Вино из одуванчиков

           HenoticedMom’seyessliding,blinking;thewayshestoodundecidedandwasnervous.Allofthesethings.

           Sheopenedthescreendoor.Steppingoutintothenight,shewalkeddownthestepsanddownthefrontsidewalkunderthelilacbush.Helistenedtohermovingfeet.

           Shecalledagain.

           Silence.

           Shecalledtwicemore.Tomsatintheroom.Anymomentnow,Douglaswouldanswerfromdownthelonglongnarrowstreet,"Allright,Mom!Allright,Mother!Hey!"

           Buthedidn’tanswer.AndfortwominutesTomsatlookingatthemade-upbed,thesilentradio,thesilentphonograph,atthechandelierwiththecrystalbobbinsgleamingquietly,attherugwiththescarletandpurplecurlicuesonit.Hestubbedhistoeonthebedpurposelytoseeifithurt.Itdid.

           Whining,thescreendooropenedandMothersaid,"Comeon,Tom.We’lltakeawalk.""Whereto?"

           "Justdowntheblock.Comeon."

           Hetookherhand.TogethertheywalkeddownSt.JamesStreet.Underfoottheconcretewasstillwarm,andthecricketsweresoundinglouderagainstthedarkeningdark.Theyreachedacorner,turned,andwalkedtowardtheWestRavine.

           Offsomewhereacarfloatedby,flashingitslightsinthedistance.Therewassuchacompletelackoflife,light,andactivity.