Джеймс Фрей – Incite (страница 6)

She was quiet, and I was beginning to wonder if she had been listening, but she finally spoke.

“That’s why you don’t drink.”

“What?”

“You don’t drink. Because your dad’s a drunk … and an asshole.”

I paused. “Well, yeah.”

“Does he hit your mom?”

“What?”

“Does he hit your mom? You don’t have to answer.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t like that she could see right through me. But she was right. “Yes.”

“And you?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and reached over to take my hand.

“It’s—” I said, and then stopped. “It’s okay. I got out of there. I’m not going to be like him. I have to be different. I have to do something real.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that you fell in with us.”

We drove in silence for most of the rest of the way. I fell asleep and dreamed of furniture until she woke me up as the caravan drove through Susanville, the town where she was born. Her ranch was still 45 miles past it, on a turnoff that was obscured from most of the houses and buildings by a small row of hills. Mary went on and on about this water pump and that orchard and I just listened and wondered what lay ahead.

We came to a turnoff with an archway made of three large logs—one standing on each side of the road and one laid across the top. The words GOLDEN PINE RANCH were carved into the crossbeam. A few of the other cars were already there.

“This is it!” Mary said excitedly. She climbed from her seat and ran over to the padlocked gate.

Beyond the gate, I couldn’t see much more than tall green and yellow grass, sloping upward until the crest of the hill got obscured by forest: tall, straight white firs, short and stubby western junipers, and crooked and droopy gray pines. It reminded me of my time with the Forest Service.

Mary unlocked the gate and swung it open. I drove her Buick through after everyone else had gone in; then she closed the gate and put the lock back in place and mashed it closed with the butt of her hand.

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