John Gardner - The Sunlight Dialogues

“You have to try to be realistic,” the Sunlight Man was whining quietly, as if speaking to himself, working out a problem in geometry, “it was an accident, yes. You know that and I know that. Not to speak pompously, what is there in this world but accident — a long, bitter chain of accidents, from algae to reptiles to tortoises and rodents to man? By accident all our poor mothers had children, and by accident some of the children died young and the others grew up to be either policemen or outlaws. Nevertheless, where the Law is concerned—”

“You eat shit,” the older of the Indians said. He stood at the front of their cell like a red-brown grasshopper of monstrous height, his hands on the bars. “Nothing personal, understand.” He bared his teeth in a mock-grin. The teeth were large and even.

“I understand, certainly,” the Sunlight Man said, smiling back the exact same smile. He waved disagreement away. “Nevertheless, as I was saying, where the Law is concerned, there can be no fiddle-faddle about Absolute Truth. They’ll electrocute you if they can, and that’s that. You’re innocent victims, that’s obvious. But just the same, the jury will solemnly deliberate, the attorneys will frown their commiseration, the judge will mournfully rap his gavel, and out you’ll go like, excuse the expression, a light.” He sighed profoundly, pulled off his cap and crushed it, slowly, thoughtfully, in his hands.

“Why you doing this?” the older of the Indians said. His voice was reedy and intense, his ape’s face impassive, and again the thief, Walter Boyle, felt revulsion. He stopped listening, but it was not as easy as usual. He named in his mind the towns he had worked through. Portage, Castile, Perry, Warsaw, Alexander. “Warsaw,” he said to himself again, almost aloud. It was a strange name, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, exactly; interesting. Like the town itself. An old town set in the pocket of high wooded hills like mountains. He turned the name over and over, worrying it until it became mere sound. But even now he was not quite rid of the Indian’s thoughtful stare.

That night when the guard brought supper Boyle said quietly, with his round back turned to the others, “What did they do?”

The guard — young, mild-faced Mickey Salvador — said nothing for an instant, perhaps because he was a new man and didn’t know whether he should answer such questions or not. Walter Boyle kept his eyes on the tin plate. “The Indians,” he said testily.

At last Salvador said, “Put a couple people in the hospital, I guess.” He came nearer. “It was all in the paper. They were hitchhiking, the Indians, and they tried to take over these people’s car. It was a Volkswagen. Whole mess ended up in a ditch. They never got a scratch, the Indians. Drunk.”

Boyle nodded. He had read about it, or anyway had passed his eyes down over it slowly and thoughtfully; remembered a picture, a snatch of headline.

“That woman dies, the thing’ll end up a murder charge.”

Boyle stood motionless, as if thinking about it, but in fact he had let it drop out of his mind, the vague, uncharacteristic impulse satisfied.

“She may do it, too,” the guard said. “I guess she’s still unconscious. It caved her head in.” He added quickly, though Boyle was turning away now, “The Indians got friends, though; that’s lucky for them. Older one, he lives with the son of a lawyer here in town, he’s his guardian or something, I forget.” He turned gruff suddenly, perhaps annoyed that he’d talked so much. “Keep it down in here.” He went back up the hall. In five or ten minutes he was back again with a Lois Lane comic for the Indians. The younger one thanked him and squatted over it, reading, fat knees jutting out like a frog’s.

Later, when he was drinking his coffee, Boyle glanced over at the Indians again, and again the older one was watching him, the younger one still reading. For a long moment Boyle met the boy’s stare angrily, and then, as he’d done before, he turned his back. This time, however, he continued to watch, furtively, past his shoulder.

The bearded man began to pace, scratching his beard and part of one rutted, leathery cheek. He stopped abruptly, put his fists on his hips, and glared at the Indians. “Can’t make you see reason, can I? I tell you you’re doomed, defunct, cold dead, and you go right on thinking what you’ll do when you get out, wondering how you can get our friend here to let you in on his professional secrets. It’s criminal!” He let his hands drop. “Youth,” he said, full of contempt. “Optimism. What can wake you up?”

The older one pointed at him. “You just worry about you.”

“Oh, I do,” he said. “I worry plenty, believe me. But I’m not running out of time as fast as you are. It would be different if you understood exactly where you stand, if you understood what it is to be alive and how dead you are when you’re dead. Forgive my talking so personal.” He laughed. “I feel responsible for you. How can I explain?” Then, pompously: “Human consciousness — an overwhelming joy, a monstrous torture, the most fantastic achievement of the whole fantastic chronicle of time and space: you have it in you but you haven’t opened up to it yet, and suddenly it will be too late! Horrible! What’s my role? What must I do?” He squeezed his eyes shut, mock-sorrowful, and clenched his fists.

“You’re crazy, mister,” the Indian said. “You’re really crazy as shit.”

He nodded, paying no attention. He stood perfectly still for a long time, in a state like thinking, and at last Walter Boyle saw him reaching his decision — or walking into it, accepting it like a man accepting a coat held up behind his shoulders. “Listen,” the Sunlight Man said. He was studying the floor, smiling craftily, like a man about to dig up the Cardiff Giant. “Your name is Slater. Vernon … LaVerne …” He paused. “Nicholas. That’s it. Nicholas Slater. Vernon is your brother.”

“Sure. You heard ’em saying it.”

“Maybe.” He leered. “You have friends, you think. An old family in town.” He studied the floor still more intently. “Hodge,” he said. He glanced at the Indian as if to see if he was right, but the tall boy’s face showed nothing. The Sunlight Man turned away and began to walk very slowly, each step exactly as long as the last one, as though he were measuring. He pressed his hands to the sides of his head, and though he had his eyes open he did not seem to be seeing. “It’s confusing,” he said, “hard to pick the strands out. There are two of them, these Hodges. Yes! One of them is a judge, I think, and the other one is a farmer, his brother. They’re married to the same woman. Is that possible?” He shook his head. “No, something wrong there. But a connection, perhaps a secret. Perhaps when they were young—” He’d lost the thread, unless he was pretending, and stood motionless, as if trying to find it. It came suddenly and violently. “Ben Hodge. Ben Hodge was your guardian, and he’s always helped you by means of his brother the judge, because this Ben Hodge is a generous man. But you’ve exceeded his limits this time, he holds back his hand, and his brother the judge has some reason to dislike you. And so you’re stranded. You know it. You wait for the judge to come, you make excuses for his delay, but you know he won’t come. And even so you go on hoping for the best. The woman in the hospital — she’s lying in a bed with a high, chromium wheel on each side, something wrong with her back — the woman in the hospital is still all right. She’ll get better, you think, and your crime won’t be serious.” Again he stood motionless, but not straining this time. Brooding on what he knew. “She’s going to die.”