З життя
Зусиллям подолала підйом та подолала шлях до двору з мискою хліба в руках.
Старенька з трудом піднялася з ліжка. По стіні дійшла до дверей. У сінях прихопила чашку з накришеними хлібом, вийшла у двір.
«Здається, трохи розходилася. Кури так кудкудачуть. Може, в город їх випустити? Але ж увечері їх не зберу. Ой, про що я думаю?! Сьогодні-завтра невістка мене до будинку престарілих відправить».
Відчинила двері до курника. Звідти вибігли семеро курей. Позаду гордо йшов півень. Старенька висипала їм крихти. Пішла до туалету.
Вийшла звідти, оглянула свій город.
— Петрівна, — почувся голос, біля паркану стояла сусідка. — Все трудишся? Тобі вже дев’яносто скоро.
— Як не трудитися, Варваро? — старенька підійшла до паркану. — Капуста та морква не зібрані. Добре, що Зиновій зі своєю Іриною картоплю викопали.
— Гарний у тебе онук!
— Йому тепер тяжко без батька, — старенька заплакала.
— Все, все, Петрівно, годі сльози лити, — почала заспокоювати сусідка. — Відмучився твій син. Рік без руху лежав. Як йому було? Зараз з неба на тебе дивиться.
— Варворо, йому всього шістдесят було. Здоровий був! Та всього за рік засох весь і пoмeр.
— Скоро й я до свого синочка піду.
— Ти, Петрівно, не поспішай туди! Ще встигнеш. Поживи трішки!
— Та як тут поживеш? Ноги ледве ходять, — старенька важко зітхнула. — Надворі кінець вересня, скоро морози вдарять. Чи я одна тут виживу?
— У тебе ж невістка лишилася, онуки.
— Ой, Варваро, про що ти кажеш? У Зиновія троє дітей, та теща з ними живе. Жанна, з двома дітьми в однокімнатній квартирі мучиться.
— А Катерина, невістка?
— Вона тільки про мою смeрть і мріє. Коли по Данилові сорок днів справляли, я почула, як вона ніби Жанні казала, що мій будинок збирається продати і їй квартиру купити.
— Та ти що, Петрівно?! Не погоджуйся!
— Жанна, онучка моя, нехай поживе нормально.
— А ти?
— В будинок престарілих, напевно, віддадуть. Знаєш, Варваро, там хоча б догляд за мною буде. А тут я вже і піч затопити боюся. Так, і дров зовсім не лишилося. Замерзну тут, і ніхто не дізнається.
— Дякую, Варваро! Ладно, піду я, — розвела руками. — Кури випустила. Он по городу нишпорять. Піду, яйця зберу!
І закульгала господиня до курника.
До ранку відчула Петра Петрівна, що холодно стало. Навіть з-під ковдри вилазити не хочеться. А треба!
Вилізла, зіщулилася. Накинула ватник і вийшла на двір. Не встигла кур покормити, як машина онука до будинку під’їхала. Онук зазвичай на вихідних приїжджає, а сьогодні середа. Відчула старенька, що зміни у її житті грядуть.
— Привіт, бабо!
— Сталося щось? — суворо спитала Петра Петрівна.
— Досить тобі тут одній жити, — кивнув на небо. — Морози вже насуваються.
— А мої кури? І капуста з моркввою ще не зібрані, — заплакала старенька.
— Бабо, розберуся я з курами. А капусту з морквою зараз приберу, поки ти збираєшся. Давай упаковуйся!
Довго збиралася Петра. Понад шістдесят років тут прожила, відколи Колька взяв її за дружину і привів сюди. Тут і Данилко народився. Вже п’ятнадцять років, як Миколи нема. І Данилко вже помер. Сіла старенька на табуретку і заплакала.
Довго сиділа. Піднялася, виглянула у вікно. Онук вже всю моркву викопав, капусту зрізає. Гарна капуста зросла. Які великі качани. Важко зітхнула і стала збиратися.
«А що взяти? Залишати-то все шкода. І з собою все не візьмеш. Та й у будинку престарілих хіба дозволять стільки речей мати. Візьму альбом, життя своє згадуватиму. Документи всі треба зібрати. Будуть продавати будинок, не знайдуть, напевно, всі папери. Одяг треба взяти. Нові господарі прийдуть – все викинуть».
— Бабо, ти ще довго? – відволік її від зборів голос онука. — Я вже і моркву викопав, і капусту зібрав. У сарай все переніс. На вихідні приїду, розвезу всім.
Витяг онук її речі, склав у машину. Саму посадив і повіз. Дивиться Петра Петрівна з віконця, з селом своїм прощається.
Місто недалеко. Ось і будинки п’ятиповерхові замерехтіли. Машина зупинилася.
«Ой, а ми до Данилового дому під’їхали, — здивувалася Петра Петрівна. — З невісткою, чи що, попрощатися онук привіз?»
— Здрастуйте, тітко Петро! — усміхнулася і навіть в щоку поцілувала.
— Здрастуй, Катю! — а про себе подумала. — «Боїться, мабуть, що квартиру на неї не підпишу».
— Тітко Петро, ми для тебе кімнату звільнили, де Данило останні дні провів, — і невістка заплакала.
— Ми там і ремонт зробили, — підштовхнула свекруху в кімнату, — ліжко і шафу нову купили.
— Катерино, — до старої жінки нарешті дійшло, про що каже невістка. — Так ви мене не віддасте в будинок престарілих?
— Мамо, мамо, перестань!
— Ви чого плачете?
— Бабо, а з чого ти вирішила, що ми твій будинок продаватимемо? — засміявся внучок. — Ми з нього спільну дачу зробимо. Влітку там відпочиватимемо. І ліс поруч.
Так добре стало на душі у Петра Петрівни. Адже у неї такі гарні онуки.
«А невістка-то яка у мене! Як я цього сорок років не помічала?»
Michael Froze: From Behind the Tree, a Dog He’d Recognise Anywhere Watched Him with Sad, Knowing Eyes
I frozepeering from behind an old oak tree, a dog watched me with a sadness Id have recognised anywhere. Dust...
DO I REMEMBER? I CAN’T FORGET! “Polly, listen… Remember my illegitimate daughter, Anastasia?” My husband spoke in riddles, making me uneasy. “Do I remember? I can’t forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing for bad news. “Well… Anastasia is begging us to take in her daughter—my granddaughter,” he mumbled. “And why on earth should we, Alex? Where’s Anastasia’s husband? Disappeared into thin air?” I was intrigued. “The thing is, Anastasia doesn’t have much time left. She never had a husband. Her mother remarried and lives in America. They’re estranged, and she has no other family. That’s why she’s asking…” Alex couldn’t meet my eyes. “So, what’s your plan?” I had already decided. “Well, I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do,” he finally looked at me. “How convenient. You made mistakes in your youth, and now I’m to shoulder the burden of a stranger’s child? Isn’t that right?” My husband’s feebleness made me furious. “Polly, we’re a family. We should decide together,” Alex pushed back. “Oh, you remembered now! Yet, when you fooled around, did you consult me? I’m your wife!” Tears welled up and I stormed out… In school, I dated a boy named Peter, until a new boy, Alex, arrived and swept me off my feet. I broke up with Peter. Alex noticed me, walked me home, kissed my cheek, and picked flowers for me. A week later, he led me to his bed. I didn’t protest—I fell head over heels for Alex. After we graduated, he went off to serve in the army in another city. We wrote to each other for a year. Then Alex returned on leave. I was overjoyed. He promised we’d marry when he came back for good—already considered me his wife. His sweet words melted me every time, even years later: one loving look from Alex, and I’d melt like chocolate in the sun. Alex went back to the army. I waited, confident I was a betrothed bride. Six months later, a letter arrived: Alex had found “real love” in his garrison town and wasn’t coming back. But I was already carrying Alex’s baby. So much for a wedding—just as my gran warned me. When the time came, I gave birth to my son, Ivan. Peter, my old boyfriend, stepped in to help. Desperate, I accepted. Yes, Peter and I became intimate. I’d long given up hope of seeing Alex again. Then he turned up, surprised to see Peter there. “Can I come in?” Alex asked. “Come on in, since you’re here,” Peter reluctantly allowed. Sensing the tension, Ivan clung to Peter, wailing. “Peter, why don’t you take Ivan for a walk?” I was at a loss. When they left, Alex asked, “Is he your husband?” “What’s it to you? Why are you here?” I was angry and confused. “I missed you. I see you’ve made a life with Peter—you didn’t wait for me. Well, I’ll go—sorry to intrude on your happy family,” he said, heading for the door. “Wait, Alex. Why have you come—just to hurt me? Peter helps me cope with loneliness. He’s been raising your two-year-old son, by the way,” I tried to keep him there. My love for him hadn’t died. “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” Alex asked, hope in his voice. “Come in, dinner’s ready,” my heart leapt—he came back, so he hadn’t forgotten. Why resist? Peter was shoved aside. My Ivan needed his real father. Later, Peter married a lovely woman with two children. A few years passed. Alex could never love Ivan as his own—he was convinced Ivan was Peter’s son. Alex never really cared for Ivan. He always had an eye for the ladies. He was forever chasing after women, easily smitten, just as easily moving on—including some of my own friends. I cried but kept loving him, determined to hold my family together. It was easier for me than for him—the one who loves is always blinded by hope. I never needed to lie or invent excuses; I just loved him. He was my sun. Sometimes I wanted to leave, but then I’d scold myself: Where would I go, who could compare? Besides, Alex would be lost without me. I was wife, lover, and mother to him. Alex lost his own mother at fourteen—she died in her sleep. Maybe that’s why he always looked for lost affection elsewhere. I forgave everything. Once, after a bitter argument, I threw him out. He moved in with his relatives. Months passed—I forgot why we argued—but he didn’t return. At last, I went to his family’s house. His aunt was surprised to see me. “Polly, why do you want Alex? He said you’d divorced—he has a new girlfriend now.” I found out where she lived and paid them a visit. “Hello! Could I see Alex, please?” I asked politely. She just smirked and slammed the door in my face. I left in silence. A year later, Alex came back. By then the girl had given birth to his daughter, Anastasia. To this day, I blame myself for throwing him out—maybe that girl wouldn’t have scooped him up otherwise. I tried harder to please and adore Alex. We never talked about his illegitimate daughter. It seemed if we did, our family would fall apart. We let sleeping dogs lie. After all, what’s one stray child? It happens. I blamed the “temptresses” instead. In time, Alex settled down. Flings ended. He stayed home watching TV. Our son married early, gave us three grandkids. Then, out of nowhere… Anastasia, Alex’s daughter from long ago, reappeared—asking us to take in her daughter. How would I explain a new little girl to Ivan? He never knew about his father’s youthful escapades. In the end, we took legal guardianship of five-year-old Alina. Anastasia passed away, gone at thirty. Graves grow over with grass, but life goes on. Alex spoke to Ivan man-to-man. After hearing his father’s confession, Ivan said, “What’s done is done, you don’t answer to me. But the girl should stay—she’s family.” Alex and I breathed easier. We’d raised a kind son. Now, Alina is sixteen. She adores her Grandpa Alex, whispers secrets to him, calls me Granny, and says she’s my spitting image at her age. I never argue…
DO I REMEMBER? I COULD NEVER FORGET! Polly, darling, theres something I must tell you Well, do you recall my...
Winter had blanketed Andrew’s garden with soft snow, but his loyal dog Duke, a massive German Shepherd, was acting strangely. Instead of curling up in the large kennel Andrew had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke stubbornly insisted on sleeping outside, right in the snow. Watching from his window, Andrew felt a pang of worry—Duke had never behaved like this before. Each morning, as he stepped outside, Andrew noticed Duke watching him tensely. Whenever he approached the kennel, Duke positioned himself between Andrew and the entrance, growling softly and looking at him pleadingly, as if to say: “Please, don’t go in there.” This odd behaviour was so out of character for their years of friendship, it made Andrew uneasy—what was his best friend hiding? Determined to get to the bottom of it, Andrew came up with a plan—he lured Duke into the kitchen with a tempting piece of steak. While the dog, locked inside, barked desperately at the window, Andrew crept towards the kennel and crouched down to peer inside. His heart skipped a beat as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that froze him on the spot… …There, curled up in a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, freezing, and barely breathing. Its eyes barely opened, and its frail body shivered with cold. Duke had found it somewhere, and instead of chasing it away or leaving it to its fate, he had sheltered it. He had slept outside to avoid scaring it and guarded the entrance as if there was treasure inside. Andrew held his breath. He reached out, gently lifted the tiny creature and pressed it to his chest. In that moment, Duke raced over and nestled beside his shoulder—not growling, but gently, eager to help. “You’re a good dog, Duke…” Andrew whispered, clutching the kitten. “Better than most people.” From that day on, there were no longer just two friends living in the garden, but three. And the lovingly built kennel found its purpose again—as a little home for souls in need of saving.
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