Kitabı oku: «Сборник лучших произведений американской классической литературы. Уровень 4», sayfa 12

“Is this a hospital joke?

“It doesn't seem like a joke to us,” replied the nurse. “And that is most certainly your child.”

Mr. Button's closed his eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was no mistake-he was gazing at a man of seventy – a baby of seventy, a baby whose feet hung over the sides of the crib.

The old man suddenly spoke in a cracked voice. “Are you my father?” he demanded. “Because if you are,” went on the old man, “I wish you'd get me out of this place…”

“Who are you?”

“I can't tell you exactly who I am, because I've only been born a few hours-but my last name is certainly Button.”

“You lie!”

The old man turned wearily to the nurse. “Nice way to welcome a new-born child,” he complained in a weak voice. “Tell him he's wrong, why don't you?”

“You're wrong. Mr. Button,” said the nurse. “This is your child. We're going to ask you to take him home with you as soon as possible.” “Home?” repeated Mr. Button. “Yes, we can't have him here. We really can't, you know?”

Mr. Button sank down upon a chair near his son and put his face in his hands. “My heavens!” he murmured, in horror. “What will people say? What must I do?”

“You'll have to take him home,” insisted the nurse- ”immediately!”

“I can't. I can't,” he moaned. People would stop to speak to him, and what was he going to say? He would have to introduce this- this creature: “This is my son, born early this morning. ” And then the old man would gather his blanket around him and they would go on, past stores, the slave market-for a dark instant Mr. Button wished his son was black-past luxurious houses, past the home for the aged…

“Pull yourself together,” commanded the nurse.

“If you think I'm going to walk home in this blanket, you're entirely mistaken,” the old man announced suddenly.

“Babies always have blankets.” Mr. Button turned to the nurse. “What'll I do?”

“Go down town and buy your son some clothes.”

Mr. Button's son's voice followed him down into the hall:

“And a cane, father. I want to have a cane.”

“Good-morning,” Mr. Button said, nervously, to the clerk in the Chesapeake Dry Goods Company. “I want to buy some clothes for my child.”

“How old is your child, sir?”

“About six hours,” answered Mr. Button.

“Babies' supply department in the rear.”

“I'm not sure that's what I want. It's-he's an unusually large-size child. Exceptionally-ah-large. ”

“They have the largest child's sizes.”

“Where is the boys' department?” inquired Mr. Button. He felt that the clerk must scent his shameful secret.

“Right here.”

“Well-” He hesitated. If he could only find a very large boy's suit, he might cut off that long and awful beard⁷⁷, dye the white hair brown, and hide the worst and retain something of his own self-respect-not to mention his position in Baltimore society.

But there were no suits to fit the new-born Button in the boys' department. He blamed the store, of course-in such cases it is the thing to blame the store.

“How old did you say that boy of yours was?” demanded the clerk curiously.

“He's-sixteen.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said six hours. You'll find the youths' department in the next aisle.”

Mr. Button turned miserably away. Then he stopped, brightened, and pointed his finger toward a dressed dummy in the window display. “There!” he exclaimed. “I'll take that suit, out there on the dummy.”

The clerk stared. “Why,” he protested, “that's not a child's suit. You could wear it yourself!”

“Wrap it up,” insisted his customer nervously. “That's what I want.”

The astonished clerk obeyed.

Back at the hospital Mr. Button entered the nursery and almost threw the package at his son: “Here's your clothes.”

The old man untied the package and viewed the contents.

“They look sort of funny to me,” he complained, “I don't want to be made a monkey of-”

“You've made a monkey of me! Put them on-or I'll-or I'll spank you.” He swallowed uneasily at the word, feeling nevertheless that it was the proper thing to say.

“All right, father”-this with a grotesque simulation of respect- ”you've lived longer; you know best. Just as you say.”

As before, the sound of the word “father” confused Mr. Button. “And hurry.”

“I'm hurrying, father.”

When his son was dressed Mr. Button regarded him with depression. The costume consisted of dotted socks, pink pants, and a belted blouse with a wide white collar. Over the collar waved the long beard.

The effect was not good.

“Wait!”

Mr. Button seized a pair of hospital shears and with three quick snaps cut a large section of the beard. But even without it his son was far from perfection. The remaining hair, the watery eyes, the ancient teeth seemed out of tone with the gayety of the costume. Mr. Button, however, held out his hand.

“Come along!” he said sternly.

His son took the hand trustingly. “What are you going to call me, dad?” he quavered as they walked from the nursery-”just 'baby' for a while? till you think of a better name?”

Mr. Button grunted. “I don't know,” he answered harshly. “I think we'll call you Methuselah.”

Even after the new-born Button had had his hair cut short and then dyed to an unnatural black, had had his face shaved so close that it glistened, and had been dressed in small-boy clothes made to order, it was impossible for Button to ignore the fact that his son was a poor excuse for a first family baby. Benjamin Button-for it was by this name they called him instead of by Methuselah- was five feet eight inches tall. His clothes did not conceal this, nor did the dyeing of his eyebrows disguise the fact that the eyes under were watery and tired. In fact, the baby-nurse left the house after one look at him in a state of considerable indignation.

But Mr. Button persisted that Benjamin was a baby, and a baby he should remain. At first, he declared that if Benjamin didn't like warm milk he could go without food altogether, but he finally allowed his son bread and butter, and even oatmeal by way of a compromise. One day he brought home a rattle and, giving it to Benjamin, insisted that he should “play with it.” The old man took it with a weary expression and jingled it obediently at intervals throughout the day.