John Gardner - The Sunlight Dialogues

Hodge nodded.

“Hole up,” Freeman said, “I’ll see what’s on.”

Hodge had hardly slowed down before Freeman was out, sneaking along the line of parked cars, darting, clownish, from bumper to bumper, impossible not to notice, until he was opposite the store from which Clumly and the other policeman had just emerged. They went into the next store, The Palace of Sweets. Freeman darted in behind them, and a moment later darted out again and came ostentatiously sneaking, smiling joyfully, back to Hodge. “They’re investigating,” he whispered. (There was no reason he should whisper.)

“What?” Hodge said. It was queerly pleasurable, this stalking, and this lunatic was, for mysterious reasons, good company, at least for the moment.

“Investigating,” he said again. “They’re showing pictures of the Sunlight Man and asking the storekeepers if they know him.”

“Are they?”

He nodded, then seemed unsure, then, decisively, nodded again.

“How the devil you find out?”

Freeman looked sly. “My smiling eyes and ears,” he said. He studied Hodge thoughtfully. “Pull your shoulders back,” he said. “Pull your stomach in.”

“Do what?” Hodge said.

“That’s better. Good.”

It took Chief Clumly and the other man nearly all morning to go the length of Main Street, showing the picture and asking their questions. Hodge parked and waited while they made each block, then drove on and parked in the next block, if he could find a space, or in the block beyond if he couldn’t. From time to time Freeman jumped out and ran to listen to make sure they were doing it the same way, then came back and reported. Otherwise they sat and talked.

Freeman said, “Well yeah, ok. I guess it is a little funny, when you stop to think about it — spying on the cops, things like that. But you know how it is. Lots of things are funny. Like being a dentist. Why would anybody be a dentist?”

“Nevertheless,” Hodge said, “dentists are useful. If there were no dentists—”

“Right!” said Freeman. “That makes sense! Right!”

Hodge studied him.

“Also beauticians are useful.”

Hodge nodded.

“And morticians. And opticians.”

Hodge considered.

“And statisticians. Dieticians. And patticians.”

“ Pa tricians?” Hodge said.

“You a Communist?”

Hodge was still dubious, however. He glanced at his watch.

“In any case,” Freeman said, “not everything is useful. Some things are, admittedly. Such as pigs’ snouts and scuttles of coal and scaples and strings and salad forks. And some things are useful for their relaxative value, such as roller-coasters and Rolaids and rib-ticklers—”

“And target pistols,” Hodge said tentatively.

Freeman shook his head. “It has to start with r,” he said.

Hodge considered.

Freeman said, “Other things are aesthetically useful, appealing to the beauty-loving faculties of man, such as pictures and prints and poetry and pot-boilers and policeman-watching and playing the harmonicum.”

“Policeman-watching?”

“The aesthetic response is in large part a response to order as moral affirmation,” Freeman said.

“Hmm,” Hodge said. After he’d thought about it he said, again, “Hmm.”

By lunchtime Clumly and the other policeman had made it to the Miss Batavia Diner, at the east end of town. They went in to eat, and Freeman slipped in behind them and listened to their talk. When he came back he said, “That Clumly’s insane, you know that?” Then, after a moment: “Ah well. Why not? eh?” He smiled.

Clumly went to Clive Paxton’s funeral that afternoon. Will Hodge mingled with the cemetery crowd, talking quietly, extending his sympathies, visiting, while Freeman hid behind a tree and kept a close watch — from under the wide black brim of his hat — on Clumly. Ben and Vanessa were there, of course.

“Will!” Ben said. He put his hand on his arm. “Good to see you, boy.”

Vanessa was weeping. “Beautiful funeral,” she said.

Will Hodge, bending forward, hung onto his suspenders and nodded.

She was holding to her husband’s upper arm with both hands, leaning her heavy face against his elbow. Her eyes widened and she said, “What an awful thing, last night! We’ve been trying to get you on the phone all morning, but you weren’t at your office. No surprise! Poor woman! Cold blood! When I think, we had him right under our roof—”

“Now Vanessa,” Ben said.

“Oh I know,” she said, “innocent until proven glit—” She gave a little kick. “Ploop!” she said.

“Sh!” Ben said. The minister was praying. All the rest of the cemetery was hushed and solemn, the wide-boled trees dignified and calm (but behind one of them Freeman crouched) and the light came down through the trees in yellow stripes. The Paxtons were a tableau beside the grave, the old woman in her wheelchair, the sons calm as trees behind her. Clumly stood a little to their right, holding his handkerchief over his nose, blowing with hardly a sound. The Professor stood to the left of the wheelchair, shrunken head bowed, just perceptibly shaking with palsy. Between his huge white hands he had a leaf he was secretly tearing to tiny shreds.

When the prayer was over the people stirred, and some of them went closer to the grave, so that Will could not see any more.

“It was a terrible thing,” Will said. He told them how it had been, suddenly seeing her dead body sitting by the wall. “Then Clumly and his men came,” he said and winced. “Clumly insisted it was hooligans. He’s out of his mind.”

Ben was looking at the limbs of the trees. “Well,” he said, “someone tried to set Salways’ on fire last night. Clarence Pieman saw them — he was patrolling the alley. They’d put some papers up against the wall and lit them. They got away, because Clarence had to put out the fire, and by the time he’d finished they were gone like last year’s weeds. Been a lot of that lately. You never know.”

“Well in this case you know,” Will Hodge said. “They shot her with a gun wrapped up in a blanket — the blanket off my bed. Hooligans don’t do it that way, if they shoot at all. This was somebody knew what he was doing.”

“Blanket!” Vanessa said. “Not Grandma’s quilt!”

“No, another one,” he said. “One Millie left.”

She put her hand to her heart in relief.

“Strange things happening in the world,” Ben said. “That boy on the tower in Texas, shooting people for no rhyme or reason. Fellow that killed those nurses in Chicago. Nazis in Chicago carrying signs against the Negroes. It all—” He mused. “It makes you wonder.”

An old woman popped her head out beside him. “The Fifteen Signs,” she said.

Ben nodded and touched his hatbrim politely.

“It’s going to be an early winter,” Vanessa said. She sighed.

“Who was that?” Will said.

“Her?” Ben looked where the old woman had been a moment ago. She’d gone away into the crowd now. He shrugged.

“The Fifteen Signs,” Will said. It sounded ominous to him.

“Bill Hyde says there’s somebody in Oakfield saw an alligator,” Vanessa said.

“Wal now,” Ben said kindly, patting her hand, “Bill Hyde says a lot of things.”

She closed her eyes. “Poor Mrs. Palazzo,” she said.

They nodded. Elizabeth Paxton was coming toward them in her wheelchair, her sons and Professor Combs and Chief Clumly a little behind her. Clumly looked up, alarmed. “Afternoon, Will.”

“Hah!” Will said. He reached out to shake Clumly’s hand.

Behind Clumly, walking with his eyes rolled up and his hands pressed together like those of one praying, came Freeman. He gave them a solemn wink.