The Resurrection by Gardner John

Author:Gardner, John [Gardner, John]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2010-09-21T04:00:00+00:00

But downstairs, where Marie had left him, they found no sign of John Horne. It was as if he’d been swallowed up in a puff of smoke.

8

SINCE writing, working the idea out on paper, was the only course open to him, Chandler wrote. He worked until three in the morning. The pencil grew slippery in his fingers, and whenever the heel of his hand touched the paper, the paper stuck; nevertheless, he was hardly aware of what effort the writing took. His mind raced, seemed to be burning up, and he was astonished at (as he put it to himself) how well the old machine still worked. But the strength of his mind was in part illusory. Again and again he would lose the thread of the argument, the machine would come to a standstill, and without knowing it, Chandler would slip into a kind of faint, to awaken four minutes later with the unfinished thought on his brain. When at last he laid the pencil and his odds and ends of paper down—Marie had been able to find only scraps: half of a prescription tablet, some mimeographed forms the backs of which were clean, a few sheets of stationery that the Indian girl happened to have—Marie came to him and moved them to the dresser top, where he could reach them if he needed to. She tucked him in for sleep gently, grimly, as she would a child who had displeased her. The flesh around her eyes was gray and puffy from lack of sleep.

Chandler slept until nearly ten the next morning. When he opened his eyes he saw Marie curled up sideways in her uncomfortable chair, reading. He thought at once of the writing he’d begun, but he did not turn to it at once. He felt calm now, well rested and even something like happy, despite his vague aches and the feeling of deadness in his back and buttocks from lying too long in one position. He closed his eyes again to lie in a kind of reverie.

After a time he found himself remembering perfectly distinctly the room where he had slept in his grandfather’s house as a child. The late-morning sunlight was brilliant and friendly, and he remembered the pleasure he’d felt in his odd sense that there was no question whatever of anything’s being anything else. Every object in the room was familiar and sure and wholly itself, and all the objects in the room were in the room, and nothing that was not there was there, though at night he was never so sure of that as he was in the morning. Even the glossy hardwood bedroom floor was distinct from the hallway floor: There was a low, rounded wooden thing below the door (which stood open, in his memory, looking into his grandmother’s room), and on one side of the wooden divider lay the bedroom, on the other, the hall. On the floor but sharply separated from it was the dresser, which had

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