeherfingerstrailacrossthepolishedsteel—tipofeachfingerthesamecolorasherlips.Funnyorange.Likethetipofasolderingiron.Colorsohotorsocoldifshetouchesyouwithityoucan’ttellwhich.

           She’scarryingherwovenwickerbagliketheonestheUmpquatribesellsoutalongthehotAugusthighway,abagshapeofatoolboxwithahemphandle.She’shaditalltheyearsIbeenhere.It’salooseweaveandIcanseeinsideit;there’snocompactorlipstickorwomanstuff,she’sgotthatbagfullofthousandpartssheaimstouseinherdutiestoday—wheelsandgears,cogspolishedtoahardglitter,tinypillsthatgleamlikeporcelain,needles,forceps,watchmakers’pliers,rollsofcopperwire...

           Shedipsanodatmeasshegoespast.Iletthemoppushmebacktothewallandsmileandtrytofoulherequipment’upasmuchaspossiblebynotlettingherseemyeyes—theycan’ttellsomuchaboutyouifyougotyoureyesclosed.

           InmydarkIhearherrubberheelshitthetileandthestuffinherwickerbagclashwiththejarofherwalkingasshepassesmeinthehall.Shewalksstiff.WhenIopenmyeyesshe’sdownthehallabouttoturnintotheglassNurses’Stationwhereshe’llspendthedaysittingatherdeskandlookingoutherwindowandmakingnotesonwhatgoesonoutinfrontofherinthedayroomduringthenexteighthours.Herfacelookspleasedandpeacefulwiththethought.