З життя
Эхо предательства: история любви и прощения
Зоя копала грядки во дворе, когда к ней подошла соседка Галина. Та небрежно бросила:
— Зоя, а твоего Сергея ты, что, голодом моришь? Он, между прочим, у Татьяны Степановны ужинает…
Зоя застыла на месте. Руки опустились сами собой.
— Галя, ты что несёшь?!
— Да то и несу, что своими глазами видела, — усмехнулась та. — Вчера зашла к учительнице, сына проверить. Подошла к окну, а там твой Серёга за столом сидит, будто дома. Я постучала — он аж под стол нырнул.
— Врёшь. Не может быть, — Зоя хотела отмахнуться, но в спине уже пробежал холодок.
— Да зачем мне врать? Не веришь — как хочешь. Только потом не удивляйся.
Зоя сделала вид, что не поверила, но сомнение засело в голове. Да и Сергей в последнее время стал есть как-то неохотно. Третий день приходит с работы и бубнит: «Устал, есть не хочу». Ни супчика, ни картошечки.
В тот вечер, когда муж сразу лёг спать, Зоя не могла уснуть. Она смотрела на его лицо в лунном свете и боролась с мыслями. «Не может быть. Не может…»
Через день Сергея не было до позднего вечера. Ужин остыл. Зоя, не выдержав, накинула кофту и пошла к дому Татьяны Степановны.
Подойдя к калитке, она замерла. Тишина. Свет горел только в прихожей. В доме — ни звука. Но что это за куртка висит в коридоре? Похожа. Очень похожа на Серёгину. И тут её осенило. Дочка Катя недавно научилась вышивать и, хвастаясь, украсила отцовскую подкладку цветочками. Зоя подошла и, дрожа, вывернула куртку. Крошечные ромашки врезались в глаза, как нож. Сердце забилось так, что казалось, выпрыгнет. Ноги подкосились. Она опустилась на пол. Слёзы хлынули сами.
Через минуту в коридор вышел Сергей. Растрёпанный, виноватый.
— Зоя… ты не так поняла…
— Что, биологию здесь преподаёшь? Или уроки математики до ночи? — Зоя встала, и в её голосе было больше боли, чем гнева. — Я-то, дура, верила, что ты устаёшь… А ты — с ней, за одним столом. И даже под стол прячешься, когда ловят!
Сергей бросился за ней, но она уже бежала по улице.
— Зоя! Ну прости! Люди же смотрят!
— Пусть смотрят! Я не по чужим постелям бегаю. Мне стыдиться нечего! Это тебе — и ей — должно быть стыдно!
Татьяна Степановна считала себя в селе городской дамой. Местные жители для неё не существовали. Она поселилась в коммуналке на четыре семьи и ждала только дня отъезда. Ей было не интересно ни с кем общаться, ни хозяйство вести, ни даже детей учить. Пока однажды не сломалась ступенька на крыльце. Тогда она заплакала прямо на пороге. В этот момент мимо шёл Сергей. Помог, починил. А потом — остался на чай.
Так всё и началось.
Сначала — печенье из магазина. Потом — жареная картошка. Потом — долгие разговоры за кухонным столом. Татьяна не любила Сергея, но и одна ей была не мила. А он… Он гордился. Учительница! Сидит с ним!
Но теперь всё раскрылось.
Зоя рыдала, уткнувшись в подушку. Дети — девятилетняя Катя и шестилетняя Лена — прижались к ней, не понимая, что случилось, но тоже заплакали. Потому что мама плачет.
Развод? А куда идти? Родных нет. В селе одни пересуды. Работы — кот наплакал.
Сергей чувствовал вину. Несколько дней он не подходил к Зое. Жил, как чужой. Сам варил, сам стирал. Пытался поговорить, извиниться, клялся — но Зоя была холодна.
— Возвращайся к своей учительнице. Я тебе не нужна.
— Зоя… ради девочек…
— Не прячься за дочек! Не тебе теперь ими прикрываться!
Прошло два месяца. Учебный год закончился. Татьяна уехала. Собрала вещи и покинула село. А в доме Зои и Сергея стояла ледяная тишина.
Август. Последние деньки лета. Девочки играли во дворе.
— Кать! Ленка! — позвала Зоя из окна.
Дети вбежали в дом. Мать протянула узелок с едой:
— Отнесите папе в поле обед.
Катя с Ленкой помчались со всех ног. Серёгин трактор стоял посреди поля. Девочки замахали руками.
— Пап! Мама обед передала!
Сергей вышел из кабины, будто очнулся.
— Мама?! Передала?! — переспросил он.
— Вот! — Катя протянула узелок. — Там котлеты и хлеб.
Сергей присел, разложил еду на клеёнке, вдохнул запах свежего хлеба. Глаза застилало.
— Пап, ты что, плачешь?
— Нет, просто пыль…
Вернувшись домой с полевыми цветами, Сергей подошёл к Зое.
— Прости меня, Зоя. И спасибо.
— Да ладно. Раз не простила бы — не кормила бы, — Зоя улыбнулась впервые за долгое время.
Прошло девять месяцев. В семье родился Ванечка. Крепкий, румяный, с папиными глазами.
А Сергей? Сергей больше ни разу не заходил к другим женщинам даже за спичками.
Теперь он точно знал: дом — самое дорогое, что у него есть.
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The Carer for the Wife — What do you mean? — Lida thought she must have misheard. — Where am I supposed to go? Why? What for? — Oh, can we just skip the dramatics, please? — he grimaced. — What’s not clear here? There’s no one left for you to take care of. Where you go is none of my concern. — Ed, what’s wrong with you? Weren’t we planning to get married…? — That was your idea. I never said any such thing. At 32, Lida decided to turn her life around and leave her small hometown. What was left for her there? Endure her mother’s nagging? Her mother simply couldn’t stop scolding Lida about the divorce, constantly asking how she managed to “lose” her husband. Yet Vas’ka wasn’t worth a kind word—drunk and a womaniser! How did she end up marrying him all those eight years ago? Lida wasn’t at all upset about the divorce—in fact, she felt she could finally breathe again. But she argued constantly with her mum about it, and they also fought about money, which was always in short supply. So, she’d head off to the county town and land a great job there! Look at Svetka—her old school friend—she’d been married for five years to a widower. Who cares if he’s 16 years older and hardly a heartthrob, at least he has a flat and a decent income. And Lida reckoned she was just as good as Svetka! — Well, thank heavens! You’ve come to your senses! — Svetka encouraged her. — Pack your things, you can stay with us for a bit, and we’ll sort out the job situation. — Won’t your Vadim Petrovich mind? — Lida was unsure. — Don’t be silly! He does whatever I ask! Don’t worry, we’ll get by! Still, Lida didn’t want to stay long at her friend’s place. After just a couple of weeks and her first wages, she rented her own room. And just a couple of months later, she had a stroke of luck. — Why is a woman like you working in the market? — said one of her regulars, Edward Boris, with concern. Lida knew all her regulars by name by now. — It’s cold, it’s hard work—not ideal. — Gotta earn money somehow, — she shrugged, — unless you have another offer? Edward Boris wasn’t exactly a dreamboat in her eyes—twenty years older, a bit pudgy, starting to bald, and with a shrewd look in his eye. He was always particular about choosing his vegetables and paid to the penny. But he dressed well and drove a nice car—definitely not a down-and-out, not a drunk. He also had a wedding ring, so she never considered him as husband material. — You strike me as responsible, steady, and clean, — Edward Boris switched to a familiar tone, — have you ever cared for anyone who was ill? — I used to look after a neighbour, actually. She had a stroke, her children live far away, so they paid me to help. — That’s great! — he exclaimed, and then put on a somber face: — My wife, Tamara, has had a stroke too. The doctors say she has little chance of recovery. I’ve brought her home, but I haven’t got time to look after her. Will you help? I’ll pay you properly. Lida didn’t have to think long—much better to be in a warm flat changing bedpans than freezing on the market for ten hours a day serving picky customers! He even suggested she live there, so no more rent. — They’ve got three spare rooms! You could play football in there! — she delightedly told her friend. — No children either. Tamara’s mother was a real madam—even at 68, she acted half her age. She’d just remarried and was busy with her husband. No one else to care for the invalid. — Is she really that sick? — Oh yes, poor thing can’t move or speak. She won’t get better. — You almost sound happy about it, — Svetka eyed her. — Of course not, — Lida looked down, — but once Tamara’s gone, Edward Boris would be free… — Are you for real, Lida? Wishing someone dead for a flat?! — I’m not wishing anyone dead—I’m just not going to miss my chance! Easy for you to say, you’ve got it made! They had a huge fight and didn’t speak for half a year—until Lida confessed to Svetka her romance with Edward Boris. They couldn’t live without each other, but of course, he’d never leave his wife—not that type! So for now, she’d remain his lover. — So you’re shacking up with him while his wife is dying in the next room? — her friend was appalled. — Do you even see how vile that is? Or are you that blinded by his money—if he’s even got it? — Trust you to never say a kind word, — Lida retorted. They stopped talking again, but she barely felt guilty—well, perhaps just a bit. She cared for Tamara with real diligence, and since her affair with Edward Boris began, she took on all the housework too. After all, a man needs more than just a woman in his bed—he wants a good meal, crisp shirts, a clean flat. Lida thought her lover was very content, and she was enjoying her life too. She barely noticed Edward had stopped paying her for caring for his wife. Not that it mattered now—they were almost like husband and wife! He gave her money for shopping, and she managed the budget, not realising it was tight. And his job paid well enough—but never mind, once they got married it would all become clear. With time, the spark between them dulled, and Edward lingered less at home, but Lida put it down to the strain of having a sick wife. She pitied him, even though he barely spent a minute a day checking on Tamara. Even so, Lida wept when Tamara finally passed away. She’d given a year and a half of her life to that woman—you can’t get that time back. She organised the funeral too—Edward was “too grief-stricken.” He gave her the bare minimum for expenses, but she did everything properly. No one could accuse her of a thing. Even the neighbours, gossiping about her and Edward—nothing escapes them!—nodded approvingly at the funeral. His mother-in-law too seemed satisfied. So Lida never expected what Edward said next. — You understand there’s no need for your services anymore, so I’m giving you a week to move out, — he said on the tenth day after the funeral. — What do you mean? — Lida’s voice faltered. — Where should I go? Why? — Please, do we have to have this scene? — he sighed. — There’s no one left for you to care for, and where you go is none of my business. — Ed, what’s wrong with you? We were supposed to get married… — That’s your fantasy. I never said anything of the sort. Next morning, after a sleepless night, Lida tried to talk again, but he just repeated the same words and urged her to move quickly. — My fiancée wants to renovate before the wedding, — was all he said. — Fiancée? Who’s that? — None of your business. — Oh, none of my business?! Well, I’ll move out, but you’ll pay me for my work first. You were meant to pay forty grand a month. I only got paid twice. So you owe me £8,000. — You can do the sums, can’t you! — he snorted. — Don’t get carried away… — And you owe for cleaning too! I won’t nit-pick, just pay me ten grand and we’ll call it even. — Or what? You’ll go to court? There’s no contract. — I’ll tell Tamila—remember, your mother-in-law owns this flat. Edward’s face changed, but he recovered quickly. — Who’d believe you? — he huffed. — You know what? I don’t want to see you. Get out now. — You’ve got three days, darling. No ten grand, and there’ll be a scandal, — Lida replied, heading for a cheap hostel. She’d managed to save some of the housekeeping money. On the fourth day, having had no answer, Lida went back to the flat. Tamila, the mother-in-law, was there. Lida could see from Edward’s face she’d never get paid. So she told Tamila everything. — She’s making it all up! Don’t listen! — the widower protested. — Well, well, I’d heard rumours at the funeral, but I didn’t believe them — Tamila’s stare was fierce. — Now it all makes sense. And you, my dear son-in-law, don’t forget who owns this flat? Edward froze. — So, I want you out of here within the week. No—within three days. Tamila turned to leave, then paused at Lida. — And you, standing there like you expect a prize? Get out! Lida bolted from the flat, realising there’d be no money for her—not now. Back to the market again; there’d always be work there… **The Carer’s Devotion: Betrayal Behind Closed Doors in Suburban England**
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