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Content cute bones. The plot of the book "The Lovely Bones" briefly

Content cute bones. The plot of the book "The Lovely Bones" briefly

06.04.2019

Current page: 1 (total book has 20 pages) [accessible reading excerpt: 14 pages]

Alice Sebold
The Lovely Bones

Always to Glen

THE LOVELY BONES

Series Compiler A. Zhikarentsev

The original layout was prepared by the Domino Publishing House

My father had on his desk glass bowl, and in it is a penguin drowning in snow with a red and white striped scarf around his neck. When I was little, my dad would sit me on his lap, pull this little thing closer, turn it upside down, and then abruptly lower it onto the stand. And we watched the penguin being wrapped in snowflakes. But I was haunted: the penguin was there alone, it was a pity for him. Having shared this thought with my father, I heard in response: “Do not worry, Susie, he is not so bad. After all, he was in an ideal world.

Chapter first

My name was Susie and my last name was Salmon, which means "salmon" by the way. December 6, 1973, when I was killed, I was fourteen years old. In the mid-seventies, almost all wanted girls looked about the same: skin color - white, hair - lush, chestnut. Faces like mine peered out from the newspaper pages. It was only later, when boys and girls, and blacks and whites - everything in a row, began to disappear, their photographs began to be placed both on milk bags and on separate leaflets, which were lowered into mailboxes. And before, no one could even imagine such a thing.

In the seventh grade, I wrote down in my diary the words of a Spanish poet that my sister pointed out to me. His name is Juan Ramon Jimenez, and the saying was: "If they give you lined paper, write across." I liked it for two reasons: firstly, it expressed contempt for the routine, when everything is done like in school - on call, and secondly, this is not some idiotic quote from popular rock band, which means that something singled me out from the crowd. I was happy to study at the chess club and attend an elective in chemistry, but in the lessons of home economics, to the horror of Mrs. Delminico, I burned everything that was put on fire. My favorite teacher was Mr. Bott, who amused himself in his biology class by teaching us how to dissect frogs and crayfish and then using electrodes to make them twitch.

I'll tell you straight away: it wasn't Mr. Bott who killed me. Don't think that everyone new person, who will be discussed here, will be among the suspects. Not at all. Just someone else's soul - darkness. Mr. Bott came to my memorial service (by the way, almost the whole school gathered there - before I could not even dream of such popularity) and even shed a tear. His daughter was seriously ill. This was no secret to anyone, and when he laughed at his own jokes, which everyone had already become fed up with a hundred years before we entered school, we also laughed, sometimes even with force, so as not to offend the teacher. His daughter passed away a year and a half after me. She had leukemia. But in my heavenly land we never met.

Whoever killed me lived on our block. Mom admired his flower borders, and his father once asked him how best to fertilize them. It turned out that the killer used only old, proven tools, such as eggshell And coffee grounds; He said that his mother taught him this. Returning home, my father would say with a sly smile: flowers are a good thing, no doubt, but in the heat they will give off such a spirit that heaven will be sick.

However, on December 6, 1973, it was still snowing, and I ran from school by the shortest route, across the field. There was darkness - even gouge out your eye, because in winter it gets dark early; I remember tripping over broken corn stalks every now and then. Snowflakes flickered before my eyes like tiny soft paws. I breathed through my nose, but soon three streams flowed out of it, and I had to swallow the air with my mouth. A stone's throw from where Mr. Harvey stood, I stuck out my tongue to catch a cold star.

“Don't be frightened,” said Mr. Harvey.

At dusk, in the middle of a deserted field - of course, I was scared.

After my death, it dawned on me: after all, a subtle smell of cologne hovered over the field, but I did not pay attention to it, or maybe I decided that it was brought by the wind from the nearest house.

“Mr. Harvey,” I breathed.

“You're Salmon's big sister, right?

- How are your relatives doing?

Despite the fact that in the family I really was the eldest of the children, and at school I clicked difficult control tests like nuts, for some reason I felt uneasy next to adults.

“Fine,” I managed, shivering from the cold, but out of respect for his age, I seemed to be rooted to the ground, especially since he lived in the neighborhood and dad had recently talked to him about fertilizers.

“I built something here,” he said. - Do you wanna take a look?

“Actually, I'm cold, Mr. Harvey,” I replied. - And besides, my mother does not allow me to walk when it is dark.

“It’s so dark now, Susie,” he protested.

Why didn't I suspect anything then? I still can't forgive myself for this. How could he know my name? Probably, I thought, dad told him some tale I hated - one of those that he considered evidence of his love for children. My father was one of those who takes naked pictures of his three-year-old daughter and keeps this picture in the bathroom for guests to look at. Thank God, in our family this fate fell to me younger sister Lindsey. At least I was spared that shame. But dad loved to tell everyone how, after the birth of my sister, I was so jealous that one fine day, while he was talking on the phone, I crept along the sofa to the portable cradle where Lindsey slept (and he was watching from another room), and tried to describe newborn. Father told about this first to the pastor of our church, then to a neighbor, Mrs. Stead, so that she expressed her professional opinion as a psychotherapist, and, finally, to all the acquaintances who said: “You have a lively Suzy!”

- "Boykaya"! - picked up the father. You don't know everything yet! - And immediately went into detail about "how Susie peed on Lindsey."

But, as it turned out later, my father did not mention us at all to Mr. Harvey, much less told him "how Susie peed on Lindsey."

Subsequently, Mr. Harvey, meeting my mother in the street, said these words to her:

“I have heard rumors of this terrible, monstrous tragedy. Remind me what your girl's name was?

“Susie,” Mom said, bracing herself, crushed by this weight, which, according to her naive calculations, could become lighter with time.

She did not know that the pain would remain for life, becoming more and more sophisticated and cruel over the years.

At parting, Mr. Harvey, as usual, said:

I hope this bastard gets caught soon. My condolences.

At this time, I was already in heaven and tried to adapt to a different state, but from such shamelessness I just soared. “This bastard has no conscience,” I called out to Franny, who became my mentor. “Exactly,” she confirmed, and limited herself to this. in simple words. In my heavenly land, it was not customary to condescend to any rubbish.

Mr. Garvey promised that it would take just a minute, and I followed him a little further, to where the cornstalks rose in full height because none of the guys went this way. One day my brother Buckley was wondering why no one eats the local corn, and my mother explained that it was not an edible variety. “Horses are fed with such cobs. People don't eat it,” she said. "And the dogs?" Buckley asked. "Dogs don't eat either." “And the dinosaurs?” Buckley didn't hesitate.

And so on ad infinitum.

“I've set up a secret place here,” said Mr. Harvey.

Then he stopped and turned to me.

“I can’t see it point-blank,” I said.

It didn't escape me that Mr. Harvey was looking at me in a strange way. Ever since I left childhood, elderly guys often cast such glances at me, but hardly anyone could be seriously interested in a scarecrow in a long blue jacket with fur and warm yellow trousers, flared down. Mr. Harvey looked at me over his spectacles, his little round gold-rimmed glasses gleaming.

“And you, Susie, take a closer look and you will see,” he said.

Most of all I wanted to look closely and see the way home, but nothing came of it. Why? Franny explained that such questions are meaningless: “It didn’t work out - and that’s it. You shouldn't be bothered by it. What's the point? You're dead and you have to deal with it."

“Second try,” said Mr. Harvey, crouching down and pounding on the ground.

- What's so special about it? - I did not understand.

My ears were cold. I hated the colorful pom-pom hat with bells my mother had knitted for me for Christmas. This jester's cap was tucked into a jacket pocket.

I remember: I took a step forward and stomped on the spot. There was something hard underfoot, but it didn't look like frozen ground.

“Boards,” said Mr. Harvey. – To prevent the entrance from collapsing. Here I have a dugout.

- What other dugout? I asked, forgetting both the cold and the male gaze. You might have thought I was drifting into a biology class: I became curious.

- Get in and have a look.

It was impossible to turn inside, he himself admitted it when we squeezed into the dugout. But my attention was already captured by a skillfully made chimney, which allowed, if necessary, to light a fire underground, so I didn’t even think about how inconvenient it was to climb inside and what it would be like to get out. Besides, I had no idea what it meant to flee. The only time I ever ran away was from Artie, a boy from our school. His father was the owner funeral home, and Artie always pretended to carry an embalming syringe with him. Even on his notebooks, he drew needles from which a dark liquid dripped.

- Super duper! I told Mr. Harvey.

Hunched over, he looked like Quasimodo from The Cathedral Notre Dame of Paris” - we read this in French lessons. But I didn't care anymore. I fell into childhood. Turned into her little brother Buckley, who could not be torn away from the huge skeletons in the Museum of Natural History in New York, where he was taken on a tour. The expression "super duper" I dropped from my speech altogether when I graduated. primary school.

“It's like taking candy from a child,” Franny said.

I still see this hole in front of me, as if it happened yesterday - however, nothing surprising. Now for me life is an eternal yesterday. The dugout was the size of a closet: in our house, raincoats and rubber boots were stored in about the same nook, but my mother still managed to squeeze washing machine, and put a drying cabinet on it. In the dugout, I stood almost to my full height, and Mr. Harvey doubled over. An earthen bench stretched along the walls, on which he immediately sat down.

“Rate it,” he said.

As if spellbound, I stared at the niche in the wall, where I made out a box of matches, a battery and a fluorescent lamp that worked from a battery, emitting a faint glow - later, when he leaned on me, his features were almost indistinguishable in this eerie light.

There were also shaving accessories and a mirror in that niche. This surprised me. Is it easier to shave at home? But, apparently, I decided that our neighbor is a little "cuckoo" if he, living in a respectable two-story house, digs a dugout in the outskirts. For people like him, my father had a streamlined expression: "Great original!"

So I probably thought that Mr. Harvey was a great original, but his dugout turned out well, it was warm there, and I wanted to find out how he dug it, how he strengthened it, and where he learned all this.

But three days later, when the Gilbert dog dragged home my arm from elbow to wrist, with dried corn husks, Mr. Harvey's dugout had already disappeared without a trace. As for me, at that time I was still at a crossroads. I didn't get to see him fill the hole with earth, pull out the wooden supports, and stuff the evidence, including parts of my body, into a bag, forgetting one hand. And when I, having arisen anew, gained the ability to observe what is happening on Earth, I was worried only by my relatives and no one else.

Mom, with her mouth open, was sitting on a hard chair by front door. Pale as ever. Blue eyes stared at one point. Father, on the contrary, was burning with a thirst for activity. In order not to miss anything, he volunteered to comb the cornfield with the police. To this day I thank fate for sending us a humble detective named Len Fenerman. It was he who appointed two sergeants to my father and sent them to the city to inspect the places where I often visited with my girlfriends. During the entire first day, the sergeants followed my father around shopping center. Lindsey was kept in the dark, although at thirteen she could have figured out what was what; Buckley, who was four years old, all the more knew nothing, and, frankly, later understood little.

Mr. Harvey asked if I would like something delicious. That's exactly what he said. I replied that I was in a hurry to go home.

“At least out of courtesy, take a Coca-Cola,” he insisted. Others would not refuse.

– What are the others?

- The dugout is made for the guys. For them to have a place to hang out.

Now that was complete bullshit. It immediately seemed to me a lie, and some kind of miserable one. I thought to myself that he was completely alone. In health classes, we read about such people. There are men who cannot find a wife, eat dry food and are so afraid of being rejected that they do not even dare to get a dog or a cat. I felt sorry for him.

“Well, okay,” I conceded. - Let's have a Coca-Cola.

After a while he asked:

Are you hot, Susie? Can you unbutton your jacket?

I did so.

Then he said:

You are a real beauty, Susie.

“Thank you,” I replied, although, as we used to say on such occasions with my school friend Clarissa, I almost pissed myself.

- Do you have a boy?

No, Mr Harvey. I was choking on a Coca-Cola, but I couldn’t finish it. “I have to go, Mr. Harvey. You're doing great here, but I've got to go.

Rising from the bench, he again crouched like a hunchback near the six earthen steps that led to White light.

- What makes you think that I will let you go?

“Mr. Harvey, it really is time for me to go home.

- Get undressed.

“Take off your clothes,” repeated Mr. Harvey. I want to check if you have kept your virginity.

“Kept it, Mr. Harvey.

- I'll check it out. Your parents will thank you.

- My parents?

- Parents love only good girls.

“Mr. Harvey,” I muttered, “let me go, please.”

“I won’t let you go anywhere, Susie. Now you are mine.

In those years, few people attended fitness clubs; the word "aerobics" was completely an empty phrase. Then it was believed that girls should be weak, and those few who could climb a rope in the gym, we called hermaphrodites behind their backs.

I resisted desperately. I resisted with all my might not to give in to Mr. Harvey, but all my strength was not enough, negligible, and soon I was lying on the floor, covered with earth, and he fell on top, panting and sweating, and only lost his glasses, until we fought.

But somehow I was still alive. It seemed to me: nothing could be more terrible than lying on my back, pressed down by a sweaty male torso. Fight in an underground trap that not a single soul knew about.

I thought about my mother.

She kept glancing at the timer on the stove. The stove was bought recently, and my mother could not get enough of this timer.

“Now I have everything calculated by the minute,” she boasted to her mother, who was the least interested in cookers.

Mom was probably worried that I was gone for a long time, or rather, she was not so much worried as angry.

Here her father, having arrived from work, came out of the garage, and she fussed, mixing a cocktail for him, and she herself said with annoyance:

“You see, they are being detained at school again. Maybe they have a spring festival?

What are you talking about, Abigail? her father answered. - What is the holiday of spring in such a snowstorm?

To cover up her misstep, Mom probably shoved Buckley out of the kitchen and into the room, tossed him "Play with Dad" while she took a sip of sherry herself, without witnesses.

Mr. Harvey covered my mouth with his wet, slimy lips; I almost screamed, but I was completely exhausted and crushed with fear. Until now, I've only been kissed by someone I liked. His name was Ray and he was from India. Swarthy, spoke with an accent. It was believed that we were not a couple. For him big eyes staring out from under half-closed eyelids, Clarissa gave him the nickname "Camel", but in fact it was good guy, smart, once he even threw a “spur” at me in an algebra exam, so cleverly that no one noticed. He kissed me in the hallway, just before the day when the photos were due for the school diary. At first school year each student was given one of these diaries, and I saw that in the line with the standard words "My heart belongs to ..." Ray wrote: "Susie Salmon." His lips, I remember, were quite dry.

“Don't, Mr. Harvey,” I choked out, and then only repeated one word: “No.” And from time to time I still “beg”. According to Franny, almost everyone says "please" before they die.

“I want you, Susie,” he croaked.

“Please,” I whispered. And then again. - No.

From time to time I combined these two words. "Please, no" or "No, please." It's like yanking on the door when the lock is stuck, or yelling "catch, catch, catch" when the ball over your head flies into the stands.

- Please, no.

But he was tired of listening to whining. Reaching into the pocket of my jacket, he pulled out a hat knitted by my mother, crumpled it up and gagged me. After that, only one sound came from me - the faint ringing of bells.

Muddy lips procrastinated my cheeks, then my neck, and greedy hands began to fumble under my blouse. Here I burst into tears. Twitched all over. It blew the air and the silence. She sobbed and fought, so as not to feel anything. And he, not finding the “zipper”, which my mother carefully sewed into the side seam, tore my pants.

“White panties,” he breathed.

Some kind of abomination began to burst me from the inside. I instantly turned into a fetid sea, where he climbed to shit. The furthest corners of my body fell in and then turned inside out, like the rope "cat's cradle" that Lindsey adored. And he pushed me to the ground.

- Susie! Suzy! - I heard my mother's cry. – Home!

And he was in me at that time. And moaned.

“Lamb and beans for lunch!”

He pushed the stake into me.

Your brother drew a picture. The apple pie is getting cold!

Because Mr. Harvey was leaning on top, I had to listen to both his heartbeat and my own. My heart fluttered like a rabbit, and he thumped with a sledgehammer, but muffled, as if through a pillow. Our bodies touched, I was shaking, and then the realization of the main thing surged. After such a nightmare, I survived. Like this. I breathed. Listened to his heart. I could feel the stench coming out of his mouth. There was a stink from the black earth, too, a disgusting stink of damp mud where worms and other creatures swarm. It made me want to scream all day long.

Now I knew that he would kill me. I just didn’t realize that I was actually already dying, like a hunted animal.

Maybe it's time to get up? Mr. Harvey rolled to the side and then loomed over me.

I was unable to move. And especially don't get up.

Because I did not move - was it really only for this reason, was it really just because I did not listen to him? – he, leaning sideways, groped for a niche where shaving accessories were stored. A hand pulled out a knife. Right in front of my eyes, a bare blade flashed with a crooked grin.

Pulling a knitted hat out of my mouth, he demanded:

- Say that you love me.

And I said, just be very quiet.

The inevitable happened anyway.

Chapter Two

Once in heaven, at first I thought that everyone there, without exception, sees the same thing. A sports field, in the distance - a football goal, on the grass, athletic girls are engaged in javelin throwing and hammer pushing. All the buildings look like the high school of the second grade, which was erected in every town in the northeastern United States in the sixties. These clumsy, squat buildings, nestled in bleak vacant lots, were invariably adorned with walkways and through arches to give them a modern look. I really liked that the walls of such buildings were always painted in turquoise and orange colors, just like in our city. Sometimes, even on Earth, when my father took me for a ride in a car, I asked him to drive past the gymnasium without fail, and I myself imagined how I would become a high school student.

After seventh, eighth and ninth grade high school admission to the tenth grade of the gymnasium promised new life. I was already planning how in high school I would demand that they call me Susanna. I imagined how I would wear loose hair or a beautiful knot at the back of my head. As at the sight of my gorgeous figure the boys will go crazy and the girls will die of envy, but at the same time I will have such good character that conscience will torment classmates, and in the end everyone will be drawn to me without exception. I liked to imagine how at recess, in the cafeteria, I would stand up for the offended. For example, someone will start teasing Clive Saunders that he has a woman's walk, and I will immediately deal with the offender by moving his foot to the most sensitive place. Or, say, the boys will mock Phoebe Hart, whose bust grows by leaps and bounds, and I will cut them off: laugh, laugh, nothing grows anywhere. At the same time, I completely lost sight of the fact that I myself was not without sin - when Phoebe went to the blackboard, I scribbled on the margins of the notebook: “Hurrah! Buffer!”, “Dairy Farm”, “Two watermelons to the belly”. Finally, in my dreams, I saw how I would be blissful in the back seat of a car, and I would hire my father as a driver. Literally in everything I will be perfect. I'll graduate from college in a matter of days, don't hang around for years. And in the meantime I'll get an Oscar for the best female role.

These are the dreams I had on Earth.

After a couple of days, it dawned on me that the shot putters, and the girls with the spears, and the basketball guys on the chipped asphalt - they all live in their own celestial spheres. These spheres were just adjacent to mine: there was no complete correspondence, but some little things coincided.

On the third day, I met Holly - we became roommates. She was sitting on the swing. (I had no doubt that high school students were supposed to swing - this, among other things, was the unearthly attraction of the gymnasium of the second stage. In addition, the seats should not be simple boards, but comfortable, shell-shaped, made of durable black rubber, they even slightly springy until you begin to sway.) At the same time, Holly read a book written in fancy squiggles; about the same ones I saw on the packages in which my father brought home pork and rice from the Vietnamese restaurant "Podzharka" - Buckley was delighted with this name and yelled at the top of his lungs: "Fry it! Roast it!” Now that I'm more proficient in Vietnamese, I know that the owner of the Roast had nothing to do with Vietnam and used to have a completely different name, and when he came from China to the States, he took the name Herman Jade. It was Holly who enlightened me.

“Hi,” I said. - My name is Suzy.

She later admitted that she borrowed her name from the movie Breakfast at Tiffany's. But on that day, it easily flew off her tongue:

And me, Holly. “Because she always dreamed of getting rid of her accent, she had the perfect accent in heaven.

I could not tear myself away from her black hair, shiny, like in an advertising picture.

– How long have you been here? I asked.

- Three days.

Sitting on a nearby swing, I turned sharply sideways to spin the chains, then another and another. After that, it was possible to unwind as much as you like, until it came to a complete stop.

- How are you doing here? she asked.

- Figovo.

- In my opinion, too.

That's how it all started.

In heaven, each of us fulfilled the simplest desires. The school did without teachers. Lessons could be attended according to mood, only drawing (for me) and jazz music(for Holly). The boys did not pinch us below the back and did not call names. The magazines "17", "Glamour" and "Vot" served as textbooks.

We became friends, and our celestial spheres began to expand. Many desires we have completely coincided.

Franny, my first mentor, taught us the mind. In her early forties, she was a good mother to us, and it took Holly and me a moment to realize that she, too, fulfilled our wish: to have our mother by our side.

In his celestial sphere Frannie gave herself to the service of others, and her reward was their success and appreciation. On earth she worked social work among the poor and the homeless. Her Charitable organization, at the Church of the Virgin Mary, was engaged in the distribution of free meals, but helped only women and children. Frannie kept up everywhere: when necessary, she answered phone calls, when necessary, she fought cockroaches, and hand-to-hand, like a karateka - just by hitting the edge of her palm. She was shot in the face by some guy who was looking for his wife.

Frannie came over to Holly and me on the fifth day and handed each of us a huge glass of green citrus fizz, which we drank with pleasure.

“I will help you in any way I can,” she said.

Looking into her small blue eyes, surrounded by funny wrinkles, I decided to tell the truth:

- It's a hell of a lot of boredom.

Holly stuck out her tongue, trying to see how green it was.

– What would you like? Franny asked.

“How do I know,” I blurted out.

- If you wish something, and very strongly and wisely, most importantly - wisely, and your wish will come true.

It was too easy. But that's the way Holly and I got a house for two, with two separate entrances.

On Earth, I hated our standard home. I could not digest the parental furniture and the view from the windows: exactly the same two-story house, followed by another one, another and another. Similar as twins, they crowded on the slope. Now, under our windows, the park was green, and in the distance - close enough so that we would not suffer from loneliness, and at the same time unobtrusively - the windows of other houses shone.

Over time, I wanted more. Oddly enough, I was overwhelmed desire to know what I did not experience on Earth. I yearned to grow up.

“When people live, they get older,” I shared with Franny. - I want to live.

“Out of the question,” she snapped.

“Can you at least look at the living?” Holly asked.

“You are already looking at them,” was the answer.

“You don’t understand,” I interrupted. - She means a whole life, from beginning to end - it's interesting to know how everything goes there. What are their secrets. Then we will at least make-believe approach them.

"But you won't experience anything like that yourself," Franny said.

- Thank you, Clever mind, - I said, but somehow our celestial spheres began to expand.

The school building remained in its original place - an exact copy of Fairfax Gymnasium, but at least in different sides trails stretched.

“Travel along these roads,” Franny advised, “and you will find what you need.

Since then, Holly and I have not sat still. In our celestial sphere, an ice cream parlor was discovered, where at any moment you could order ice cream with fresh mint and not listen to the answer: "Now it's not the season." Moreover, there was a newspaper that often published our photos - for whatever reason, local celebrities. We were surrounded by spectacular men and beautiful women because we were both into fashion magazines. Sometimes I could see Holly's blank expression on her face, and sometimes I couldn't even yell at her. This happened in those cases when she was transferred to her own celestial sphere, separate from mine. In loneliness, I yearned, but my longing was somehow blunted, because at that time the meaning of the word "never" had already dawned on me.

My biggest dream remained unrealizable: that Mr. Harvey would die and I would come to life. In heaven, too, it sucks. But I came to the conclusion that with the desire and focus I can influence the lives of those whom I loved on Earth.

On the ninth of December, when the phone rang, my father picked up the phone. This was the beginning of the end. He told the police my blood type and, at their request, clarified that I had rather pale skin. They asked about special signs. Dad began to describe my face in detail, but kept getting lost. Detective Fenerman did not rush him - too terrible news awaited our family. Finally he said:

“Mr. Salmon, we found one body part.

Father was on the phone from the kitchen; he was overcome with chills and nausea. How to inform Abigail?

“So you don’t have complete certainty that she died?” - he asked.

“There is no absolute certainty,” said Len Fenerman.

This phrase was passed on to my mother by my father.

- There is no absolute certainty.

For the past three evenings, he could not figure out how to approach his mother and what to say. Previously, they did not know the common grief. From time to time it was not easy for someone alone, but for both at once - this has not happened yet: the one who turned out to be stronger always lent his shoulder. And never before had they fully understood what the word meant. horror.

“There is no such thing as complete certainty,” my mother repeated, seizing on this thought, just as her father had hoped.

Mom was the only one who remembered exactly all the pendants on my bracelet - where did I get it from and what did I like. She made detailed list clothes in which I left home, and everything that I had with me. Like, if any object is found many miles from the city, apart from everything else, this will give a tip to the local police.

And I, watching how my mother lists my things, including the most beloved ones, experienced either bright sadness, or regret about the vain hopes that she placed on this undertaking. Is it possible that a random passer-by, having found a pencil eraser with cartoon characters or a badge with a portrait of a rock star, will report this to the right place?

After the call from the police, my father took my mother by the hand, and they sat on the bed for a long time, looking ahead. Mom silently went over the things from that list in her mind, and it seemed to her father that a dark abyss opened up before him. Then it started to rain. They had the same thing on their minds, I knew, but they were both silent. They thought: what if I wander somewhere in the rain. Whole and unharmed. Looking for a dry and warm place to hide.

A novel written by Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones evokes all sorts of emotions among readers. Someone does not quite like the plot, because it hurts too much and reveals the purulent abscesses of society. He delights someone, because he talks about a world that is secret to everyone. But one thing cannot be denied - this book is sure to make you think about a lot. After the film adaptation of the novel, the book gained even greater popularity, one wants to re-read it and carefully store it, as something intimate and very dear.

Teenage girl Susie Salmon has died. Or rather, she was killed. A neighbor who decided he could get away with it, who couldn't resist his perverted lust. He raped the girl and then killed her. But Suzy's story didn't end there. She ended up in heaven, from where she continued to watch over her family and friends. And for the maniac who tried to cover his tracks. And now Suzy sees how her parents are going through the loss of their beloved daughter, what her friends are doing. Everyone is distracted in their own way, worries or tries not to think about it.

This book brings up so many thoughts about human values about friendship and love. It makes you think about life and death. What if after your death no one wants to remember you? What if even the most dear people will remember you less and less, so as not to disturb the spiritual wounds? Who should let go living dead or dead alive? What is life after death like? This book is also about selfishness and renunciation, about forgiveness and justice. Here, it is not the plot itself that is much more valuable, but the depth of the idea conveyed by the author.

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"On the sixth of December, one thousand nine hundred and seventy-three, when they killed me, I was fourteen years old" - this is how this tragic story. Deceased - main character Susie Salmon adjusts to life in heaven and watches from above as her killer tries to cover his tracks, and her family tries to come to terms with the loss ... But this strong, dramatic book is not about murder, not about violence, but about life. Life after death. The lives of those who remain. Perhaps that is why it is written in such a surprisingly light language. "The Lovely Bones" by Alice Sebold has been translated into forty languages and has sold millions of copies. The novel served as the basis for a new film project by Peter Jackson, one of the leading directors of Hollywood, the author of The Lord of the Rings and King Kong.

"The Lovely Bones" - Plot

The Lovely Bones is a story told from the point of view of a girl named Susie Salmon, who, at the age of 14, was killed and dismembered by a man who lived next door. The crime is committed on the very first pages of the book, its date is December 6, 1973; For the next few years, Susie, who has fallen into her personal paradise, observes the life of her loved ones and the killer and reflects on their fate. Suzy cannot influence what happens in her absence on Earth, but several times she manages to a short time to appear in front of her family, and moreover, one day the girl takes possession of the body of the girl Ruth in order to kiss the guy she was in love with at school. The plot of the novel is linear: almost the entire narrative boils down to the fact that Suzy, seeing “from above” what happens after her death, comments on what is happening, sometimes with brief excursions into the past or the future. The story, beginning with the death of Susie, follows through the breakup of the Salmon family and ends with the birth of a child by Lindsey, Susie's younger sister.

Story

Alice Sebold was raped in May 1981, just after finishing her first year at university in Syracuse, USA, and the day before she was supposed to go home for the holidays. In 1997, she wrote a biography entitled "Lucky" (translated from English as "Happy" or "Lucky"), in which she described everything that happened to her. The police who investigated her case told Siebold that in the same tunnel where she was raped, the girl had previously been killed and her body dismembered. Siebold, according to them, was happy in this regard. Later, Sebold will notice the man who attacked her and report him to the police.

The book was published in the USA in 2002 and turned out to be a real surprise not only for the public and literary critics, but also for the publishers themselves, who did not count on large circulation an author who had previously published only one work and was practically unknown to the general public. The novel entered almost all ratings best novels 2002 and was on the bestseller lists for over a year.

Reviews

Book Reviews The Lovely Bones

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Mariashka_true

Barely a soul in the body...

I had never read anything like it before. A novel about the tragedy of a 14-year-old girl from ordinary family where everyone and everyone loves and respects each other. The happy family lives in a provincial town, so similar to many others. But happiness doesn't last long. Exactly until December 6, 1973, when she was killed. It cannot be said that the book is about her, but about her family and loved ones. About grief, which is impossible to believe, but which you still have to come to terms with. About the growing up of children faced with loss in such early age. About parents who will accept trouble with the same bitter pain, but will draw completely different conclusions for themselves in the future. About classmates, so different, close and distant. About ghosts, feelings, hopes and desires. About a killer who, like everyone else in this story, will find his destiny. There is more to learn and think about here. And of course, I recommend this book to both teenagers and adults. Because this tragedy is written in a language accessible to everyone, in the language of happiness, on an insanely bright note. And you understand that light can be found even in pitch darkness, like goodness in an evil person. PS: just curious. Why didn't the caretaker of the garbage collector tell the police where he saw and talked with the murderer, when suspicions nevertheless fell on him?!

My father had a glass bowl on his desk, and in it was a snow-covered penguin with a red and white striped scarf around his neck. When I was little, my dad would sit me on his lap, pull this little thing closer, turn it upside down, and then abruptly lower it onto the stand. And we watched the penguin being wrapped in snowflakes. But I was haunted: the penguin was there alone, it was a pity for him. Having shared this thought with my father, I heard in response: “Do not worry, Susie, he is not so bad. After all, he was in an ideal world.

CHAPTER FIRST

My name was Suzy and my last name was Salmon, which means "salmon" by the way. December 6, 1973, when I was killed, I was fourteen years old. In the mid-seventies, almost all wanted girls looked about the same: skin color - white, hair - lush, chestnut. Faces like mine peered out from the newspaper pages. It was only later, when boys and girls, both blacks and whites - everything in a row, began to disappear, their photographs began to be placed both on milk bags and on separate leaflets that were dropped into mailboxes. And before, no one could even imagine such a thing.

In the seventh grade, I wrote down in my diary the words of a Spanish poet that my sister pointed out to me. His name is Juan Ramon Jimenez, and the saying was: "If they give you lined paper, write across." I liked it for two reasons: firstly, it expressed contempt for the routine, when everything is done like at school - on call, and secondly, this is not some idiotic quote from a popular rock band, which means Something that made me stand out from the crowd. I was happy to study at the chess club and attend an elective in chemistry, but in the lessons of home economics, to the horror of Mrs. Delminico, I burned everything that was put on fire. My favorite teacher was Mr. Bott, who amused himself in his biology class by teaching us how to dissect frogs and crayfish and then using electrodes to make them twitch.

I'll tell you straight away: it wasn't Mr. Bott who killed me. Do not think that every new person who will be discussed here will be among the suspects. Not at all. Just someone else's soul - darkness. Mr. Bott came to my memorial service (by the way, almost the whole school gathered there - before I could not even dream of such popularity) and even shed a tear. His daughter was seriously ill. This was no secret to anyone, and when he laughed at his own jokes, which everyone had already become fed up with a hundred years before we entered school, we also laughed, sometimes even with force, so as not to offend the teacher. His daughter passed away a year and a half after me. She had leukemia. But in my heavenly land we never met.

Whoever killed me lived on our block. Mom admired his flower borders, and his father once asked him how best to fertilize them. It turned out that the killer used only old, tried-and-tested remedies, such as eggshells and coffee grounds; He said that his mother taught him this. Returning home, my father would say with a sly smile: flowers are a good thing, no doubt, but in the heat they will give off such a spirit that heaven will be sick.

However, on December 6, 1973, it was still snowing, and I ran from school by the shortest route, across the field. There was darkness - even gouge out your eye, because it gets dark early in winter; I remember tripping over broken corn stalks every now and then. Snowflakes flickered before my eyes like tiny soft paws. I breathed through my nose, but soon three streams flowed out of it, and I had to swallow the air with my mouth. A stone's throw from where Mr. Harvey stood, I stuck out my tongue to catch a cold star.

Don't be frightened, said Mr. Harvey.

At dusk, in the middle of a deserted field - of course, I was scared.

Mr. Harvey, I breathed.

You're Salmon's big sister, right?

How are your relatives doing?

Despite the fact that in the family I really was the eldest of the children, and at school I clicked difficult control tests like nuts, for some reason I felt uneasy next to adults.

It’s fine, I managed, shivering from the cold, but out of respect for his age, I seemed to be rooted to the ground, especially since he lived in the neighborhood and dad had recently talked to him about fertilizers.

And I've built something, - he said. - Do you wanna take a look?

Actually, I'm cold, Mr. Harvey, - I replied. - And then, my mother does not allow me to walk when it is dark.

It's so dark now, Susie," he protested.

Why didn't I suspect anything then? I still can't forgive myself for this. How could he know my name? Probably, I thought, dad told him some tale I hated - one of those that he considered evidence of his love for children. My father was one of those who takes naked pictures of his three-year-old daughter and keeps this picture in the bathroom for guests to look at. Thank God, in our family this fate fell to my younger sister Lindsey. At least I was spared that shame. But dad loved to tell everyone how, after the birth of my sister, I was so jealous that one fine day, while he was talking on the phone, I crept along the sofa to the portable cradle where Lindsey slept (and he was watching from another room), and tried to describe newborn. Father told about this first to the pastor of our church, then to a neighbor, Mrs. Stead, so that she expressed her professional opinion as a psychotherapist, and, finally, to all the acquaintances who said: “You have a lively Suzy!”

- "Boykaya"! - picked up the father. - You don't know everything yet! - And immediately went into details about "how Suzy peed on Lindsey."

But, as it turned out later, my father did not mention us at all to Mr. Harvey, much less told him "how Susie peed on Lindsey."

Subsequently, Mr. Harvey, meeting my mother in the street, said these words to her:

Rumors have reached me of this terrible, monstrous tragedy. Remind me what your girl's name was?

Susie, - mother answered cheerfully, crushed by this weight, which, according to her naive calculations, could become lighter with time.

She did not know that the pain would remain for life, becoming more and more sophisticated and cruel over the years. At parting, Mr. Harvey, as usual, said:

I hope this bastard gets caught soon. My condolences.

At this time, I was already in heaven and tried to adapt to a different state, but from such shamelessness I just soared. “This bastard has no conscience,” I called out to Franny, who became my mentor. “Exactly,” she confirmed, and limited herself to this simple word. In my heavenly land, it was not customary to condescend to any rubbish.

Mr. Garvey promised that it would take just a minute, and I followed him a little further, to where the corn stalks rose to their full height, because none of the guys went that way. One day my brother Buckley was wondering why no one eats the local corn, and my mother explained that it was not an edible variety. “Horses are fed with such cobs. People don't eat it," she said. "And the dogs?" Buckley asked. "Dogs don't eat either." - What about dinosaurs? Buckley didn't let up. And so on ad infinitum.

I've built a secret place here," said Mr. Harvey.

Then he stopped and turned to me.

I can't see it, I said.

It didn't escape me that Mr. Harvey was looking at me in a strange way. Since I was out of childhood, older guys often gave me such looks, but hardly anyone could be seriously interested in a scarecrow in a long blue jacket with fur and warm yellow trousers that flared down. Mr. Harvey looked at me over his spectacles, his little round gold-rimmed glasses gleaming.

Alice Sebold

The Lovely Bones

Always to Glen

Chapter first

My name was Susie and my last name was Salmon, which means "salmon" by the way. December 6, 1973, when I was killed, I was fourteen years old. In the mid-seventies, almost all wanted girls looked about the same: skin color - white, hair - lush, chestnut. Faces like mine peered out from the newspaper pages. It was only later, when boys and girls, both blacks and whites - everything in a row, began to disappear, their photographs began to be placed both on milk bags and on separate leaflets that were dropped into mailboxes. And before, no one could even imagine such a thing.

In the seventh grade, I wrote down in my diary the words of a Spanish poet that my sister pointed out to me. His name is Juan Ramon Jimenez, and the saying was: "If they give you lined paper, write across." I liked it for two reasons: firstly, it expressed contempt for the routine, when everything is done like in school - on call, and secondly, this is not some idiotic quote from a popular rock band, which means Something that made me stand out from the crowd. I was happy to study at the chess club and attend an elective in chemistry, but in the lessons of home economics, to the horror of Mrs. Delminico, I burned everything that was put on fire. My favorite teacher was Mr. Bott, who amused himself in his biology class by teaching us how to dissect frogs and crayfish and then using electrodes to make them twitch.

“Don't be frightened,” said Mr. Harvey.

At dusk, in the middle of a deserted field - of course, I was scared.

“Mr. Harvey,” I breathed.

“You're Salmon's big sister, right?

- How are your relatives doing?

Despite the fact that in the family I really was the eldest of the children, and at school I clicked difficult control tests like nuts, for some reason I felt uneasy next to adults.

“I built something here,” he said. - Do you wanna take a look?

“Actually, I'm cold, Mr. Harvey,” I replied. - And besides, my mother does not allow me to walk when it is dark.

“It’s so dark now, Susie,” he protested.

Why didn't I suspect anything then? I still can't forgive myself for this. How could he know my name? Probably, I thought, dad told him some tale I hated - one of those that he considered evidence of his love for children. My father was one of those who takes naked pictures of his three-year-old daughter and keeps this picture in the bathroom for guests to look at. Thank God, in our family this fate fell to my younger sister Lindsey. At least I was spared that shame. But dad loved to tell everyone how, after the birth of my sister, I was so jealous that one fine day, while he was talking on the phone, I crept along the sofa to the portable cradle where Lindsey slept (and he was watching from another room), and tried to describe newborn. Father told about this first to the pastor of our church, then to a neighbor, Mrs. Stead, so that she expressed her professional opinion as a psychotherapist, and, finally, to all the acquaintances who said: “You have a lively Suzy!”

- "Boykaya"! - picked up the father. You don't know everything yet! - And immediately went into detail about "how Susie peed on Lindsey."

But, as it turned out later, my father did not mention us at all to Mr. Harvey, much less told him "how Susie peed on Lindsey."

Subsequently, Mr. Harvey, meeting my mother in the street, said these words to her:

“I have heard rumors of this terrible, monstrous tragedy. Remind me what your girl's name was?

“Susie,” Mom said, bracing herself, crushed by this weight, which, according to her naive calculations, could become lighter with time.

She did not know that the pain would remain for life, becoming more and more sophisticated and cruel over the years.

At parting, Mr. Harvey, as usual, said:

I hope this bastard gets caught soon. My condolences.

At this time, I was already in heaven and tried to adapt to a different state, but from such shamelessness I just soared. “This bastard has no conscience,” I called out to Franny, who became my mentor. “Exactly,” she confirmed, and limited herself to this simple word. In my heavenly land, it was not customary to condescend to any rubbish.

Mr. Garvey promised that it would take just a minute, and I followed him a little further, to where the corn stalks rose to their full height, because none of the guys went that way. One day my brother Buckley was wondering why no one eats the local corn, and my mother explained that it was not an edible variety. “Horses are fed with such cobs. People don't eat it,” she said. "And the dogs?" Buckley asked. "Dogs don't eat either." “And the dinosaurs?” Buckley didn't hesitate.

And so on ad infinitum.

“I can’t see it point-blank,” I said.

“And you, Susie, take a closer look and you will see,” he said.

“Second try,” said Mr. Harvey, crouching down and pounding on the ground.

- What's so special about it? - I did not understand.

My ears were cold. I hated the colorful pom-pom hat with bells my mother had knitted for me for Christmas. This jester's cap was tucked into a jacket pocket.

I remember: I took a step forward and stomped on the spot. There was something hard underfoot, but it didn't look like frozen ground.

- What other dugout? I asked, forgetting both the cold and the male gaze. You might have thought I was drifting into a biology class: I became curious.

- Get in and have a look.

It was impossible to turn inside, he himself admitted it when we squeezed into the dugout. But my attention was already captured by a skillfully made chimney, which allowed, if necessary, to light a fire underground, so I didn’t even think about how inconvenient it was to climb inside and what it would be like to get out. Besides, I had no idea what it meant to flee. The only time I ever ran away was from Artie, a boy from our school. His father was a funeral home owner, and Artie always pretended to carry an embalming syringe with him. Even on his notebooks, he drew needles from which a dark liquid dripped.

- Super duper! I told Mr. Harvey.

Hunched over, he looked like Quasimodo from Notre Dame Cathedral - we read it in French lessons. But I didn't care anymore. I fell into childhood. Turned into her little brother Buckley, who could not be torn away from the huge skeletons in the Museum of Natural History in New York, where he was taken on a tour. I dropped the term "super duper" from my speech when I graduated from elementary school.

“It's like taking candy from a child,” Franny said.

I still see this hole in front of me, as if it happened yesterday - however, nothing surprising. Now for me life is an eternal yesterday. The dugout was the size of a closet: in our house, raincoats and rubber boots were stored in about the same nook, but my mother still managed to squeeze a washing machine into it, and hoisted a drying cabinet on it. In the dugout, I stood almost to my full height, and Mr. Harvey doubled over. An earthen bench stretched along the walls, on which he immediately sat down.

“Rate it,” he said.

There were also shaving accessories and a mirror in that niche. This surprised me. Is it easier to shave at home? But, apparently, I decided that our neighbor is a little "cuckoo" if he, living in a solid two-story house, digs a dugout in the outskirts. For people like him, my father had a streamlined expression: "Great original!"

Mom sat open-mouthed in a hard chair by the front door. Pale as ever. Blue eyes stared at one point. Father, on the contrary, was burning with a thirst for activity. In order not to miss anything, he volunteered to comb the cornfield with the police. To this day I thank fate for sending us a humble detective named Len Fenerman. It was he who appointed two sergeants to my father and sent them to the city to inspect the places where I often visited with my girlfriends. During the first day, the sergeants followed my father around the mall. Lindsey was kept in the dark, although at thirteen she could have figured out what was what; Buckley, who was four years old, all the more knew nothing, and, frankly, later understood little.

Mr. Harvey asked if I would like something delicious. That's exactly what he said. I replied that I was in a hurry to go home.

“At least out of courtesy, take a Coca-Cola,” he insisted. Others would not refuse.

– What are the others?

- The dugout is made for the guys. For them to have a place to hang out.

“Well, okay,” I conceded. - Let's have a Coca-Cola.

After a while he asked:

Are you hot, Susie? Can you unbutton your jacket?

I did so.

Then he said:

You are a real beauty, Susie.

“Thank you,” I replied, although, as we used to say on such occasions with my school friend Clarissa, I almost pissed myself.

- Do you have a boy?

No, Mr Harvey. I was choking on a Coca-Cola, but I couldn’t finish it. “I have to go, Mr. Harvey. You're doing great here, but I've got to go.

Rising from the bench, he again crouched like a hunchback near the six earthen steps that led into the world.

- What makes you think that I will let you go?

“Mr. Harvey, it really is time for me to go home.

- Get undressed.

“Take off your clothes,” repeated Mr. Harvey. I want to check if you have kept your virginity.

“Kept it, Mr. Harvey.

- I'll check it out. Your parents will thank you.

- My parents?

Parents love only good girls.

“Mr. Harvey,” I muttered, “let me go, please.”

“I won’t let you go anywhere, Susie. Now you are mine.

I thought about my mother.

She kept glancing at the timer on the stove. The stove was bought recently, and my mother could not get enough of this timer.

“Now I have everything calculated by the minute,” she boasted to her mother, who was the last thing in the world interested in stoves.

Mom was probably worried that I was gone for a long time, or rather, she was not so much worried as angry.

Here her father, having arrived from work, came out of the garage, and she fussed, mixing a cocktail for him, and she herself said with annoyance:

“You see, they are being detained at school again. Maybe they have a spring festival?

What are you talking about, Abigail? her father answered. - What is the holiday of spring in such a snowstorm?

To cover up her misstep, Mom probably shoved Buckley out of the kitchen and into the room, tossed him "Play with Dad" while she took a sip of sherry herself, without witnesses.

Mr. Harvey covered my mouth with his wet, slimy lips; I almost screamed, but I was completely exhausted and crushed with fear. Until now, I've only been kissed by someone I liked. His name was Ray and he was from India. Swarthy, spoke with an accent. It was believed that we were not a couple. Clarissa gave him the nickname “Camel” because of his large eyes, which looked out from under half-closed eyelids, but in fact he was a good guy, smart, once he even threw a “spur” at me in an algebra exam, and so deftly that nobody noticed. He kissed me in the hallway, just before the day when the photos were due for the school diary. At the beginning of the school year, each student was given such a diary, and I spied that on the line with the standard words "My heart belongs to ..." Ray wrote: "Susie Salmon." His lips, I remember, were quite dry.

“Don't, Mr. Harvey,” I choked out, and then only repeated one word: “No.” And from time to time I still “beg”. According to Franny, almost everyone says "please" before they die.

“I want you, Susie,” he croaked.

“Please,” I whispered. And then again. - No.

- Please, no.

“White panties,” he breathed.

- Susie! Suzy! - I heard my mother's cry. – Home!

And he was in me at that time. And moaned.

“Lamb and beans for lunch!”

He pushed the stake into me.

Your brother drew a picture. The apple pie is getting cold!

Now I knew that he would kill me. I just didn’t realize that I was actually already dying, like a hunted animal.

Maybe it's time to get up? Mr. Harvey rolled to the side and then loomed over me.

I was unable to move. And especially don't get up.

Pulling a knitted hat out of my mouth, he demanded:

- Say that you love me.

And I said, just be very quiet.

The inevitable happened anyway.

Chapter Two

After the seventh, eighth and ninth grades of secondary school, entering the tenth grade of the gymnasium promised a new life. I was already planning how in high school I would demand that they call me Susanna. I imagined how I would wear loose hair or a beautiful knot at the back of my head. How the boys will go crazy at the sight of my gorgeous figure, and the girls will die of envy, but at the same time I will have such a good character that my classmates will be tormented by conscience, and in the end everyone will be drawn to me without exception. I liked to imagine how at recess, in the cafeteria, I would stand up for the offended. For example, someone will start teasing Clive Saunders that he has a woman's walk, and I will immediately deal with the offender by moving his foot to the most sensitive place. Or, say, the boys will mock Phoebe Hart, whose bust grows by leaps and bounds, and I will cut them off: laugh, laugh, nothing grows anywhere. At the same time, I completely lost sight of the fact that I myself was not without sin - when Phoebe went to the blackboard, I scribbled on the margins of the notebook: “Hurrah! Buffer!”, “Dairy Farm”, “Two watermelons to the belly”. Finally, in my dreams, I saw how I would be blissful in the back seat of a car, and I would hire my father as a driver. Literally in everything I will be perfect. I'll graduate from college in a matter of days, don't hang around for years. And in the meantime, I'll get an Oscar for Best Actress.

These are the dreams I had on Earth.

We became friends, and our celestial spheres began to expand. Many desires we have completely coincided.

In her heavenly realm, Frannie gave herself to the service of others, and was rewarded by their success and appreciation. On Earth, she was engaged in social work among the poor and homeless. Her charitable organization, at the Church of the Virgin Mary, distributed free meals, but helped only women and children. Frannie kept pace everywhere: when necessary, answered the phone when necessary, fought cockroaches, and hand-to-hand, like a karateka - just by hitting the edge of her palm. She was shot in the face by some guy who was looking for his wife.