John Gardner - The Sunlight Dialogues

“Yes, good,” Esther said. “That will be nice.”

She sat silent then, listening to the slowly retreating footsteps, the creaking of the floor. There was no other sound. The house was sealed like a tomb from all sounds outside, and if Miss Editha was alive or even present in the room, she gave no sign of it. There was not even a stirring of drapes or an occasional whisper of paper stirring on a table, for the house was breathless, no window open anywhere. She felt buried alive. She tried to think whether or not she ought to say something, and the question stirred a flurry of nervous excitement in her like the excitement which comes when one looks down over a cliff. She had said she would talk — had said it would be nice! — and if Miss Editha had been listening she would be laughing now with old-womanish disgust at the hypocrisy of it. But what if there were no Miss Editha? Suppose it were Miss Octave’s senile joke, and Esther sat facing an empty chair, or a china statue? She cleared her throat. No response. She heard Miss Octave turn a faucet on in the kitchen. She let it run for a long, long time.

Do you have much pain, Miss Editha? she thought of saying. But it was a terrible question, and she did not want to hear its answer.

I hear you had a burglar, she might say.

They went on waiting.

Then — sooner than Esther had expected — Miss Octave’s footsteps came shuffling toward the parlor where they sat. As soon as Esther tasted the tea she knew the reason: Miss Octave had made it with hot water from the faucet. It tasted powerfully of chlorine, and it was anything but hot. Miss Octave sat down, not across from her but beside her, as though they were watching at Miss Editha’s laying-out.

“I hear you had a burglar,” Esther said.

“Yes we did. The police won’t do a thing for us, don’t you know. I suspect they don’t believe it ever happened. They came and fooled around for an hour or two and asked questions and made me walk around with them, with these poor broken arches, don’t you know, just like red-hot nails in your shoes, and one of them must have owned a cat, I think, because after they left I had my allergy for three days. It was terrible. The doctor came over and he said he couldn’t think what kept me alive. Dr. Steele, you know. A wonderful doctor. He’s one of us, one of the Conservatives. It’s so good to know there are a few of us left. But of course they’re all leaving the profession, don’t you know, because of Medicare. They can’t do their work when the Government interferes. So much paperwork, you know, when you have the Government getting in the way of things, and of course the Government tells them how much they can charge, and it’s so little they simply can’t make it any more — they’re all poorer than church-mice, since Medicare. Isn’t it criminal? But that’s the way the world’s been going since that Madman was President, Franklin Roosevelt, you know. He was a Communist Sympathizer, you know. Editha and I just stopped listening to the radio entirely, when we saw what was happening — except for Edgar Bergen and Charley McCarthy. What ever happened to them, I wonder? Television, I suppose. Charley McCarthy was actually a kind of puppet, and I suppose you can’t do a thing like that on television. Still, it wouldn’t have mattered to Editha and me. We’ve been more than half-blind for years, and we’d never have known the difference, no more than you would, Esther. There ought to be special television programs for blind people, don’t you think?”

“That’s an idea,” Esther said. She gave a tinkling little laugh.

“We don’t like television, ourselves,” Octave said. “We don’t own one, in fact. We had one for a week, a year and a half ago, when the Maxwells went to Florida, but we didn’t care for it. Of course the world is changing, it’s something we have to recognize. There’s a great many more Jews and Communists and Catholics and Nigroes now. The burglar we had happened to be a Nigro. Did I tell you?”

“No.” She was surprised. It had become almost a matter of fact in Esther’s mind that the burglar was the bearded one.

Miss Octave said, “Yes. He happened to be Nigro. You could tell by his voice.”

“That’s odd,” Esther said. “I don’t think when Ed Burlington told me about it he mentioned—”

“Well, no, perhaps not. We gave the police the best description we could, don’t you know, but there was no point in mentioning that the man was a Nigro. The Woodworths have always tried not to be too prejudiced. Of course the Scripture does tell us—”

“I had no idea,” Esther said.

“Well, they never caught him, of course. Your husband came and visited — brought some flowers, too. Do thank him for us. But he didn’t really investigate. None of them did. You’re familiar with A. Conan Doyle, I imagine?”

“I can’t imagine why he didn’t,” Esther said.

The old lady sighed. “Well, these days, what with all those politicians … The Mayor’s a Communist, you know.”

“Is he?”

“Oh yes. The family’s been Communist for years. Well, times are changing. It’s something we have to face. I suppose they resent us at City Hall. The Woodworths have always been very civic-minded, don’t you know, and sometimes we’ve just felt we had to put our foot down. Doesn’t do any good, of course. When Father was alive—” She let it trail off.

Esther said, “I’m sure my husband did the best he could, Miss Woodworth. You’ve no idea the kind of pressure a man in his position is under.”

“That’s so, no doubt. I suppose they have spies everywhere.”

“Oh yes,” Esther said, surprising herself and, to tell the truth, feeling wickedly delighted. “Everywhere!”

Miss Octave seemed to think about it. At last, with a deep sigh she said, “Such a good man, isn’t he. With all the troubles he has to put up with, never knowing which of his best friends may be a Government spy, he still has time to bring flowers to two poor old ladies.”

Exactly as though she believed every word of it, Esther was smitten by a sense of great sorrow and loss. “He is good, yes,” she said. “He’s a wonderful person.” Her voice was unsteady.

Miss Octave did not miss it. She laid her tiny hand on Esther’s arm. “How lucky you are, Mrs. Cooper. How very happy you must be!”

The irrational sorrow was now out of all control. She could only say, “Yes, very happy.”

Then they were silent. The pause grew and became one with the mindless silence of the house until, from the heart of this mystical hush, Miss Editha spoke: “Take me potty.”

“Oh dear,” Miss Octave said.

Esther half-rose from her chair, preparing to retreat.

Miss Editha whispered again: “Potty.” A voice full of terror.

“You needn’t go,” Miss Octave said, withdrawing her hand from Esther’s arm. “I’ll just help her to the potty and then we’ll have some more nice tea.”

“Potty,” Editha said. Now she was crying.

Esther sat down again, rigid as stone. She heard the noises of Miss Octave struggling to drag Miss Editha’s wheelchair toward the hallway, where the bathroom was.

“Won’t take a minute,” Miss Octave whispered gaily.

It seemed to take hours: the long painful struggle to the hallway door, the struggle from there to the door of the bathroom, the fierce battle of whispers and grunts and whimpers as she got Miss Editha out of the wheelchair and ready. Finally, alone, Miss Octave came back. “Now I’ll fix the tea,” she said, ”Editha will be there for a long, long time, poor thing. And then after I’ve cleaned her and brought her back in here she’ll be convinced she never went and she’ll want me to take her back again. It’s a burden, you can see. And of course she can never really do anything, if you know what I mean.” She leaned closer. “Just little black marbles.”