Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Oneafternoon,Idon’trecallhowlongback,westoppedonourwaytoactivitiesandsataroundthelobbyonthebigplasticsofasoroutsideinthetwo-o’clocksunwhileoneoftheblackboysusedthephonetocallhisbookmaker,andBilly’smothertooktheopportunitytoleaveherworkandcomeoutfrombehindherdeskandtakeherboybythehandandleadhimoutsidetositnearwhereIwasonthegrass.Shesatstiffthereonthegrass,tightatthebendwithhershortroundlegsoutinfrontofherinstockings,remindingmeofthecolorofbolognaskins,andBillylaybesideherandputhisheadinherlapandletherteaseathisearwithadandelionfluff.Billywastalkingaboutlookingforawifeandgoingtocollegesomeday.Hismothertickledhimwiththefluffandlaughedatsuchfoolishness.

           "Sweetheart,youstillhavescadsoftimeforthingslikethat.Yourwholelifeisaheadofyou."

           "Mother,I’mth-th-thirty-oneyearsold!"

           Shelaughedandtwiddledhisearwiththeweed."Sweetheart,doIlooklikethemotherofamiddle-agedman?"

           Shewrinkledhernoseandopenedherlipsathimandmadeakindofwetkissingsoundintheairwithhertongue,andIhadtoadmitshedidn’tlooklikeamotherofanykind.Ididn’tbelievemyselfthathecouldbethirty-oneyearsoldtilllaterwhenIedgedupcloseenoughtoactalookatthebirthdateonhiswristband.

           Atmidnight,whenGeeverandtheotherblackboyandthenursewentoffduty,andtheoldcoloredfellow,Mr.