John Gardner - Stillness & Shadows

“Wait!” he said, and grabbed her arm. His mind snapped clear. He was as surprised by what he’d done as she was, and said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

They sat for an instant like statues, both of them painfully embarrassed. He should let go of her arm, he was thinking. He should check into a madhouse. If an objective observer should see him now …

“Mr. Craine, I really have to go,” she said.

He nodded. “One more minute.” And now, thinking about it, he did let go. She made no move to get out, sat motionless a moment longer, then turned her face away. “Listen,” Craine said, “you don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m your friend, or anyway I’m trying to be. That’s the truth.”

She said nothing. He wanted to touch her arm again, fatherly. The softness of it was still in his fingertips. Instead, he put the pipe on the dashboard with his right hand and with his left drew out his whiskey. He unscrewed the cap and took three swallows. She said nothing.

“ ‘Why do you always have to drink, Mr. Craine?’ That’s what you’re thinking.” She slid her eyes in his direction, then away. He put the cap back on. “ ‘What is it you’re afraid of?’ That’s what you’d like to know.” He smiled.

“I really do have to go,” she said. She shifted a little as if to do so. “I believe you about wanting to be my friend.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, “it’s not death I’m afraid of. I’ve thought about it, I’ve watched myself. It’s something, all right, but not that.”

She nodded, and Craine felt a lunatic urge to ask her what it was, this unholy dread in him. He said, “I’ve been shot at, I’ve been in car wrecks — more wrecks than you’ve had years in your life, Miss Glass. It doesn’t faze me — maybe speeds up my pulse, that’s all. I could tell you about fear.”

She sat miserably listening, head bowed, enduring. Her right hand was still on the door handle. With her left she was bunching up then smoothing then bunching up then smoothing her coat. He couldn’t make out, at the moment, what was wrong with her, though he was certain he’d understood a minute ago.

He said, “The first time people were afraid in this world was the minute they killed something and ate it. So they made up bear gods and grain gods and so on…” She threw him a look, but he continued. “The second time was the minute somebody killed a human being, or else when somebody made himself king over all the other people, and forced them to do what was good for them, or so he thought. So they made up gods to blame the rules on, that is—” He paused. “They saw that there were …” He looked at her. “You follow what I’m saying?”

“Mr. Craine,” she began.

“The third time’s the one I can’t figure.” He studied the bottle, then thoughtfully uncapped it, preparing to take another swig. “It’s the time a man realizes — or a woman, same thing—” He remembered all at once why she was upset: because he’d told her he was just a detective, she could ask no more of him. And even now, now that he’d tried to fix it … He was nobody’s friend, if he told himself the truth. Her damned Jewish neuroses, her self-absorbed daddy, her stifling mother, her sex-death fantasy of a blue-and-white pursuer — what were they to him? She was right. It was true. Suppose he reached out and took Elaine Glass’s hand. Suppose he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be watching night and day! I’m your guardian angel!” A terrible weariness came over Craine, a numbness like a sleep of the soul. He looked at her, frowning, not a studied frown, for once — not even knowing he was frowning — and abruptly cleared his throat. Once the case was finished, he’d forget her in a week, or anyway forget how he’d felt for a minute a few minutes ago. You’re on your own, kid , he thought, like all of us . He got an image of his aunt in her casket, primly dead, her head propped too far forward, uncomfortable; it was amazing that she didn’t wake up.

Elaine sat sniffling, her ear poking out through the stringy black hair, and it came to him that one of the things he’d thought, a few minutes ago, was that she was prettier than he’d thought in the beginning. Strange, he thought, how vision changes from second to second. So for an instant, it seemed, he’d been in love with her; no doubt an effect of her having spoken of having had an affair with an older man. A man of twenty-six was what she’d meant, no doubt, or maybe thirty, and here was Craine pushing sixty, with a liver of maybe eighty. He looked at the bottle, took the swig he’d been planning, and put the cap back on.

“Never mind,” he said, “you’re right. You should go in.”

“No,” she said, “go on.”

“Go on?” Craine struggled to remember what he’d been saying.

She was looking at him, waiting. A motorcycle went past them, sound like a vacuum cleaner, two doll-like figures in gold helmets. “Go on with what you were saying, about the third kind of fear.”

He struggled to remember what he’d been thinking. At last it came. “The third time is when a man or woman realizes he’s — or she’s — gotten separated from himself. Or herself. Gotten split off from his feelings.”

“And some kind of god takes care of that, too?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know yet.”

“But it does make them feel afraid.”

“I think so. I’m not sure.”

Elaine Glass turned away, took off her glasses, wiped her eyes, then wiped her glasses and put them on again. “It’s interesting,” she said.

Strange girl, he thought: looking even now into his curious idea merely because it was , for the moment, an idea. Studying her nose, her slightly protruding eyes, he corrected himself: Strange tribe. Against the day’s eerie light her skin was brownish golden, and again, for an instant, he thought her beautiful. She swivelled her knees around, preparing to get out, carefully bracing herself with her left hand on the dashboard.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Craine,” she said, “and thanks for breakfast.”

“My pleasure,” he said. He watched her walk with long strides up the sidewalk to the house, up the steps, and into the darkness. Briefly, the students on the porch stopped talking as she passed.

Where the snake came from he did not see. The sky flashed white, and the snake was there, a foot across, maybe thirty feet long, greenish-golden. Hatchet head raised, tongue flicking, it moved with the assurance of a familiar visitor up the sidewalk toward the steps. Without thinking, Craine threw down the bottle, pushed open the door on his side, half-jumped, half-fell from the truck, and ran around the front. It was gone — gone inside — and he ran after it, drawing his gun. The hallway was dark as pitch, but even before his eyes adjusted he was aware of a great crowd standing all around him, looking out through doorways, some in beards and black hats, some in babushkas, neither helping nor hindering, mournfully looking on. Let me be lucky! he thought, his mind as clear and sharp as broken crystal. It was all very well to lay plans, he thought — his mind had never been clearer in his life — and all very well to count on friends’ concern (the tragic crowd of Jews looked on solemnly, without a word) — but in a universe where anything could happen at any moment, where an enormous snake could appear out of nowhere … A door stood ahead of him. He crashed through it, stepped into space, and the next instant was banging down head over heels into a darkness more dank and deep than the darkness in the hallway. The stairs seemed endless, slamming now against his head, now his shoulders, now his back, now his knees, now his head — leaden blows without sting, familiar surprises; he’d fallen in this drunken way many times before — and now, with shocking suddenness, he was perfectly still. He realized the gun was no longer in his hand and, with an effort, raised his head. Lights came on; voices came down at him, shouts at first, then mumbles.