Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Ilayinbedthenightbeforethefishingtripandthoughtitover,aboutmybeingdeaf,abouttheyearsofnotlettingonIheardwhatwassaid,andIwonderedifIcouldeveractanyotherwayagain.ButIrememberedonething:itwasn’tmethatstartedactingdeaf;itwaspeoplethatfirststartedactinglikeIwastoodumbtohearorseeorsayanythingatall.

           Ithadn’tbeenjustsinceIcameinthehospital,either;peoplefirsttooktoactinglikeIcouldn’thearortalkalongtimebeforethat.IntheArmyanybodywithmorestripesactedthatwaytowardme.ThatwasthewaytheyfiguredyouweresupposedtoactaroundsomeonelookedlikeIdid.AndevenasfarbackasgradeschoolIcanrememberpeoplesayingthattheydidn’tthinkIwaslistening,sotheyquitlisteningtothethingsIwassaying.Lyingthereinbed,ItriedtothinkbackwhenIfirstnoticedit.IthinkitwasoncewhenwewerestilllivinginthevillageontheColumbia.Itwassummer....

           ...andI’mabouttenyearsoldandI’moutinfrontoftheshacksprinklingsaltonsalmonfortheracksbehindthehouse,whenIseeacarturnoffthehighwayandcomelumberingacrosstherutsthroughthesage,towingaloadofreddustbehinditassolidasastringofboxcars.

           Iwatchthecarpullupthehillandstopdownapiecefromouryard,andthedustkeepscoming,crashingintotherearofitandbustingineverydirectionandfinallysettlingonthesageandsoapweedroundaboutandmakingitlooklikechunksofred,smokingwreckage.