Read Online The Lost Language of Cranes by David Leavitt - Free Book Online
Authors: David Leavitt
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hiss of the radiator and the hum of the dishwasher.
This Sunday, she arrived home from her voyage downtown wet and disoriented, pulled off her raincoat and clothes, stumbled into the shower, and stood there under the rush of steam and water until she was warm again. Then she dusted herself with lavender-scented powder, put on a long, loose bathrobe, and sat: down in her favorite chair to read.
A few minutes into her book she looked at the clock. It was nearly dinnertime, and still Owen wasn't home. She could not quite believe that she had run into him this afternoon, that she had spoken with him as if he were a passing acquaintance. It was as if someone else had been living with her all those years, eating dinner with her, sleeping in her bed, and raising her child. Owen had been replaced; he had replaced himself, gone somewhere else. Or perhaps it was Rose who was gone, Rose who had been walking entranced or asleep for twenty years and was just waking up to discover, like an invalid emerging from a coma, how much time had actually passed. Twenty-seven years.
She put her book away, settled down on the sofa, and turned 0n the television. A nurse who was gentle and kindly the last time Rose had watched the series had become, over a month's interval, a psychopathic murderer. Rose was confused. She tried to follow the story line, to figure out what had happened to the nurse; but where was Owen? To her surprise, she found herself wishing more than anything that it had not happened, that she might relive the day and take another route, miss seeing Owen. But of course it had happened, she had seen him. The strangeness of the meeting altered things; she could not concentrate, and remembered the years of Sunday nights watching television, so taken for granted, as precious and rare.
The television show was getting out of hand, so Rose switched it off, stood up, and walked to the window. Outside, the wind blew the hat off a woman on the street, who ran after it, past a bus, a cab, onto the sidewalk. She thought, Really, you're exaggerating. It hasn't been that long. For the first fourteen years or so, anyway, Philip was growing up, they had a child to occupy them. Maybe five years Owen had been gone, at most. And certainly, there had been moments when a great desire for change welled up in Rose, moments when, as she had long ago read in Proust (and she always, always remembered), the heartstrings yearn to be plucked at any cost, the soul tires of contentment, the body craves any kind of change, even decimation, even death. During those rare episodes of wanting, Rose had always looked to someone else, not to Owen. Could that have been it? she wondered now. It had all happened years ago, and besides, he could never have found out; she covered her tracks. But what if he did know? What if he knew, and had decided, rather than leave her outright, simply to disappear, and see if she noticed? And had she noticed? Not until today.
There was a familiar rattling noise at the door. Owen's key was a copy of a copy of a copy and didn't quite fit the lock; he always had to fiddle with it a few seconds before he could get the door open. For years he had been muttering about getting a new key made, and for years Rose had had a joke with him about what a convenient signal the rattling noise was when she was in bed with the doorman and had to shunt him quickly out the service entrance. Owen never got the key fixed, enjoying a little, she suspected, the secret knowledge he had acquired of its quirks and nuances.
The door opened. Owen's raincoat dripped onto the carpet. He took his Totes hat and held it gingerly over the doormat, and bits of slush dropped to the floor. Only then did he look up and notice Rose, who had stood up from her chair and immediately sat down again.
"Hello," she said.
"Hello," he said.
"My God, you're wet," she said. "Did you walk all the way home?" Then she caught her breath. Without ever intending to, she had acknowledged
This Sunday, she arrived home from her voyage downtown wet and disoriented, pulled off her raincoat and clothes, stumbled into the shower, and stood there under the rush of steam and water until she was warm again. Then she dusted herself with lavender-scented powder, put on a long, loose bathrobe, and sat: down in her favorite chair to read.
A few minutes into her book she looked at the clock. It was nearly dinnertime, and still Owen wasn't home. She could not quite believe that she had run into him this afternoon, that she had spoken with him as if he were a passing acquaintance. It was as if someone else had been living with her all those years, eating dinner with her, sleeping in her bed, and raising her child. Owen had been replaced; he had replaced himself, gone somewhere else. Or perhaps it was Rose who was gone, Rose who had been walking entranced or asleep for twenty years and was just waking up to discover, like an invalid emerging from a coma, how much time had actually passed. Twenty-seven years.
She put her book away, settled down on the sofa, and turned 0n the television. A nurse who was gentle and kindly the last time Rose had watched the series had become, over a month's interval, a psychopathic murderer. Rose was confused. She tried to follow the story line, to figure out what had happened to the nurse; but where was Owen? To her surprise, she found herself wishing more than anything that it had not happened, that she might relive the day and take another route, miss seeing Owen. But of course it had happened, she had seen him. The strangeness of the meeting altered things; she could not concentrate, and remembered the years of Sunday nights watching television, so taken for granted, as precious and rare.
The television show was getting out of hand, so Rose switched it off, stood up, and walked to the window. Outside, the wind blew the hat off a woman on the street, who ran after it, past a bus, a cab, onto the sidewalk. She thought, Really, you're exaggerating. It hasn't been that long. For the first fourteen years or so, anyway, Philip was growing up, they had a child to occupy them. Maybe five years Owen had been gone, at most. And certainly, there had been moments when a great desire for change welled up in Rose, moments when, as she had long ago read in Proust (and she always, always remembered), the heartstrings yearn to be plucked at any cost, the soul tires of contentment, the body craves any kind of change, even decimation, even death. During those rare episodes of wanting, Rose had always looked to someone else, not to Owen. Could that have been it? she wondered now. It had all happened years ago, and besides, he could never have found out; she covered her tracks. But what if he did know? What if he knew, and had decided, rather than leave her outright, simply to disappear, and see if she noticed? And had she noticed? Not until today.
There was a familiar rattling noise at the door. Owen's key was a copy of a copy of a copy and didn't quite fit the lock; he always had to fiddle with it a few seconds before he could get the door open. For years he had been muttering about getting a new key made, and for years Rose had had a joke with him about what a convenient signal the rattling noise was when she was in bed with the doorman and had to shunt him quickly out the service entrance. Owen never got the key fixed, enjoying a little, she suspected, the secret knowledge he had acquired of its quirks and nuances.
The door opened. Owen's raincoat dripped onto the carpet. He took his Totes hat and held it gingerly over the doormat, and bits of slush dropped to the floor. Only then did he look up and notice Rose, who had stood up from her chair and immediately sat down again.
"Hello," she said.
"Hello," he said.
"My God, you're wet," she said. "Did you walk all the way home?" Then she caught her breath. Without ever intending to, she had acknowledged
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