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- Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер
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The
story
ended
there
,
of
course
.
(
Never
to
be
revived
.
)
The
Chief
started
up
the
bus
.
Across
the
aisle
from
me
,
Billy
Walsh
,
who
was
the
youngest
of
all
the
Comanches
,
burst
into
tears
.
None
of
us
told
him
to
shut
up
.
As
for
me
,
I
remember
my
knees
were
shaking
.
A
few
minutes
later
,
when
I
stepped
out
of
the
Chief
’
s
bus
,
the
first
thing
I
chanced
to
see
was
a
piece
of
red
tissue
paper
flapping
in
the
wind
against
the
base
of
a
lamppost
.
It
looked
like
someone
’
s
poppy
-
petal
mask
.
I
arrived
home
with
my
teeth
chattering
uncontrollably
and
was
told
to
go
right
straight
to
bed
.
It
was
a
little
after
four
o
’
clock
on
an
Indian
Summer
afternoon
.
Some
fifteen
or
twenty
times
since
noon
,
Sandra
,
the
maid
,
had
come
away
from
the
lake
-
front
window
in
the
kitchen
with
her
mouth
set
tight
.
This
time
as
she
came
away
,
she
absently
untied
and
re
-
tied
her
apron
strings
,
taking
up
what
little
slack
her
enormous
waistline
allowed
.
Then
she
went
back
to
the
enamel
table
and
lowered
her
freshly
uniformed
body
into
the
seat
opposite
Mrs
.
Snell
.
Mrs
.
Snell
having
finished
the
cleaning
and
ironing
was
having
her
customary
cup
of
tea
before
walking
down
the
road
to
the
bus
stop
.
Mrs
.
Snell
had
her
hat
on
.
It
was
the
same
interesting
,
black
felt
headpiece
she
had
worn
,
not
just
all
summer
,
but
for
the
past
three
summers
-
through
record
heat
waves
,
through
change
of
life
,
over
scores
of
ironing
boards
,
over
the
helms
of
dozens
of
vacuum
cleaners
.
The
Hattie
Carnegie
label
was
still
inside
it
,
faded
but
(
it
might
be
said
)
unbowed
.
"
I
’
m
not
gonna
worry
about
it
,
"
Sandra
announced
,
for
the
fifth
or
sixth
time
,
addressing
herself
as
much
as
Mrs
.
Snell
.
"
I
made
up
my
mind
I
’
m
not
gonna
worry
about
it
.
What
for
?
"
"
That
’
s
right
,
"
said
Mrs
.
Snell
.
"
I
wouldn
’
t
.
I
really
wouldn
’
t
.
Reach
me
my
bag
,
dear
.
"
A
leather
handbag
,
extremely
worn
,
but
with
a
label
inside
it
as
impressive
as
the
one
inside
Mrs
.
Snell
’
s
hat
,
lay
on
the
pantry
.
Sandra
was
able
to
reach
it
without
standing
up
.
She
handed
it
across
the
table
to
Mrs
.
Snell
,
who
opened
it
and
took
out
a
pack
of
mentholated
cigarettes
and
a
folder
of
Stork
Club
matches
.
Mrs
Snell
lit
a
cigarette
,
then
brought
her
teacup
to
her
lips
,
but
immediately
set
it
down
in
its
saucer
.
"
If
this
don
’
t
hurry
up
and
cool
off
,
I
’
m
gonna
miss
my
bus
.
"
She
looked
over
at
Sandra
,
who
was
staring
,
oppressedly
,
in
the
general
direction
of
the
copper
sauce
-
pans
lined
against
the
wall
.
"
Stop
worryin
about
it
,
"
Mrs
.
Snell
ordered
.
"
What
good
’
s
it
gonna
do
to
worry
about
it
?
Either
he
tells
her
or
he
don
’
t
.
That
’
s
all
.
What
good
’
s
worryin
’
gonna
do
?
"
"
I
’
m
not
worryin
’
about
it
,
"
Sandra
responded
.
"
The
last
thing
I
’
m
gonna
do
is
worry
about
it
.
Only
,
it
drives
ya
loony
,
the
way
that
kid
goes
pussyfootin
’
all
around
the
house
.
Ya
can
’
t
hear
him
,
ya
know
.
I
mean
nobody
can
hear
him
,
ya
know
.
Just
the
other
day
I
was
shellin
’
beans
-
right
at
this
here
table
-
and
I
almost
stepped
on
his
hand
.
He
was
sittin
’
right
under
the
table
.
"
"
Well
.
I
wouldn
’
t
worry
about
it
.
"
"
I
mean
ya
gotta
weigh
every
word
ya
say
around
him
,
"
Sandra
said
.
"
It
drives
ya
loony
.
"
