Вино из одуванчиков

           ThecourthouseclockstrucknineanditwasgettinglateanditwasreallynightonthissmallstreetinasmalltowninabigstateonalargecontinentonaplanetearthhurtlingdownthepitofspacetowardnowhereorsomewhereandTomfeelingeverymileofthelongdrop.Hesatbythefront-doorscreenlookingoutatthatrushingblacknessthatlookedveryinnocentasifitwasholdingstill.Onlywhenyouclosedyoureyesandlaydowncouldyoufeeltheworldspinningunderyourbedandhollowingyourearswithablackseathatcameinandbrokeoncliffsthatweren’tthere.

           Therewasasmellofrain.MotherwasironingandsprinklingwaterfromacorkedketchupbottleoverthecracklingdryclothesbehindTom.

           Onestorewasstillopenaboutablockaway—Mrs.Singer’s.

           Finally,justbeforeitwastimeforMrs.Singertocloseherstore,MotherrelentedandtoldTom,"Rungetapintoficecreamandbesureshepacksittight."

           Heaskedifhecouldgetascoopofchocolateontop,becausehedidn’tlikevanilla,andMotheragreed.Heclutchedthemoneyandranbarefootedoverthewarmeveningcementsidewalk,undertheappleandoaktrees,towardthestore.Thetownwassoquietandfaroffyoucouldhearonlythecricketssoundinginthespacesbeyondthehotindigotreesthatholdbackthestars.

           Hisbarefeetslappedthepavement.HecrossedthestreetandfoundMrs.Singermovingponderouslyaboutherstore,singingYiddishmelodies.

           "Pinticecream?"shesaid."Chocolateontop?Yes!"