John Gardner - The Sunlight Dialogues

CLUMLY (a whisper) : Now wait—

SUNLIGHT: I stopped the truck as soon as the bump came, and I backed away and turned around to shine the lights toward the place where he’d thrown the purse. There it was, sharp black against the white of the dew on the grass. I got out and got it and I gave it to the lady. She reached out for it, and her hands were shaking like she’d gone crazy. “Thank you,” she said. I’ll never forget it. It was as if she’d lost her mind. Well, I drove her back as far as the Jefferson Memorial — she’d been heading someplace on Dehnar, I remember — and I let her out. She didn’t say anything. Just walked away holding the purse in her two hands like it was her dead baby and she’d lost her mind. I was laughing. Not because I was crazy, you understand. I wasn’t. I laughed because I’d done what she wanted and the poor bitch woman couldn’t stand it. I drove back and I picked up the boy. He was alive, so I took him home with me and made a place for him in the cellar. He was unconscious, mostly, but now and then he’d come to. Both his legs were broken, that’s all it was. I put splints on him, and I went up and made him some soup, and then I gave him some whiskey to knock him out again. I don’t drink, myself, but I always keep some around for times like that. After that I locked the cellar door and went up to my bed. I’d hear him moaning sometimes, but it wasn’t too bad. The next day he was better, well enough to yell for the police and things like that. I had to whip him a little with a chain, but I managed to control him. So ok. I kept him down there for two years. He never saw daylight. No windows. I put some straw down there for him—

CLUMLY: Now wait a minute. This is—

SUNLIGHT: Just listen. You can talk in a minute. I put straw down there for him, and once in a while I would clean the place up. He got thin, of course. A lot of times he wouldn’t eat. He was stubborn, you know. It was only natural. But after the first three months or so he came around a little, even though he did leave his food sometimes. It got so when I’d come down to feed him or clean the place or just have a look at him, he’d act almost glad to see me. He’d even talk. At first all he did was swear, but after a while he got to crying and whining and things, acting like a human, and I liked him. He couldn’t help seeing it, of course. What the devil! Imagine what it’s like, living in a cellar, a captive, no better than a dog! All right. “Look, boy,” I said, “you’re here for life, you understand? You might as well make the best of it.” He was half-crazy by this time, and a lot of times I had to say a thing over and over before he would get it. Still, he did get it, eventually. He began to make the best of it. One morning he said, “Hey. What’s happening outside?” He was twelve or thirteen at this time. (I never knew how old he was exactly. I never asked.) “Oh, war,” I said. “Riots. Troubles.” “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.” I began to tell him about outside. I told him something had happened to the sun and the whole world was dark now. The Government was working on it, I said, but the prospect wasn’t good. All the crops dying, not even any grass growing. Just dirt where there used to be grass. The trees all dead. People starving by the thousands. There weren’t any dogs or cats left, I told him. They’d been eaten long ago. But he didn’t need to worry. I had another six months’ worth of food in the freezer. He was grateful to me. He said once, “Why you keeping me here?” It was winter now. I told him the cold was a result of the sun’s being out, and of course he believed me. Well, I sat down on the door sill — he never bothered to try to push past me any more — and I looked at him, all compassion. I lit my pipe. “Son,” I said, “I’ll tell you the truth. It was a hell of a thing that night in the park, the night I ran you down. I must’ve lost my head. Anyway, I couldn’t just leave you there to die, so I went back for you, and I healed you as well as I could.” (Actually, the legs had never healed right. He kept fighting the splints or something, so now the legs were all twisted. He could hardly walk.) “The trouble was,” I said, “after I’d healed you, how could I go to the police and tell them what I’d done?” The boy said, “Yeah.” He understood about policemen. “But then a new problem came up,” I said. “There was the sun problem. The Government shot a rocket at the sun, for some scientific purpose too complicated for me to explain, and somehow — I don’t pretend to understand it — the sun went out.” He believed me. That’s strange, you’ll say. But remember, he had no one but me. I was reality. Alone! “Well,” I said, “when all the dogs and cats were eaten the Government passed a law that we should eat felons. That means you,” I said. “Robbers, murderers, disturbers of the peace.” He believed that too. “It also meant me. If I turned you in, we’d both be cooked and eaten.” He was very impressed. As for me — I won’t deny it — I was deeply moved, horrified. I too believed it. We wept.

Thus we continued for many years. We became the closest of friends, though also we were enemies. And then one day — horrible! horrible! — I forgot to lock his door. He didn’t leave. In fact he may not even have noticed, I’ve no idea. But I was excited — almost feverish. And that night I left his door unlocked again, but this time on purpose. I left it unlocked for months and months, and still he stayed, a creature of habit. Only natural. It was as if I had him chained to the wall. Spring came, and it got warmer. I told him the Government had discovered a way of making heat by some atomic process. But I knew I was finished. Sooner or later he would venture out of the cellar and into the street. I waited for it. We went on talking, night after night, and I went on leaving the door unlocked. I didn’t know whether I wanted him to stay or wanted him to leave. I merely waited, tortured by anxiety, sweating, terrorized by nightmares. And so, inevitably, it happened. He came out of the cellar. He must have known for weeks that he could do it if he wanted. What agony he must have undergone! Nevertheless, at last he came out. Picture it. A creature crawling on hands and knees, unspeakably grotesque! His beard hung down like an emperor’s — he must have been eighteen or nineteen by now — and his eyes had grown enormous, like the eyes of a fish who’s spent all his life in some cavern, looking at darkness. Slowly, tentatively, he crawled from his prison to the cellar stairs, all his body awake to the memory of the whippings I’d given him long ago. Up he went, step by step, an agony of guilt. At the top of the stairs he found the entryway, the door leading out to the garden, and in the door’s glass pane he saw — God forgive him! — sunlight! Fantastic! He couldn’t believe it! His wits reeled! He was nauseous! Perhaps he fainted, fell away into madness. But there was no turning back! Perhaps hours passed, or perhaps he went back to his cellar, shaking like a leaf, and did not come out until two days later. In any case, out he came, at last, and he saw that beyond any shadow of a doubt, the sun was still burning. He crawled onto the sidewalk and called out to passersby for explanation. They ignored him, fled from him. Nevertheless, the sun was burning. Eventually he attracted the attention of a child and asked his questions and learned the truth. I had lied. All his life had been a lie, for years and years! The pity of it! Christ! So then tell me. What would you have done, Clumly? What?

CLUMLY: You’re mad!

SUNLIGHT: No, sane. What would you have done?

CLUMLY: I would have killed you.

SUNLIGHT: Yes!

(Long pause.)

CLUMLY: What are you up to? What does all this mean?