Hodge nodded. “Salvador,” he said.
The fat woman to Sprague’s left turned to look at Hodge angrily. She turned away again at once and hissed to the woman beside her, “Salvador.”
“They don’t train ’em right,” Sprague said. “Whole town run by graft. Whole durn country run by graft. Dang Democrats must be out of their minds. Put a Baptist cowboy in the White House.”
The angry woman turned her head again. “What you saying about Democrats?”
“I said they’re crazy, ma’am,” Sprague said. He touched his hatbrim. “Ain’t that so, Counsellor?”
Hodge nodded absent-mindedly and started for the steps.
Clumly was at his piled-deep desk, slyly pretending to read the Sunday funnies as if he had nothing on earth to do—as if the crowd in the outer office had nothing whatsoever to do with him. He glanced up then down at the paper quickly, pretending he had not bothered to look up, and for a moment Hodge was—for no real reason, it seemed to him the next moment—furious. What the devil was Clumly up to? But Hodge kept his temper. This was no time for fury. That was one of the things you learned at Law, the ability to choose the time. He said, “They said it was Salvador.”
Clumly nodded, looking up now. His eyes were ice.
“What happened?”
“Who knows? He was here alone, just one other man, at the desk. Sunday and all. Your boy knocked out the man at the desk and tied him up and got the cell door open some way or another—it was shut again when we come in—and Salvador must’ve pulled his gun, only he didn’t have sense to use it. Your boy got hold of it, tipped it up, maybe. Anyway, he was shot up through the chin.” Clumly pointed, tipping his head back. “Come look.”
He got up from the desk and led Hodge to the hallway leading to the cellblock. (It was almost empty now. Two policemen, a Negro, one man in a suit, maybe from the paper.) As soon as the hall door was open Hodge caught the smell. It was like the heavy scent of cow’s blood, the smell that had filled the slaughterhouse at Stony Hill. When he looked, the stuff was everywhere, sticky now, like dark paste—a wide puddle on the floor, stains on the wall, even spots on the ceiling. One of the cops—it was Clarence Pieman—and the Negro called Baltimore, were just beginning the cleaning. Hodge looked, jaw slung forward, and felt, strange to say, nothing. He was intensely aware of the sharp separation of bloodstain and wall, aware of the sharp lines in the tile, the stipple of the gray plaster, the smell; but every trace of the fierce churning of emotion that had sickened him before was gone. He felt, mainly, a keen curiosity more scientific than morbid.
“Poor devil,” he said soberly, shaking his head.
He removed his glasses to polish them, then replaced them and bent forward to look more closely.
Clumly rubbed his hands. He had that vague look again, like a man with grave responsibilities who’s forgotten where he is. “It must have been something,” he said. “He must have stumbled around like a chicken with its head cut off.”
“I was thinking that too,” Hodge said.
“It must have been something for the boy, eh?” Clumly said. “Think of it!” He scowled then, musing, perhaps thinking of something else entirely. “He must have gotten blood all over him. Blood all over the gun, too.” He glanced at Hodge. “Just the same, he took it with him.”
“The gun?”
Clumly nodded, suddenly back to reality and dangerous. His eyes came into focus on Hodge’s jaw and seemed to lock there. At last he put his hand on Hodge’s arm and turned him back to the office.
“Any idea where he went?” Hodge said.
“Vanished like smoke.” He touched his nose. “It’s as if he had somebody out there waiting for him. We’ll find him, of course. No worry about that. Have a seat.”
Hodge lowered himself into the chair by the desk while, behind him, Clumly crossed to the outer office door and talked to one of the men. Hodge’s chest and back and arms were pasted to his shirt. The fat he carried made him sweat more than most men. He only half-listened to the talk in the outer office, trying to adjust in his mind the irreconcilable images—the new man, Salvador, as he’d seen him last, filtering coffee through a piece of screen, and that other image, too intense for ordinary reality, the blood-spattered hallway. The man in the outer office said they had reached Mickey Salvador’s family. Clumly came back, and behind him a short, middle-aged policeman with a pink face, no chin. The man leaned against the desk and crossed his shins and switched on the tape recorder. Clumly began his questions; Hodge answered mechanically.
Not even Clumly was really interested in the questions. Sometimes in the middle of a sentence he would pause to fiddle with the knobs on the police radio beside the tape recorder—reports from the State Police at the roadblocks, or men out talking, beating the bushes, circling in on nothing—and sometimes, before Hodge had answered, Clumly would change his mind and say, “No, skip it.” He turned over some papers. He said abruptly “Funny thing, Will Jr’s coming to see you just when he did.”
“Well it’s not exactly—” Hodge began.
But Clumly stood up; the question was not serious. He went to stand by the window, as though the questioning were over, but he didn’t send his man away. He seemed to have forgotten.
Clumly shook his head, tapping the windowframe and looking out. “Kids,” he said. “They must be something, I guess. That younger one I mean, yours. What’s his name? Luke? I imagine there’s times you’d like to wring his neck.”
“He’s a monkey all right,” Hodge said, on guard.
The man watching the tape recorder had not yet switched it off.
Hodge frowned. He tried to hear what they were saying out by the desk.
“They don’t like authority,” Clumly said. Now he was picking at a scab on the side of his hand. “That’s what it is. All anarchists. They’ve gotten to the size of a man, they think they’re grown-ups.” He laughed. It was like laughter coming out of a stone.
“Luke’s no trouble.” Hodge frowned. He had no choice but to play along, see what it was about and say what was so, give the crazy old fool nothing he could blow up out of all proportion for whatever purpose he had in mind. Hodge felt queasy. Any other time he might have laughed at a policeman’s trying tricks on him, trying to throw him off, if it was that. Any other time he might have enjoyed his own art in the foolish game. But just now it made him cross and impatient. He felt, as he’d felt in his own office earlier, alien, turned to stone and put on display. And there was something more, too; some brute fact nagging at his mind like an itch.
“Now stop it, Will,” Clumly said, swinging around to face him. “Luke’s ‘no trouble’! He’s darn near a Communist, that’s what people say. He’s like your other boy twenty times over—the one up in Buffalo, organizing riots.”
Hodge sat up. “That’s slander, Clumly. One more word of that kind and I’ll have you in court so fast your head will swim.” His fat jaw shook.
Clumly shrank back, opening his hands to show his innocence, but his eyes were still hike bullets, and his whole body had taken on an absurd, crafty look. “Now Will,” he said, “take it easy.” He turned to the man working the machine. “Get in there and type this up. Except the last part, wherever the questions stopped. We don’t need that.”
“Type it all,” Hodge said.
Clumly shrugged, sly as a dragon, still mysterious, and Hodge wondered all at once if perhaps the man was merely confused and trying to keep the confusion out of sight. The other man left with the tape recorder. When the door was closed behind him, Clumly pushed his fingertips into his belt and came over to stand facing Will, squinting. “All right,” he said. “What do you think happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. The blood’s in the hallway, not in the cellblock, and the cell door was shut. Why would your Indian take time to shut that door behind him, when he was breaking out? Or how’d he get out in the hall by himself? Why stop to merely knock out the man in front
and tie him up, when he’d murdered the other one? How’d he disappear so quick? It’s a mystery. Correct. The kind you read about.” He went on squinting a moment longer at Hodge’s face. But he was not up to meeting Hodge’s anger, finally, too tired for that, or too busy with anger of his own, and he turned away and fished in his shirt pocket for a cigar. “All right,” he said. “So somebody came here, and we need to know who.” He sucked his mouth in.
“Ask them right out,” Hodge said. “If either Will or Luke was here, they’ll tell you.”
“Correct,” Clumly said. His disgust grew. He lit the cigar and shook the match. “Because they’re Hodges. Pillars of the community.” The anger was building up pressure now, reddening his face. “A little extreme in their opinions, maybe”—he chuckled crossly—“but Hodges through and through. Good upbringing. Noble ideals. Solider than Uphills, even Woodworths. Some people wouldn’t understand that, naturally.” He laughed, as cold as a stone again, then leaned toward Hodge. “My father was a drunkard. A plumber originally, but later a professional drunkard. I used to ask myself Why?—all that drinking. No trouble, you understand; a responsible drunkard. Toward the end he wouldn’t work but once a year, at Christmas. He was Santa Claus.” Little by little the far-away crafty look was coming back, the pressure of rage inside him still building, and now Hodge had a feeling, wordless but sure, that he partly understood. “What was wrong with him? I used to wonder. Just a youngster, you know. He was a good enough plumber—or so people said. My mother wasn’t a hard woman to live with, little too religious maybe, but not bad—not all that bad.” He blew out smoke and watched it spread out in the air. Suddenly Clumly smiled without humor and snapped his eyes back onto Hodge. They were the eyes of a stranger. “His problem was metaphysical.” He laughed again. Even the voice was a stranger’s.
“What’s gotten into you?” Hodge said sternly.
“Metaphysical.” He quoted: “‘of the nature of being or essential reality. Very abstract, abstruse, or subtle: often used derogatorily of reasoning.’ He had a perfectly good life, nothing wrong with it that you could see. Just the same, he got to be a drunkard.” He sucked at the cigar and again blew out smoke, his grub’s face compressed tight. His hand trembled, holding out the cigar. “They arrested him for theft once. I use to visit him at the jail. ‘Mr. Hodge will take care of me,’ he said. Tipped his eyes to heaven. And Mr. Hodge did. God bless the Hodges. Made a speech that would’ve made statues weep. Your old man that was. He was good, yes. Pure magic. My old mother standing there, hanging on to his coattails and my father blowing his nose and crying—they were like sticks, my mother and father, and your father, by Heaven, he was big as a room, and his head thrown back like he thought there was somebody painting his picture. ‘God bless you,’ my old mother said, and I said the same myself—I was ten or eleven—‘Dear God, bless Mr. Hodge!’” He spat at the wastebasket and sucked again at the cigar. It seemed to dawn on him at last that all he was saying was pointless—plain mad, in fact. He cast about, panicky, it seemed to Hodge, as if hunting for some way back that would not make his wandering off too noticeable. Abruptly, he clenched his fists. “I’ll tell you how it is, Will. If I thought your father might’ve opened that cell door I’d put him on the carpet, same as you, same as your boys. No faith, you know? No faith at all. That’s what they pay me for.”
Hodge said nothing.
Clumly nodded, fingertips still trembling, calming himself by will. “Listen, forget it. You see how it is. We never had a jailbreak in thirty years, now we get one it has to be complicated with … I don’t know which way’s up, I even use the forms they give you for times like this.” Then he was angry again, the blood rushing up in his neck. “Shoot. You know how to do my job better than me—take it, Hodge. Maybe you do. Everybody else does, they think. I keep a clean office, pretty well, whatever people say. I know what the talk is. I never drink, that’s one thing I can say. Their criticizing goes off of me like water.” His face was shaking.
He turned to the door before the knock came. “Come in.”
Hodge pursed his lips.
Miller said, “Hodge boys are here. Both of ’em. And Salvador’s mother.”
Clumly puffed at the cigar, still trembling, looking at the floor. “She been to the morgue?”
Miller nodded. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Send her in.”
Miller went out, and Hodge started to follow, but Clumly stopped him. “You stay, Will. You want my job, this might be good experience.” He leered.
Mrs. Salvador came in.
Hodge had probably seen her before; he thought he had. Hundreds of times, it might be—sitting on some run-down porch on Liberty Street, or South Jackson, the old Italian section, talking with some woman exactly like her except slightly fatter or slightly thinner, the same cheap clothes, dark, limp, her hair as black as midnight, garlic coming out of her pores like soap from a sponge. They talked lightning Italian, paused suddenly to laugh, called out fiercely to their children in the street, who merely shrugged or showed no sign at all of having heard, and behind the younger women, protected by them as by battlements, there would be an old one with iron-gray hair, rocking slowly back and forth, saying nothing. When they were young they were beautiful, and then they got married and moved in with Mama and got mean, and then they got fat. When they came to his office for legal advice—tax troubles, some lawsuit, or to ask timidly about an annulment—they grew mysteriously smaller, more childlike, and Hodge, for all his plowhorse dignity, was distressed.
He had expected her to come in weeping, but she was not, and it came to him that Salvador’s face must have been blown to smithereens: it wasn’t time yet for grief. Her eyes were violent. She settled them on Clumly first, then turned her head slowly toward Hodge.
“You his lawyer?” she said. “The Indian?”
(“Like ice,” he would say later, again and again.) The voice shocked him.
“Mr. Hodge is the boy’s guardian,” Clumly said.
“No, Luke’s the boy’s guardian,” Hodge said at once, defensively. Immediately he was annoyed at his pettiness. “Luke’s my son.”
“I pray to the Virgin your son may burn in hell.” Dark as her skin was, the flush of her cheeks showed clearly.
Hodge said nothing.
“This is a terrible tragedy, Mrs. Salvador,” Clumly said. He tipped his head toward her. “Won’t you sit down?” The color was draining out of him again.
The woman ignored him. As though he were not in the room, she said to Hodge, spitting, “I know you people, you do-gooders with your fat bellies and your fat smiles, helping killers get out of jail so they can kill some more. You stupid! I see you in the newspaper, how you smile for the camera when you just got Frank Cirotti out of jail, you get some foolish old woman to say Frank he’s not guilty when everybody knows he’s guilty, yes!—so now maybe sometime pretty soon he can rape some poor little kid.”
“Mrs. Salvador,” Clumly said. But he was enjoying it.
Light came off her skin like shocks. “So now you’re happy, yeah. You got my boy dead with all your helping crooks. How many people you think you killed so far? You. You’re like poison.”
“Now wait,” he said. A pain like a small lump of flame closed off his throat, and before he could get back his voice, the woman had turned like wheeling fire and was gone. The room still rang.
Hodge sat down, and still he couldn’t speak. Justice, he thought. Hah!
Clumly gave him a glass of water, and he sipped it. It helped.
“I can see why you want my job,” Clumly said, squinting at him as he would at a mouse in a cage. “I wouldn’t want yours!”
“I never said I wanted your job, Clumly,” he said.
“Mebby you didn’t,” Clumly said.
Hodge scowled, aware that something was going by him.
“You care to stay while I talk to your boys, Will?” Clumly said then. Though the voice was gentle, the eyes glittered more brightly
than ever, as though the woman had thrown new coal on the fire inside him.
“Lord no!” Hodge said. He got up, quickly for a man of his proportions, and hurried toward the door.
Clumly leaned against his desk and puffed at the cigar, musing. “Ciao,” he said.
Hodge left.
He paused on the steps to adjust to the breathless heat outside, heat so intense that it made the hairs on your arms curl. Two policemen were busy dispersing the crowd, or trying to. There Clumly caught him again.
“Hodge! Wait a minute! I forgot something.”
Hodge turned, sagging, and Clumly ducked back inside for a moment. A reporter from the Daily News drew Hodge over to the side of the steps to ask questions. “I can’t tell you a thing,” Hodge said. “I’m sorry.” The man persisted, a stupid fellow, as it seemed to Hodge; his eyes and voice were slow, and here in the rush of events he seemed out of place, like an old Ford truck on a racetrack. He had a permanently startled look, like a sheep aware of thunder. “I’m sorry,” Hodge said again. The man—Bob Swift, his name was—asked about the Indians and Hodge grew angry.
Then Clumly was back to thrust a picture in front of him. “You know this man, Hodge?”
“No,” Hodge said.
“Look again,” Clumly said.
Slowly and deliberately, steadying himself against the as yet unintelligible howling of indefinite memories, Hodge took the police photograph between his thick first finger and thumb and studied it. Then he knew. The burn-scarred, crassly bearded face was the wreck of the eldest brother’s life, and the gentle eyes looking out through that monstrous corruption of flesh were to Hodge like tokens brought back from the dead as a sign. But Hodge stood on legs like pillars, and for all the roiling blast of his emotions, his mind was like a stovelid. He pursed his lips. “Who is this?” he said when he could speak.
“You don’t know him?” Clumly said.
“Do you?”
Clumly squinted at him, judging, then shook his head. “It’s the prisoner that got away,” he said. “We call him the Sunlight Man.”