John Gardner - Stillness & Shadows

When the mumbles became clear and Craine’s vision adjusted, Craine was lying on a lumpy couch, Elaine not far from him, Tom Meakins standing next to her, on her right. At the foot of the couch and elsewhere in the room there were other people, college students Craine didn’t know.

Meakins came forward. “You awake, Craine? You all right?” His voice was crabby, his face dark red, and stern.

Craine nodded, then ruefully shook his head. “Must’ve missed the top step,” he said. Someone laughed.

“I’d say you missed most of them,” Meakins said. “With your feet, anyway. Think you can sit up?”

He made an attempt. Pain shot up his elbows. “What time is it? We gotta get Miss Glass here to her class.”

“I’ll see to it,” Meakins said. He came forward and bent down to pull Craine up into sitting position. “I’m taking over for you. Hannah’s orders. How in hell you manage to get so plastered so early in the morning?”

“It wasn’t that,” Craine said. “If you’d seen what I—” He thought about it, then nodded. “Must’ve gotten carried away,” he said. He squinted at Elaine, wondering if she knew the extent of his insanity. Her face wouldn’t focus, and when he reached up he found that his glasses were missing.

“It’s all right, I’ve got ’em,” Meakins said and drew them from his pocket.

Craine continued to pat himself — pants pockets, coat pockets. “You find my gun?” he said.

“Hannah says you’re not to have it,” Meakins said. “Think you can walk?” Again he reached for Craine’s armpits.

“I’m all right,” Craine said, testy, though he was glad to have the help. When he was standing he could feel all the places he’d hit, lump on his head — when he touched it he found it was large and broken open — pain in his elbows, back, and legs. The first step he took, his left leg buckled. Meakins caught him. “Sorry,” Craine said. He did not sound it.

“Come on, we’ll get you home first,” Meakins said. He took Craine’s left arm. Elaine came around on the other side. “Lean on me,” she said. They helped him out onto the porch and down the steps toward Meakins’ Chevy.

Craine pulled back. “Can’t leave the truck,” he said.

Meakins pulled him forward. “The hell you can’t.”

“Nobody’ll bother it, I think,” Elaine said. She let go of his arm and stepped ahead to open the car door. In the front seat lay the plastic-covered Bible. Slowly and carefully, favoring his bruised parts, Craine got in. “Tom,” he said, “Hannah find anything about tumps?”

Meakins came around to the driver’s side before answering. “She says they’re not even in the dictionary.” He held the door open so Elaine could get in back.

“Anything about—” Craine hesitated—“that license?”

“You’re on vacation, Craine,” Meakins said. Though his voice was boyish, it was fierce, closing the subject. “Sit back and close your eyes, or read your Bible.”

Obediently, Craine closed his eyes.

“Do you hurt a lot, Mr. Craine?” Elaine asked.

“I’ll make it.”

The car swung out onto the street. Meakins switched on the radio so he wouldn’t have to talk. Craine, head back on the seat, opened his eyes just enough to look at him. They were taking over for him, it was plain to see — Meakins and Hannah. No harm, point of fact. No business for a person in Craine’s condition. If someone had said to him, “Craine, if I were you I’d seek out employment more suitable,” he would have said, “You’re right. I will.”

Meakins said, “Craine, what made you suddenly run in there like that?”

Craine sighed. Never mind that his brain was a shambles. If they were going to take over they’d have to smarten up. What if the answer he’d had to give, there in front of the girl, was “I thought I saw the murderer.” He thought of telling the truth, pretending it was a joke, then at once thought better of it. He closed his eyes. “I had to pee,” he said. Then, with his eyes still closed: “Royce all right, after yesterday?”

“I’d stay clear of him, if I was you,” Meakins said.

Craine looked at him. Tom Meakins’ face was dark again, his mouth firmly set, distressed.

“You’ve heard from him then?” Craine smiled and let his eyes fall shut. “So he says he’s gonna get me.”

Meakins was stubbornly silent. They came to Craine’s hotel.

“Get some sleep, Craine,” Meakins said as Craine climbed out.

Elaine Glass leaned forward in the back seat, eyes wide. “Don’t do that ,” she said, “it’s the worst thing you can do! When I was knocked down one time on my bicycle—”

Craine closed the car door, ducked his head to smile and wave at her, climbed the narrow stairs to his room and went to bed.

He slept like a log for hours. Then dreams came. He dreamed he was visiting a House of Horrors with a woman of uncertain identity — sometimes she seemed to be his long-dead aunt Harriet, sometimes for a moment she seemed to be Elaine. At times both his aunt and Elaine took over as narrator of the dream, as if all that was happening was a movie or book. He was excited, reaching up to pay for his ticket, which cost seven cents. He could not make out who was selling the tickets, but the hand that reached down to him was white with age and palsied. All around him, people in black hats or black shawls waited patiently for a small dark green door to open, then went in, three or four at a time. Inside, where they could not turn back, a sign said, proceed at your own risk. They made their way carefully over a long narrow plank, black and slippery with oil, that spanned a pit containing rattlesnakes and people who had fallen. Occasionally people screamed, or a sudden mechanical shriek came, accompanied by the brief illumination of a green, dead face, a descending axe, a huge winged bull that came charging on steel tracks, a striking serpent head four feet wide. The deaths were real — gushing blood, rolling eyes — but most of the visitors moved safely past each horror. Sometimes the woman who was with him would cling to him in terror, but neither of them spoke. He found himself comforting a young man who had died and come to life again. “It was like another world,” he said. “It was white with clouds and beautiful trees … a beautiful, sunny day.” An old woman said, “I know what he means. I’ve had it too. I was floating in air toward a wide-open door with light all around Jesus. Behind Him was a long staircase with angels lined up the stairs.” Someone said — a doctor, perhaps; he was holding a stethoscope to a severed head—“About twenty-one percent of the people I’ve interviewed have had these experiences. The Florida team had eleven out of fifty, which is very close to my results.” They were standing on a sparkling white linoleum floor, all around them a great silent crowd wearing black. From the ceiling above them, and above the many balconies crowded with people, rising ring after ring, came a booming noise. No one seemed to hear it, so carefully were they listening to the doctor. “My reaction was initially one of skepticism,” the doctor said, “but now I’m totally convinced that these experiences are real.” The booming became louder, and a voice began shouting, “Craine! Craine!”

He jerked his head, awakening, and realized that the booming was coming from his door, and the voice was that of Emmit Royce. He sat up, put his legs over the side, and called, “Just a minute! I hear you!” He started for the door, automatically feeling for his shoulder holster, then stopped, his mind momentarily gone blank. He remembered then that Meakins had taken his gun. He started once more toward where Royce waited for him to open up, then again stopped short, and with an expression of bafflement looked around the room — the glass-knobbed deal dresser, three handles missing; the rumpled bed; the desk, trunk, television, disordered piles of books.