Read Online The Resuscitation of a Hanged Man by Denis Johnson - Free Book Online
Authors: Denis Johnson
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Grace said.
“I mean the people around me, the other roomers.”
“You get to know them?” She leaned forward with an interest that seemed quite false.
“Well, you know—they come and go, I guess. But there’s two or three who’ve been there as long as I have. We say hello, we sit in the foyer down there and talk sometimes.” This was a lie.
“You should get to know your neighbors,” Grace said. She was about to wipe her hands on her apron, and then, apparently just realizing that she was wearing it, she pushed her chair back, stood up, and reached around behind her back to untie it, clawing upward at the bow behind her neck with some small alarm. On the front of her apron was the slogan When It’s Smokin’ It’s Cookin’ and When It’s Black It’s Done .
Ray Sands dabbed at his lips with his napkin and then said, “Grace. Here. Here.” He stood up and loosened the bow for her. They both sat back down. Grace was still wearing her apron, and now she wiped her hands across the breast of it.
English said, “This is— wonderful stuff, Grace. Really. I didn’t expect to get a home-cooked meal any time soon.”
“Thank you very, very much,” she said.
“We knew you’d been on your own all month, so we thought we’d better have you over,” Sands told him. “I realize your schedule doesn’t give you much chance to get acquainted around town.”
“Well, I just have to thank you,” English said, suddenly actually feeling grateful. “It’s a really nice gesture.”
“Doesn’t Polly—what’s her name, now?”
“Polly—I can’t remember her last name,” English said. Polly was one of the receptionists at WPRD.
“Right, yes. Doesn’t she live in the same rooming house?”
“I’ve never seen her around there.”
“Maybe it’s another one,” Sands decided. He seemed unaware that his wife had stopped eating anything and was now staring at English with a kind of sinister, amused recognition—one thief to another.
“A nice lady,” Grace said. “I like to know her.”
“She’s really a very nice person,” Ray Sands agreed.
“Right,” English said. “I’m sure she’s a very nice person.”
“I mean take the time.” Grace was still looking at him with a smoky knowledge in her eyes. “I mean really know her,” she said. “Really.”
“Well,” Ray Sands said. “And isn’t there some dessert?”
This question pulled the rug right out from under her. “Des sert ?” she said.
“I believe you’ve got some dessert for us?”
“Dessert.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I do,” she said. She seemed to be travelling through a long tunnel to reach this dinner conversation. “And I got something else!” She stood up and took off her apron without any trouble and went, taking the tiny steps of a bulky old woman, through the living room and out through the sliding doors. Her dress was gay and printed with flowers, like the upholstery she passed. English saw that she wore knee stockings rolled down to her ankles and huge black shoes that tied with laces. He heard her going up the stairs: clump, clump; clump, clump, getting both feet firmly on each stair step before trying the next one.
Outdoors, the sunlight was leaving the world. Ray Sands walked through the living room and dining room, turning on the lamps.
Now English had no more polite remarks to deliver. He watched the dregs of dinner grow cold while Sands went into the kitchen and came out with some ice cream in three tapered sundae dishes, and three long spoons, keeping pretty quiet himself.
By the clumping of Grace’s big black shoes, she was just overhead; now she was coming down the stairs again, and now she was back in the living room, carrying a green gift-wrapped package just about the right size—English was trying to guess —for a truly massive cigar, and in her other hand a color photograph in a gold frame. Grace set the picture on the table, right in front of a chair, as if its subject were joining
“I mean the people around me, the other roomers.”
“You get to know them?” She leaned forward with an interest that seemed quite false.
“Well, you know—they come and go, I guess. But there’s two or three who’ve been there as long as I have. We say hello, we sit in the foyer down there and talk sometimes.” This was a lie.
“You should get to know your neighbors,” Grace said. She was about to wipe her hands on her apron, and then, apparently just realizing that she was wearing it, she pushed her chair back, stood up, and reached around behind her back to untie it, clawing upward at the bow behind her neck with some small alarm. On the front of her apron was the slogan When It’s Smokin’ It’s Cookin’ and When It’s Black It’s Done .
Ray Sands dabbed at his lips with his napkin and then said, “Grace. Here. Here.” He stood up and loosened the bow for her. They both sat back down. Grace was still wearing her apron, and now she wiped her hands across the breast of it.
English said, “This is— wonderful stuff, Grace. Really. I didn’t expect to get a home-cooked meal any time soon.”
“Thank you very, very much,” she said.
“We knew you’d been on your own all month, so we thought we’d better have you over,” Sands told him. “I realize your schedule doesn’t give you much chance to get acquainted around town.”
“Well, I just have to thank you,” English said, suddenly actually feeling grateful. “It’s a really nice gesture.”
“Doesn’t Polly—what’s her name, now?”
“Polly—I can’t remember her last name,” English said. Polly was one of the receptionists at WPRD.
“Right, yes. Doesn’t she live in the same rooming house?”
“I’ve never seen her around there.”
“Maybe it’s another one,” Sands decided. He seemed unaware that his wife had stopped eating anything and was now staring at English with a kind of sinister, amused recognition—one thief to another.
“A nice lady,” Grace said. “I like to know her.”
“She’s really a very nice person,” Ray Sands agreed.
“Right,” English said. “I’m sure she’s a very nice person.”
“I mean take the time.” Grace was still looking at him with a smoky knowledge in her eyes. “I mean really know her,” she said. “Really.”
“Well,” Ray Sands said. “And isn’t there some dessert?”
This question pulled the rug right out from under her. “Des sert ?” she said.
“I believe you’ve got some dessert for us?”
“Dessert.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I do,” she said. She seemed to be travelling through a long tunnel to reach this dinner conversation. “And I got something else!” She stood up and took off her apron without any trouble and went, taking the tiny steps of a bulky old woman, through the living room and out through the sliding doors. Her dress was gay and printed with flowers, like the upholstery she passed. English saw that she wore knee stockings rolled down to her ankles and huge black shoes that tied with laces. He heard her going up the stairs: clump, clump; clump, clump, getting both feet firmly on each stair step before trying the next one.
Outdoors, the sunlight was leaving the world. Ray Sands walked through the living room and dining room, turning on the lamps.
Now English had no more polite remarks to deliver. He watched the dregs of dinner grow cold while Sands went into the kitchen and came out with some ice cream in three tapered sundae dishes, and three long spoons, keeping pretty quiet himself.
By the clumping of Grace’s big black shoes, she was just overhead; now she was coming down the stairs again, and now she was back in the living room, carrying a green gift-wrapped package just about the right size—English was trying to guess —for a truly massive cigar, and in her other hand a color photograph in a gold frame. Grace set the picture on the table, right in front of a chair, as if its subject were joining
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