She said, “Even raving Communists believe in something.”
“All foolish people believe in something.”
“Did you let him out?”
He sat perfectly still, the tips of his fingers white with the pressure he was exerting against his temples.
“Did you?”
Still he didn’t speak. She waited. He said then, “No. I’d have given my life for him. That’s the truth, lady. Fuck it up if you want.”
She sighed and closed her eyes, disgusted, then drank, watching him over the top of her glass. “Why?”
He turned his head from side to side slowly. “Because he was there.”
“You didn’t even like him.”
He said nothing, and she realized he hadn’t heard. “You didn’t even like him,” she said again.
There was only the rattle of the rain. He drew his head up slowly, his mouth twisted, eyes wide open, and she put down her glass quickly and crossed to him. He was unconscious when she reached him. “Luke,” she said gently, emotionlessly. She eased him out of the chair onto the floor, then went to the bedroom for blankets and a pillow. When she had the blankets over him and the pillow under his head, she rose again and went to finish her drink. She stood in front of the window with it, looking out into the darkness. Lightning flashed, and the landscape stood out like a bad memory, then sank once more into darkness. She could see her reflection in the window, and though she knew what it was, it frightened her. The Indian boy was out there somewhere, terrified and dangerous, and she had nothing with which to defend herself. Where would he have gone? On an impulse, she went to the telephone in the kitchen and lifted the receiver. The line was dead.
It came to her then that Nick Slater’s brother was still in jail. They’d been arrested at the same time, and if the brother had escaped with him, she surely would have heard. Was it possible then that it really was Will Jr who’d helped him escape? But she knew it wasn’t. Who, then? And where was he now?
“Millie, don’t be a fool,” she said aloud. “Keep your famous wits.”
She gathered up the dishes and filled the sink with hot water and soap. The house was full of creaking noises, thumps, scrapings. It made her skin crawl. She closed her eyes, listening, close to tears, and all at once she remembered something. Her father stood in the church doorway, smiling and holding out his arms to her. She ran to him, still crying. She had believed he had forgotten her, had driven home without her, but now he was here, red-faced and beaming, beautiful to her child-eyes, though his pants were baggy, his shirt unpressed, and when she reached him he caught her and lifted her up to hug her, laughing. “Poor baby,” he said, “my poor, pretty little girl.” And she’d been overwhelmed with the joyful knowledge that her father loved her and she was pretty. She tried to think what had made the memory come, but now again she was hearing the ancient creaking of the house, the rain rattling in the grass and rumbling in the downspout. “Forgive me,” she said earnestly, hardly knowing what she meant. She thought she heard Luke moan, and she went over to the door into the livingroom to look in. He lay as before, but she was terrified. A second ago, she was somehow absolutely sure, there had been someone with him in the room.
It was not mere nerves. After half an hour of kneeling on the floor beside Luke, almost not breathing, she was still dead certain that there was someone here in the house. There were perhaps sounds of movement in the adjoining room, or somewhere upstairs, but in the noise of the storm mere sound meant nothing. The creaking of the floor, the slamming once of a door upstairs, meant no more than wind. What was definite was the smell. It was subtle, but it was as surely there as the fireplace or the full-length windows that showed her only her own drawn face. Her terror had calmed to a numbness now. She tried to think. She was afraid to go to the phone and call the police. (She had now forgotten that it was dead.) The intruders might be standing, listening, behind the nearest door. And she was afraid, too, to run out for help and leave Luke alone. At least she wasn’t in immediate danger. They knew she was here. It was her return from the kitchen that had made him—them perhaps—flee from the room. Perhaps what she ought to do was stretch out on the couch and sleep, let them take what they wanted and go. But it was impossible. What she really ought to do was get a drink. She thought about it for a long time—there was still no definite sound of their movement in the rooms around her—then got up and started toward the kitchen. She moved slowly, talking to herself as she walked—in order to let them know, if they were there, that she was coming. No telling what they might do if she were to startle them. She paused at the kitchen door to say “What was I after? Oh yes, a drink.” Oyez, oyez, oy came senselessly into her mind. She took a deep breath and went in. The room was empty. She went to the refrigerator, got out the ice-tray, and dropped four cubes into a glass. She filled the glass nearly to the top with bourbon and, after a moment’s reflection, decided to carry back both the glass and the bottle to the livingroom. She amazed herself. Her hand was absolutely steady, and despite the whiskey she’d drunk already, earlier tonight, her mind was as clear and sharp as a day in winter. Because of Luke, she thought. If it had happened at her place and she were all alone, she might have been half-crazy with fear. But he lay there unconscious and vulnerable, defenseless as a baby. If they were to kill him, murder him in his sleep like some poor sick animal … She thought, Am I really afraid of that?
She frowned, leaning on the sink, with the bourbon bottle in one hand, the glass in the other, ice-cold against her palm and fingers. And still she would swear it was not because she was his instinct-ridden Mama, though it somehow had something to do with his being her son. And not because she loved him, either. She knew what she loved. She loved strength, a body like Ben Hodge had had once, taller than Will’s, and quick and graceful: strength that had something to do with beauty (not the stocky power and indifference to height that had moved up and down the barn roofs at Stony Hill, shouldering easily a tarpaper roll or a bundle of sunlit shingles: not that) and something to do, more important, with freedom. When a leak appeared in the cowbarn roof or the chickenhouse roof or the roof of the towering, square wooden silo, it was a law of Will Hodge’s existence that it must be patched, even if the barn was not used any more and never would be. It was not a law for her. There was something fine about a roof that let the sunlight in through a thousand chinks, or a buckled wall, a concrete foundation splitting open to the roots of trees. For she, Millie Hodge, put her money on sunshine, the restless power of the hay pushing outward, and slow, invincible roots. All her life she’d been breaking down roofs and walls—intransigent gray Presbyterian stone, the brittle beams of dry legalism, vows and rules and meticulous codes—exploding them as a white shoot cracks a stone, though she was a woman, held down revoltingly to earth. “Look!” she’d said. They were leaning on the railing. The falls roared like thunder, and the earth shook. “That’s the Bridal Veil,” Will said, pointing. She was as angry as the river, repelled by his pettiness and pedantry, his flight from the furious truth of the place to the name of a paltry trickle. Without bothering to answer she pointed again, forcing Luke to see what she saw, the tons on tons of hurtling water at the heart of it all, and Luke said, “I want to go home.” Will was grinning, with his jaw slung out. “Hah,” he said. “Don’t be a sissy,” she said. But Will took his hand.
How strange that all that should come back to her now, when any moment the intruders might come, murder them both! Yet not strange, either. For though her chest was calm, as though it had found out some way to survive with her heart turned stone, the storm was raging as the Niagara had raged, howling and plummeting down like the dead through time. “God is physical,” she’d announced once to Warshower, after one of those incredible sermons of his. “The trouble with all your sermons,” she’d said, “is that you’ve never wrestled with a bear, only with angels. How can you lose?” He was baffled, of course. No doubt he’d believed she was crazy.
It came to her suddenly that Luke’s
shotgun would be standing in the woodshed. She took two steps toward the door, then changed her mind. They were men, and Nick Slater, at least, had had experience with guns. She’d be dead before she knew what hit her. She raised the glass and half-emptied it, then started back to the livingroom, not bothering, this time, to talk to herself, but clicking her heels down firmly to make a noise.
They were seated, waiting for her, and for an instant, as if all this time they had been drilling secretly at the base of her mind, terror went through her like an underground shock and she felt blasted out of her reason. But only for an instant.
“Hello,” she said. She gave them a smile she knew to be brilliant, baffling them, she hoped, smashing their outlaw defenses.
Nick Slater stared, his yellow face pale. He was soaking wet and sitting close to the fire. It was Nick, she knew, who’d killed the guard, but it was the other one that frightened her. He had a black thing over his face—a cut-off stocking, it looked like. It came down to below his nose and over the moustache to the beard. His clothes, like Nick’s, were soaking wet. A dark blue suit, too large.
She stopped, looking at him. “That’s quite a get-up,” she said.
“It is, yes.” He had a mincing way of talking, a thin, reedy voice that sounded like an affectation. Something about him made her think at once of Will, her ex-husband, and the next instant she knew what it was. The suit he was wearing was Will’s. It even smelled of him, or so she imagined.
“How did you get here?” she said. And still she felt unnaturally calm, turned to ice.
“The question, my dear,” the bearded man said, “is how we are going to get out.”
“I’m afraid that’s your problem,” Millie said, and smiled fiercely again.
“You’re mistaken,” he said. “Sit down.”
She pretended not to hear. “Where did you get that suit?”
“You may sit down,” he said.
Suddenly Nick Slater covered his face with his hands. “Sit down,” he said. “I’m telling you.”
And now, finally, the multitude of her sorceries and enchantments failed her, and without knowing why, she was afraid. She moved back numbly toward the couch and sat on the edge of it. After a moment she lowered the bottle and the glass to the rug. “Why are you doing this?” she brought out. The stocking over his eyes made it impossible for her to know where he was looking.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s an interesting question.”
They sat very still for a long time, listening to the storm.
At last the bearded man said, “Get some clothes. You’ll catch pneumonia.”
Nick got up and went over to the doorway, toward the stairs.
“Did you kill him?” she asked. “My husband?”
“Are you hoping I did?”
“I’m asking.”
“He wasn’t there to kill,” he said in that same high effeminate voice. “Just empty clothes. Curious, isn’t it? He’d been eaten up from the inside out, as far as we could tell. Left only his clothes.”
The smell that came from him was overwhelming.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” she said.
“Very much.” He nodded as he spoke. “I want you to suffer. No smoking, no nothing.”
“And Luke?” She tipped her head toward where he lay.
“I don’t know him yet. Perhaps he’ll be human.”
She reached for her drink.
“Put it down,” he said.
She ignored him, and suddenly—out of empty air, it seemed to her—the man had conjured a gun. Her heart stopped cold.
“Put it down, Madam. We’re going to make you a saint.”
“You’re insane,” she whispered.
“Not yet.” The pale lips smiled. “These things take time.”
V
Hunting
Wild Asses
Ach, unsre Taten selbst so gut als unsre Leiden,
Sie hemmen unsres Lebens Gang.
—Goethe
1
Chief Clumly ate in his office that night, and as he ate, alone for the first time in hours, he looked over the article Judge White had made him take. It was not the kind of thing he’d have read past a sentence or two, normally, and it wasn’t an easy thing to get through with the radio on in the outer office. But he read attentively, straining to catch any possible hint of why the Judge had made him take it. It was conceivable that the Judge had merely thought he’d be interested, but Clumly did not read as though he believed it could be that. He had the shade pulled and the office door locked, and he sat hunched forward, spectacles low on his nose, left hand reaching blindly to the white bag of hamburgers and Sanka from Critic’s, and when the writer made allusions he couldn’t catch he felt panicky. He’d have worse news the next time he came, the Judge had said. Was the article a clue? Flies buzzed, up by the lightglobe. The fan on the cabinet moved back and forth slowly, hardly stirring the muggy air.
“Policework and Alienation.
“Insofar as we view the whole matter abstractly, nothing in the world, not even abject poverty, is more degrading and, ultimately, dehumanizing—at least in potential—than police work. Against the poor unlucky policeman all the physical and spiritual forces of the universe seem to conspire. It has always been so—though it was less so in simpler societies, including our own fifty years ago, than it is in America today. And no doubt it will always remain so, for all the labors of psychologists, sociologists, criminologists, and so on, and for all the honest effort of those most directly involved in the problem—law-enforcement agencies themselves. The subject is a difficult one to treat frankly without appearing to sink into petty fault-finding or name-calling or, worse, melodrama, and, worse yet, cheap exposé. But the subject is worthy of attention. Police work has so often been sentimentalized, both by those who make policemen old-fashioned heroes and by those who would soften and domesticate them into weary, hard-working custodians and clerks—and the qualities of the police mind have so often been polished and ornamented, much as coffins are, and made to seem not only tolerable but downright commodious—that it behooves us to take stock of what police work does to the human body and soul.
“We could speak, if we were seeking dramatic effect, of that paradox so frequently pointed out by psychologists and sociologists who have interested themselves in the policeman: ‘The defender of peace is a trained killer.’ The phrase is not altogether unjust, for all its mercantile ring. One cannot watch the training of a police rookie without realizing, perhaps with some horror, the extent to which his profession removes him from the ordinary run of humanity. The targets on a police firing range are not innocent circles or x’s but silhouettes of men, and the familiar saw of police training, ‘Never draw your gun unless you’re prepared to use it,’ is not mere air. More than one man has died needlessly in demonstration of the truth in that saw, both criminals who should not have been drawn on, and policemen who drew and were not ready to shoot or, stymied by their partisanship with the human race, failed to shoot in time. Among psychologists there is no debate as to whether or not the loaded gun the policeman carries with him constantly has any effect on the structure of his personality. It does, and the effect tends to be bad. The plain truth seems to be that the men who go into police work are society’s needful sacrifice for order.
“But to focus on the gun the policeman wears is to miss the complexity of the problem. A gun is, after all, a tool, and can be used, like a shovel or a frying pan, in more ways than one. It need not kill, and it need not give the man who wears it nightmares or result in his estrangement from his wife. All that goes into the selection and training of a modern policeman is designed to minimize the likelihood of the tool’s destruction of the man. The forced-choice questionnaires he fills out when he first applies are designed to rule out any man not a good deal more stable and mature than the common human run, and the training he goes through—unlike the training of, say, a soldier—emphasizes not the efficient use of the power societ
y has given him, but the responsibility involved. There is no denying the powerful symbolic significance of the gun at his hip, but it is not just in the policeman’s mind that the symbol burns: in the darkness at the bottom of consciousness, the man who passes the policeman on the street knows as well as the policeman himself that the gun is there. And it is in the relationship, or rather the gap, between the policeman and the rest of mankind that the trouble has its genesis.
“Though every man wants law and order, at least up to a point, most men want it mainly to keep other people in line, not themselves. Nobody wants his child run over; nevertheless, nothing is more infuriating for a man with serious business in the world than hearing behind him, as he hurries his car through congested traffic toward his office (late through no fault of his own) the yawl, like the yawl of a big angry cat, of a siren. That is, indeed, the least of it. One doesn’t last a day in police work if one wears one’s feeling on one’s sleeve; and the man who takes very little personally, who with mild eyes and a stern jaw accepts all abuse, threats, mockeries with the indifference of a man born deaf and blind—who puts insult away as quickly and lightly as he drops his ball-point pen back into his pocket—that man grows tougher yet with experience. Often the lamb turns tiger when he comes before the judge; and often those who howl loudest at the time of arrest, on the other hand—who call down on the poor policeman’s head the most terrible curses, and take the lowest view of his generation and lineage—are the same men who, when the trial comes up or the fine has been paid, are most generous with their forgiveness of what seems to them, even now, the policeman’s small-mindedness. Remembering this, the policeman learns such patience as would shame old Job. He learns to stand lightly in the present moment, at once committed and detached, like a true philosopher or like an old-time Christian who knows this world no home, but a wilderness. So much the better, some opine. Only young lovers and elderly fools mistake the moment’s passions for equal in value to the ups and downs, the larger illuminations, of a total action. What is police work, some may inquire, but a new approach to old-fashioned caritas—the heart’s concern with, not simply some part of the cosmic bog, but the whole? Ah, true! The ability to rise out of one’s narrow cell of time and place—to behold and admire not simply some particular woman or campaign or golden vase but the total order into which all particulars must necessarily fit—is not only the beginning but the true end, both the purpose and the method, of wisdom. But alas, caritas has never in this world had much charity in it. The man who loves with a pure heart, who loves his friend for the virtues he embodies, does not love his friend very much—as women understand. Thus saints love mankind but do not much care for men. The man deeply mired in cupidity, who so greatly enjoys, say, lemon drops that he walks in front of trains without seeing them, all his wits curled up around the sour-sweet sensation in his mouth, is no doubt a poor miserable unfortunate who deserves our pity here and, hereafter, hell. But the man who leaps past the mere lemon drop to the glory of God there figured forth—that is to say, the man whose eye is on the larger order of the universe, both the lemon drop and the freight train he stops to watch rush past—is more pitiable yet, from a certain point of view, and richly deserves the eternal tedium of Heaven.