Born on a Train: 13 Stories

Начало книги

Libby is also the name of a Confederate prison, two hundred miles east of here. It is short for Elizabeth, my middle name. Conditions there were marginally improved, says the calendar in Hiram’s bathroom, but overcrowding remained the norm. Hiram is an old man’s name, but his name on-line was Wheatboy. I had a list of all their names until I left my journal in California where Richard may be reading it now, learning what I thought of him, which I don’t anymore, because he’s much too far away.

On our third night at Hiram’s house, I stood by the kitchen window listening through the wall as Mother spoke into the cordless phone on the back porch with a tissue to her nose. Hiram and his sons were asleep and snoring. I’ll be so embarrassed if I have to leave again so soon, said Mother. I knew I should have picked the one in Georgia.

Ten seconds of silence.

The other one, she said. The freelance writer. No, you don’t know that.

Читать дальше →