З життя
Тому що він — добрий
Викторія поставила важкі валізи на підлогу в коридорі.
— Ура! Мамочка приїхала! — радісно закричали дівчатка, вибігаючи назустріч із дитячої.
Віка всміхнулася. Нарешті вона вдома! Позаду чотири місяці підвищення кваліфікації, обшарпаний гуртожиток, іспити…
Вона обійняла і розцілувала своїх донечок. Ну як же без подарунків?!
— Іринко, це для тебе! — мама простягнула старшій доньці гарний пухнастий светр. Вигукнувши від радості, Іринка побігла в дитячу. Але не добігла — повернулася, обійняла маму:
— Дякую, матусю! Я давно про такий мріяла! — і знову зникла в дитячій.
— Катруся, а це — для тебе! — і мама витягла з валізи щось біло-синє, м’яке, дивне.
Бабуся Оксана підняла брови: що це за дивна річ опинилася в худеньких руках молодшої внучки? Іграшка, чи що?
На Катю дивився кролик з розкосими очима. Голова його була тверда, з пап’є-маше, а животик і лапки — м’які, набиті тирсою. Кролик був білий, з короткою штучною шубкою, вдягнений у синю сорочку-косоворотку.
Все б нічого. Але…
Більш потворної іграшки уявити було важко. Розкосі очі кролика — різного розміру, ще й розміщені на різних рівнях. Горбоноса мордочка нахилялася вбік, а на тонких губах застигла крива посмішка. Він наче вибачався за своє потворство…
— Ого! — вигукнула вдягнена в новинку Іра. — Мамо, це що за почвара?!
— Доню… — зітхнула бабуся Оксана. — А що, у всьому Києві нічого страшнішого не знайшлося, що ти привезла саме цю?! Нею тільки ворони відлякувати на полі!
При цих словах бабусі маленька Катя здригнулася, міцно обійняла кролика і побігла в дитячу.
— Знаєш, матусю, мені зрозуміле твоє обурення. Але… — сказала Віка. — Центральний дитячий світ у Києві дуже великий, іграшок багато, полиці завалені… А він сидів чомусь самотньо на самому низу… Мені стало його дуже шкода. І, здається, кролик зрадів, коли я взяла його в руки… Не знаю чому, але мені здалося, що він сказав: “Дякую!”
Бабуся недовірливо похитала головою і махнула рукою… Її доросла донька, лікар вищої категорії, не встигла наігратись: повоєнне дитинство не балувало дітвору іграшками…
Потворний кролик, вироблений на іграшковій фабриці далеко за кордоном, став улюбленцем Каті. Він був названий серйозним ім’ям — Прохір. Дві букви «р», які Катерина вимовляла з гарним грасуванням, додавали комічності його вигляду.
Вдень Проша терпляче чекав дівчинку зі школи, вночі вислуховував казки та історії з життя Катюшиних подруг. Засинала дитина, міцно притискаючи кролячу мордочку до щоки…
Роки швидко летіли.
Від частих прань біла шубка кролика стала жовтуватою — що поробиш, тирсова начинка пофарбувала штучне хутро, а синя сорочка-косоворотка, збліднувши, стала блідно-блакитною. Прошка набув просто жахливого вигляду, але від цього став ще більш улюбленим Катею — вона старанно його берегла.
Каті було сімнадцять, коли у її старшої сестри народився син, Сашко. Як тільки малюк почав усвідомлювати себе у світі, куди він прийшов, потворний кролик став його кумиром. Засинаючи у своєму ліжечку, Сашко нашіптував кроликові ласкаві слова, а Прохір усміхався хлопчику, як колись його тітці.
З великою неохотою Сашко одного разу передав кролика своєму маленькому згорьованому двоюрідному брату Костику. Сльози образи стали сльозами радості, коли Костик пішов додому, притискаючи Прохіра обома руками до грудей. Кролик знайшов нового юного співрозмовника…
Ніхто не здивувався, коли Костик рішуче простягнув іграшку плачучій чужій дівчинці у дворі, встигнувши щось прошепотіти Прохіру на вушко. Дівчинка здивовано подивилася на Костика, але кролика взяла…
Це б і була казка кінець — кролик Проша покинув сім’ю, перейшовши в турботливі руки нової господині. Але…
Важко сказати, скільки минуло років після благородного жесту Костика. Нещодавно зовсім старенька Вікторія гостювала у подруги юності, Ліди, такої ж сивої бабусі, як вона сама. Похилі пані жваво розмовляли, згадуючи молодість, і Вікторія раптом згадала історію з потворним кроликом.
— Це не про цього звірятка ти мені зараз кажеш? — запитала Ліда, витягуючи звідкись з-за спини щось безформне, блідо-блакитне…
— Проша! — ахнула Вікторія.
— Ну, не знаю, Проша він чи Феофан, але викинути намагаюся вже котрий рік цю паскудь! Правнучка Кіра не дає… Подарували їй, бачиш, у дворі, коли вона впала й забила коліно…
Вікторія взяла іграшку в руки… Замислилась… Згадала давній літній день, худенькі руки Каті, яка притискала потворного кролика до грудей… І усміхнулася….
My Dear Wife – When my brother would visit, he always asked, “How have you managed to live with the same wife for so many years? What’s your secret?” “Love and endless patience—that’s all there is to it,” I’d always reply. “Not for me,” he’d laugh. “I love all women—each one’s a mystery. Why live with an open book?” My younger brother, Peter, married at eighteen; his bride, Anna, was ten years his senior. She fell in love with Peter for life, but for him, it was only a fling. Anna moved into Peter’s crowded family home, treasured her collection of porcelain figurines, and believed she’d caught happiness by the tail. I, meanwhile, was hoping to find the one woman to love forever—and I did, marrying my wife over fifty years ago. Anna and Peter lasted ten years. She gave her all to their marriage, but he grew restless, drinking more, staying out with questionable friends, and finally, smashing her precious figurines in a drunken rage—leaving only one intact. After they divorced, Anna and her son returned to her hometown, and Peter spiraled deeper, remarrying and divorcing, his once-promising future lost to drink and chaos. Years later, terminally ill and alone, Peter asked me to deliver a suitcase filled with porcelain figurines and his savings to Anna—his final apology for all she’d endured. I found Anna, now caring for her ill son, and gave her Peter’s last gift. She thanked us in a letter—and sold the figurines to fund a new life in Canada for herself and her son. “I’m grateful that Peter considered me his dear wife,” she wrote. “Perhaps he never stopped loving me after all.”
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Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “The children’s home has been waiting for you for ages! Get out of our family!” I screamed with a trembling voice. The target of my wild indignation was my cousin, Dima. God, how I loved him as a child! Blond hair, bright blue eyes, cheerful nature — that was Dima. …Relatives often gathered around the festive table. Of all my cousins, I singled out Dima. He could spin tales with his tongue like a lace maker and he drew brilliantly. Sometimes he would churn out five or six sketches an evening. I would stare, entranced by their beauty, quietly gathering his drawings and hiding them in my desk. I carefully treasured my cousin’s artwork. Dima was two years older than me. When he turned 14, his mother died—gone so suddenly, she just didn’t wake up… The question arose—what would happen to Dima? Naturally, they first turned to his father, but finding him was no easy feat. He and Dima’s mother were long divorced, and the new family “couldn’t be disturbed.” The rest of the relatives just shrugged: “We have our own families, our own problems.” Turns out, during the day, family is there, but come nightfall, not a soul to be found. So, with two kids of their own, my parents became Dima’s guardians—after all, Dima’s late mother was my dad’s younger sister. At first, I was happy that Dima would be living with us. But then… On his very first day in our home, Dima’s behavior set me on edge. To comfort her orphaned nephew, my mum asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Dima? Don’t be shy, just say.” And Dima immediately replied, “A model train set.” Now, this wasn’t a cheap toy. I was shocked—your mum just died, the most important person in your life, and all you want is a train set? How could you even think of that? But my parents immediately bought him his dream. Then it was, “Buy me a tape player, jeans, a designer jacket…” This was the eighties, mind you, and not only was this stuff pricey, but it was impossible to get. My parents made sacrifices for the orphan, even at our own expense. My brother and I understood and didn’t complain. …When Dima turned sixteen, he discovered girls. And he wasn’t afraid to show his affection. Worse yet, he started making advances toward me—his own cousin. But as a sporty girl, I skillfully dodged his unwelcome attention. We’d even come to blows. I would cry and cry. I never told my parents—they didn’t need the heartache. Kids don’t talk about such things. After I fended him off, Dima wasted no time turning to my friends, who actually competed for his attention. …But Dima was also a shameless thief. I remember my piggy bank: saving on school lunches to buy presents for my parents, only to find it empty one day! Dima denied everything—didn’t bat an eye, didn’t blush, just outright lied. It broke my heart. How could he steal while living under our roof? He was wrecking our family from within, but Dima really didn’t understand why I was upset. He truly believed everyone owed him. I began to hate him. That’s when I finally screamed at him: “Get out of our family!” I lashed him with my words—said things that can never be taken back… My mum barely managed to calm me. From that day on, Dima ceased to exist for me. I ignored him completely. Later, I learned the other relatives knew what a “character” Dima was—they lived nearby and seen it all. Our family lived across town. Even Dima’s former teachers warned my parents: “You’re making a big mistake. Dima will ruin your other children too.” …At a new school, he met Katy—she loved Dima all her life. She married him straight out of school. They had a daughter, and Katy put up with his lies and cheating without protest. As they say: single life is hardship, married life is double. Dima joined the Army, stationed in Scotland. There, he started another family—he somehow managed it during leave. When his service ended, he stayed in Scotland. He had a son there. Katy, not hesitating, went after him and, by hook or by crook, brought him back home. My parents never received a word of thanks from cousin Dima—not that they expected it. Now, fifty years on, Dmitri is an active member of the local Anglican church. He and Katy have five grandchildren. On the surface, all seems well, but the bitterness of life with Dima remains… No amount of sugar could ever sweeten it.
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