Mothers and Daughters
- Автор: Хантер Эван
- Год: 1961
- Язык: английский
- Год: Simon and Schuster
- Жанр: Современная русская и зарубежная проза
Электронная книга - «Mothers and Daughters». Краткое содержание книги:
He turned on the chair, hot sunshine covered his right shoulder, his throat felt raw, the smell was thick in his nostrils, heat and the smell of...
He sat upright suddenly.
Smoke!
He looked out over the lake first, blinking. They were asleep on the raft, both of them. He turned his head to the right, saw the smoke drifting on the air, heard the crackling sound again, coming from the rear of the Bridges’ cottage, the children in the house, fire, he thought, Fire, he thought, “FIRE!” he shouted.
He leaped to his feet. His shoes. Where were his shoes?
“Fire!” he yelled again, and then ran toward the cottage, across the separating stretch of stone-strewn ground, where the hell are my shoes? he thought, children in the house, oh Jesus, “Fire!” he shouted, turned the corner of the cottage, stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the blaze.
He had fought fires in boot camp, fought raging oil fires, held the spray nozzle and suffocated the flames as thick black smoke poured from the open hatchway and heat mushroomed into his face. But in boot camp there had been experienced fire fighters teaching the embryo sailors, there was a feeling of absolute control, there was the knowledge that nothing could go terribly wrong.
There was no such assurance here. His mind seemed to be ticking in stop images. The flames. The pump room. The gasoline water pump. He rushed to the open door, backed away from the flames. I’m in my swimming shorts, he thought, Jesus, what... Jesus... the flames... how? He saw the gasoline can resting against the pump’s exhaust, saw gasoline spilling from the open spout of the can, feeding the fire. He reached into the flames. He grasped the charred hot handle of the gas can and pulled it out of the flames in one sweeping motion, a straight-armed motion that swept the can out of the fire and brought it back past his near-naked body. A sheet of flame followed the open spout as he swung the can in a backward arc. He could feel the heat passing his face, saw the sudden charred sooty streak appear on the wooden door of the pump room. He let go of the handle, the can fell into the bushes, immediately igniting them.
Oh, Jesus, he thought.
A hose. Water.
He turned his head in short jerks. Where was Matthew? What the hell was taking him so long to get off that raft?
“David, what is it?” his mother yelled from the porch next door.
“Fire!” he shouted. “Get Matthew!”
He saw the coiled hose at the back of the house. He ran for it. Kate stuck her head out of the upstairs window.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Regan?” she asked.
“Get out of the house!” he said. He began unwinding the hose.
“What?”
“Get out of the house!”
“What? What?”
“The house is on fire! Get out of there!”
He ran back to the pump room with the hose. Which? he thought. The bushes? The pump room? Which first? The whole lake front’ll go up. The bushes first. First the bushes. He swung the nozzle of the hose. No water. No...? I didn’t turn it on! He dropped the hose and ran back to the faucet attachment. He turned the wheel and then ran back to the house again. No water was coming from the nozzle. Come on! he thought. He twisted it. Which way? I’m turning it the wrong way! He finally opened the nozzle, sprayed water at the bushes, watched the flames turn to white smoke, and swung back toward the pump room. The flames had reached the ceiling of the room. They’ll go through, he thought. They’ll get into the house. Was Kate out? Would she have sense enough to take her brother with her? He looked up, saw only the empty window, and then shot the stream of water at the pump.
He saw the cans then. Cans of paint stacked behind the pump. He saw a gallon bottle of kerosene. He saw a can marked “Shellac.” This whole damn thing’ll explode in my face, he thought. This isn’t my house, he thought. I’m crazy, he thought. But he kept the hose on the flames. Go out! Goddamn it, go out! He leaned closer into the fire. He heard a crackling crisp sound, smelled the terrifying aroma of singed hair, my chest, he thought, and backed away from the flames. A pair of flaming overalls was hanging over the buckets of paint. He reached into the small room, a coffin set on end, a tiny room with a blazing pump and piles of explosive material. He grabbed the overalls and flung them back over his shoulder onto the ground, turned the hose on them immediately and saw Matthew, wet, panting, what had taken him so long? He did not realize he had been fighting the fire no longer than three minutes.
“The kids,” he said. “Upstairs.”
“Have you got this?”
“I’ve got it. Get the kids.”
Matthew was gone. He could feel his heart beating against his naked chest. He was beginning to control the flames, but a new fear leaped into his mind. The water. Suppose the water gave out? This was the pump room. The gasoline pump had to be started whenever the water pressure got too low. It was the pump that provided water, and he was using water by the gallon, and the pump was on fire, what would he do when the water gave out, don’t give out, he thought, stay with me, we’re getting it, we’re controlling it. He turned the hose up against the ceiling, the flames retreated, no, they had taken too secure a hold, the water was beginning to come from the nozzle in a weaker stream now, hold on, he thought, the paint, it’s going to explode in my face, get out of here, he thought, leave it, get out, get out, but he stayed.
He stayed leaning into the flames, sweating, covered with soot, stinking of singed hair, his face streaked, his arms black, the smoldering overalls on the path behind him, the staring labels on the cans and bottles, paint, paint thinner, shellac, kerosene, the water giving out, only a trickle now, he threw away the hose. The flames rallied instantly. He pulled a burning shovel from the wooden wall of the narrow room, dropped the hot handle, swore, scraped earth with his bare hands, tossed it onto the shovel handle, and then picked up the shovel again, still hot, but manageable. He was shoveling fresh earth into the room when Matthew came down again. The children were screaming. Amanda was carrying two kitchen-size fire extinguishers, small cans. She handed them to David wordlessly, he pulled the levers mechanically, the cans were exhausted immediately, Matthew was suddenly at his side with a second shovel.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
They worked together, taking turns in the narrow doorway, tossing shovel after shovelful of earth into the diminishing flames. Amanda soothed the children, holding them to the wet front of her bathing suit. Julia was there now, wide-eyed, there were other people now, someone brought a real fire extinguisher, the danger was almost past. A man in hip-length boots walked into the narrow room and stamped out the glowing embers, smothered charred wood with earth, and then sprayed the fire extinguisher over everything once again.
The fire was out.
The men stood together in their swimming trunks. It was over. They stood breathing hard, weary. David was beginning to feel the aftermath of shock now. He listened to the voices around him and felt somewhat dazed, felt as if he would fall to the ground. He did not speak. They asked questions, but he only nodded or shook his head in return.
The child Kate suddenly broke from her mother’s arms. She went to David and threw her arms around his neck and then kissed him on his sooty cheek.
Everyone smiled.
“I’m still a little shaken,” he said to his mother. “Is there any brandy in the house?”
“Yes, I’ll get you some.”
“Please. My hands are shaking, would you believe it?”
Julia brought him the brandy in a large snifter. He took a big gulp and then sipped at it slowly, sitting smoke-stained in the big armchair near the window overlooking the lake.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked.