Drawing Blood Poppy Z. Brite

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.When Trevor glanced up, her long blue-jeaned legs were already out of the car, and she was looking at him over the back of the seat.“Please watch Didi for a few minutes,” she said.“Do some reading with him if you're up to it.” The door slammed and she was striding across the green verge toward the taut trembling figure of Daddy.Trevor watched them come together, watched Momma's arms go around Daddy from behind.He knew her gentle, cool hands would be stroking Daddy's chest, she would be whispering meaningless soothing words in her soft Southern voice, the way she did for Trevor or Didi when they woke from nightmares.His mind framed a still shot of his parents standing together under the trees, a picture he would remember for a long time: his father, Robert Fredric McGee, a smallish, sharp-featured man with black wraparound sunglasses and a wispy shock of ginger hair that stood straight up on top, the lines of his body tight as a violin string; his mother, Rosena Parks McGee, a slender woman dressed as becomingly as the fashions of the day would allow in faded, embroidered jeans and a loose green Indian shirt with tiny mirrors at the collar and sleeves, her long wavy hair twisted into a braid that hung halfway down her back, a thick cable shot through with wheat and corn silk and autumn gold.Trevor's hair was the same color as his father's.Didi's was still the palest silk-spun blond, the color of the lightest hairs on Momma's head, but Momma said Trey's hair had been that color too and Didi's would likely darken to ginger by the time he was Trevor's age.Trevor wondered if Momma was out there soothing Daddy, convincing him that it didn't matter if the car was broken, that this would be a good place to stay.He hoped so.Then he picked up the closest reading material at hand, a Robert Crumb comic, and slid across the seat to his brother.Didi didn't understand all the things that happened in these stories-neither did Trevor, for that matter — but both boys loved the drawings and thought the girls with giant butts were funny.Back in Texas, Daddy used to joke that Momma had a classic Crumb butt, and Momma would smack him with a sofa pillow.There had been a big, comfortable green sofa in that house.Sometimes Trevor and Didi would join in the pillow fights too.If Momma and Daddy were really stoned, they'd wind up giggling so hard that they'd lose their breath, and Trevor and Didi could win.Daddy didn't make jokes about Momma's butt anymore.Daddy didn't even read his Robert Crumb comics anymore; he'd given them all to Trevor.And Trev couldn't remember the last tune they had all had a pillow fight.He rolled the window down to let in the green-smelling air.Though it was still faintly rank with the odor of the frying engine, it was fresher than the inside of the car, which smelled of smoke and sour milk and Didi's last accident.Then he started reading the comic aloud, pointing to each word as he spoke it, making Didi follow along after him.His brother kept trying to see what Momma and Daddy were doing.Trevor saw out of the corner of his eye that Daddy had pulled away from Momma and was taking long strides down the highway, away from the car, away from the town.Momma was hurrying after him, not quite running.Trevor pulled Didi against him and forced himself not to look, to concentrate on the words and pictures and the stories they formed.After a few panels it was easy: the comic was all about Mr.Natural, his favorite Crumb character.The sight of the clever old hippie-sage comforted him, made him forget Daddy's anger and Momma's pain, made him forget he was reading the words for Didi.The story took him away.Besides, he knew they would come back.They always did.Your parents couldn't just walk away and leave you in the back seat, not when it would be dark soon, not when you were in a strange place and there was nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep and you were only five years old.Could they?Momma and Daddy were far down the road now, small gesturing shapes in the distance.But Trevor could see that they had stopped walking, that they were just standing there.Arguing, yes.Yelling, probably.Maybe crying.But not going away.Trevor looked down at the page and fell back into the story.It turned out they couldn't go anywhere.Daddy called a mechanic, an immensely tall, skinny young man who was still almost a teenager, with a face as long and pale and kindly as that of the Man in the Moon.Stitched in bright orange thread on the pocket of his greasy overalls was the improbable name Kinsey.Kinsey said the Rambler had thrown a rod that had probably been ready to go since New Orleans, and unless they were prepared to drop several hundred bucks into that tired old engine, they might as well push the car off the road and be glad they'd broken down close to a town.After all, Kinsey pointed out, they might be staying awhile.Daddy helped him roll the car forward a few feet so that it was completely off the blacktop.The body sagged on its tires, two-toned paint a faded turquoise above the dusty strip of chrome that ran along the side, dirty white below.Trevor thought the Rambler already looked dead.Daddy's face was very pale, almost bluish, sheened with oily-looking sweat.When he took off his sunglasses, Trevor saw smudgy purple shadows in the hollows of his eyes.“How much do we owe you?” Daddy said.It was obvious from his voice that he dreaded the answer.Kinsey looked at Momma, at Trevor and Didi in the crooks of her arms, at their clothes and other belongings heaped in the back seat, the duffel bags bulging up from under the roped-down lid of the trunk, the three mattresses strapped to the roof.His quick blue eyes, as bright as Trevor's and Daddy's were pale, seemed to take in the situation at a glance.“For coming out? Nothing.My time isn't that valuable, believe me.”He lowered his head a little to peer into Daddy's face.Trevor thought suddenly of an inquisitive giraffe.“But don't I know you? You wouldn't be.no.not Robert McGee? The cartoonist who blew the brainpan off the American underground' in the words of Saint Crumb himself?.No, no, of course not.Not in Missing Mile.Silly of me, sorry [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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