Angels by Denis Johnson Page A

her sister-in-law had arrived, and then longer, until it was nearly spent—and then she’d seen the uselessness of everything and had realized that she had a few words to say to Bill Houston. His departure had looked like the end of their involvement. But it was not the end. You got so you could feel these things.
    Now she stood on Clark Street out of ideas. Miranda straddled the suitcase, riding it like a horse. There weren’t any hotel-type monstrosities in sight. Some of these theaters looked all right, and some of them looked like X-rated. The two or three restaurants she could see were closed. A bitter wind seemed to blow the light around among the buildings. None of these people they were among now looked at all legitimate.
    â€œMa-ma,” Miranda said, “Ma-ma, Ma-ma, Ma-ma”—just chanting, tired and confused. A man in a cheap and ridiculous red suit standing two yards away seemed to be taking an unhealthy interest in her as she bounced on the suitcase. “Come here, hon,” Jamie said, yanking her off it by the arm. The man kept looking at them. “You are sick,” she told him. The El train screeched around a curve in the tracks a half block away. Everything suddenly seemed submerged in deafness. “Shit,” Jamie said. “My eyeballs feel like boiling rocks.”
    â€œWhat?” Miranda peered up at the shadow of her mother’s face. “Lemme see, Mama.”
    The man in the red suit had approached. “Good evening.” Hands jammed in his pockets; collar turned up.
    â€œI hate this part,” Jamie said. “I hate the part where the hilljack in the red suit says good evening.”
    â€œI’m not a hilljack,” the man said. “I know everybody from here to about six blocks north of Wilson.”
    â€œI lack the strength to talk to you,” Jamie said.
    â€œWell, I just thought I could probably help you.” He gestured, palm up, toward Miranda, and the suitcase, and then the baby in Jamie’s arms, as if introducing her to her difficulty. “I drank two cups of coffee in the lounge there”—with the same hand, he now included the bus station behind them among her troubles—“and you were just kind of hanging around inside the door the whole time. Now you’re out side the door. I mean, are you waiting for somebody? What’s your story?” He had a thinly nervous quality of innocence—he seemed, all of a sudden, not too dangerous.
    â€œI haven’t got a story,” Jamie said. “I’m on empty.”
    â€œI really don’t care what you think of my suit,” the man said. “I don’t have to explain anything to anybody about my suit. I’m on Voke Rehab, is the thing. I have a disease. I don’t need to work or buy or sell. Do you know what?” he said to Miranda. “All I ever do is go in one joint after another, and talk to the people about anything—whatever they want to talk about. That’s how I know everybody from here to Wilson and beyond. So I wanted to help your mother, but she just thinks I’m a hilljack in a red suit or something. Is this one a boy or a girl?” he asked Jamie, peering closely into the shadowed face of Baby Ellen, wrapped in a blanket and nestled in her mother’s arms. “Got black eyes.”
    â€œGirl,” Jamie said.
    â€œIf you’re waiting for somebody,” the man said, “they’re sure taking their time, whoever they are. Are you waiting for somebody,”
    â€œI’m looking for somebody. Not waiting. Looking.”
    â€œWho are you looking for? Jeez, it’s cold. Let’s get out of this winter.” He pushed backward through the glass doors of the station, dragging the suitcase with both hands, drawing Jamie and Miranda after him as if by the influence of a galactic wind. “Who are you looking for?” In the brighter illumination, his suit was revealed to be