Stillness & Shadows by John Gardner (accelerated reader books TXT) 📕

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.

“Craine?” Royce bellowed again.

“Coming. Just getting my pants on,” Craine called back. His expression was cunning now, like an animal’s, and like an animal—a wolf—he stepped without a sound to the dresser and opened the top drawer. He drew out his second pistol, felt under the socks and underwear for the bullet box, and loaded the gun. He pushed it down into his belt, where if he made a mistake he’d blow his cock off, then quickly stepped back to the bed for his suit coat, pulled it on, and buttoned it. Hurriedly, noisily, he went to the door, turned the night latch, and opened it. Royce stood a little crooked in the hallway, soaked by rain, his right hand clamped around a beer can, a cigarette in his left.

“I thought you was dead for a while there,” Royce said. He let out the beginning of a grin, then changed his mind, slightly squinting, and raised the cigarette for a pull.

“Damn near,” Craine said. He stepped back from the door, holding it open, and Royce came in.

“Jesus,” Royce said. “Stinks in here.”

Craine nodded. “Pipe smoke, whiskey, old age.”

“Smells more like socks and piss.”

“Them too.”

Royce stood square in the middle of the room now, where he could see into the bathroom and everywhere else. He stood with his cap on, his fists on his hips, one of them holding the cigarette like a pencil, his black boots solid on the floor as a farmer’s. “First thing I’d do,” he said, “I’d burn all these books.”

“Might set fire to the window shades,” Craine said.

Royce tipped up the beer and drained it, his back still to Craine, crumpled the can in his fist—no big deal, though it was meant to be ominous; the can was aluminum—then at last turned around to look at him. He had his shoulder holster on. He looked at Craine for a long time, the way a black would do, over in his own territory, backed up by friends. Craine made no scene about meeting the man’s eyes, merely looked out the window at the telephone lines, the gray rain, the day hardly brighter than the gray of the room, then casually went over to the lightswitch and flicked on the bulb.

“You got anything in this hellhole to drink?” Royce said.

Craine smiled. “Emmit, you drink too much.”

Royce laughed, a snort, and for an instant his eyes flashed anger. “I got a hundred dollars here says you got Scotch.”

“As it happens, I do have a little Scotch whiskey,” Craine allowed, still smiling and went over to the dresser, opened the middle drawer, and drew a new bottle out. He held it up against the light, pretending to admire the color, stalling to break down Royce’s resolve.

Royce went over to the john to throw his cigarette in the toilet. “You got glasses here somewheres?”

“On the sink,” Craine called.

Royce got the glass and started back out into the room, then changed his mind and, without closing the door, stayed to piss. Over the noise he called, “The Building Blocks of the Universe. You read this shit?”

“Just the pictures,” Craine called.

“What?” Royce called back.

“Never mind,” Craine said. The sound of Royce’s pissing went on and on, then the toilet flushed and Royce came back into the room, lighting another cigarette as he came. That was new, it struck Craine now. Royce hadn’t smoked since they’d told him about his emphysema. He came straight toward Craine—it looked as if he’d gotten his anger back—but the thud of the boots was unsure, as if the man were even now of two minds. He held his glass out. Craine put away the first aid box, then uncapped the bottle and filled it. Royce sipped, sloshed the whiskey around in his mouth, and wet his lips, frowning. “Listen, Craine,” he said.

Craine inclined his head as if interested, moving past him toward the bed to get the dirty glass standing on the floor there. As he picked it up and filled it, Royce sipped again, pushed his cap back. “You want the chair?” Craine said, and waved his glass in the direction of the only chair he had, the lumpy old platform rocker by the window.

“I’m all right,” Royce said.

Craine shrugged, stooped again for the ashtray near where the glass had been, straightened up again—or straightened as much as he ever did—and walked with the whiskey and ashtray to the chair Royce had refused. When he sat down, Royce settled on the