John Gardner - October Light

Perhaps it frightened her. “Please,” she cried out, helping Peter Wagner’s plan without knowing it, “what’s the difference, just a few more minutes?”

“What the hell,” Dancer said, weakening.

After a moment, Santisillia nodded. “All right. As you wish.” He smiled as if slightly amused by his own sententiousness, and the smile was the most charming, the most boyish he’d given them yet. He patted the tiger-striped scarf at his neck, then lifted his left foot, preparing to stamp, the signal to Mr. Nit. He was still smiling, but again suspicion crossed his face, some sixth sense that, however absurdly, Peter Wagner half wished the man would pay attention to. Santisillia was one of the artistocrats, a beautiful creature whom it seemed bestial to waste. He would be a king if this were Africa, or the world were sane. Peter Wagner tensed, balanced like a cat.

The foot went down. Boom. A split second later Peter Wagner threw out both his arms and slammed them into the bellies of the Indomitable’s crew, throwing them off balance on the wooden bunk. Their feet came up off the metal floor, and the same instant Santisillia raised the machine gun to fire, but too late. His face brightened like a dark cloud with lightning behind it.

“Aw, shit!” Dancer said, like a frustrated child, and fell.

Captain Fist, working from some script of his own, had found a pistol somewhere and — suddenly tipped onto his back — was shooting straight up.

Jane stared, mouth wide open, at the blacks, then screamed.

~ ~ ~

Sally Abbott put the book down, indignant, then on second thought picked it up again, staring crossly at the next words, “Chapter 9,” not yet persuaded to read on. It was ridiculous, killing those blacks like that, when they’d only a minute ago been introduced. It was probably more or less true to life—“Them that has gets,” as the saying goes, even them that has relatively little, like the horrible Captain or her James. Nevertheless, she resented this turn for the worse things had taken — resented it partly, she would readily admit, because her own position in the scheme of things was like that of the people on the Militant. It was wrong for books to make fun of the oppressed, or to show them being beaten without a struggle. Of course it was mainly Peter Wagner’s story, the age-old story of the man who in his heart of hearts takes no side. But even so …

She was extremely tired, though not sleepy. There was a barely perceptible ringing in her ears, and she had a curious sense of being terribly alone, as if hovering far out in space. It was long after midnight, and except for the dim lights glowing in her room, there was probably not a light on for miles and miles. Again her nephew Richard came into her mind, it was difficult to say why, except for this: at some point in her reading — she had no idea when — she had begun to give Peter Wagner her nephew’s features. There was really no similarity between them, unless, perhaps, it was the fact that both of them were victims, and tragically weak.

If it hadn’t been for his suicide, you might hardly have known it, in Richard’s case. She, Sally Abbott, was probably the only relative who knew the whole story. She remembered his standing in her dining room one night, three or four years after Horace had died. Richard was in his twenties. She’d been toying at the time with the idea of starting her antique business, and on the dining-room table she had silver things laid out — a friend of Estelle’s had sent her a small box of odds and ends from London: a silver teapot with a carved ivory handle, cut-glass salt shakers with silver tops, knives and forks, little spoons, a pen set, an ornate silver dish. She’d just finished polishing them when Richard arrived. She was planning a kind of experiment: see how much mark-up the trade would bear, then decide on whether or not to go into the business. She’d offered him a drink — he always accepted — and invited him to come in and see.

He stood bent at the waist, looking excitedly from object to object, his eyes lighted up as if she’d shown him a pirate’s treasure. “Aunt Sally,” he’d said, “this is fantastic. Look! Is this really right?” He picked up a fork and the tag that had come with it. £1. “You can sell it for ten dollars easy — maybe twenty!”

She’d laughed. “We’ll see,” she said.

He shook his head in disbelief, and the light from the chandelier flickered in his hair. “Boy,” he said, “I’d buy it myself!”

“How much?” she said.

He grinned. “Two pounds?”

“No siree!” she said, and laughed, “but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll fill your glass.”

“Done!” he said, and held it out to her. His hand was large, like James’.

Richard had been drinking too much in those days, and no wonder: the Flynn girl had thrown him over; and Sally had not fully approved of herself for offering him more. But she had no real choice. He was her guest, after all, and he was a grown man with a house of his own — he’d been living for some while in the house across the road and down the mountain from his father’s. Even when he’d had a bit too much, he was never unpleasant or a careless driver. In the kitchen, fixing his Canadian Club and one for herself, she’d thought (it was bitterly ironic, as things turned out) how happy they all were, in spite of everything. She was used to her life as a widow now, in some ways even enjoying it, though the weight was always there. She was looking forward to this new adventure. Who could say? She might do well at it! She’d been annoyed that Richard had refused to go to college, but it seemed it had all been for the best, really. He was making good money at his stables job, and he was working for his father less and less. That was what mattered most to him, independence from his father, and heaven knew she couldn’t blame him. Selfishly speaking, she’d been glad to have him near, able to drop in on her — and able to keep an eye on Ginny, who was then in her teens. She put away the ice-tray, closed the refrig, picked up the glasses, and started for the dining room. In the doorway, she stopped in her tracks.

He was holding a long-playing record she’d left on the buffet when she was straightening up. It had been Horace’s favorite, The Afternoon of a Faun, and a pang of memory had made her leave it out, here in the dining room where she’d see it and remember to play it. Richard stood motionless, drained of all color — it was as if someone had slapped him — and she remembered only now that it was the record she too, the Flynn girl, had always chosen first. “Oh, Richard!” she said, heart shaking with pity, and she rushed to him, spilling the drinks as she went, and caught him in her arms, still holding the drinks, and pressed her head to his chest. “Oh Richard, I’m so sorry!” They clung to each other like children and wept. How she’d loved that boy! There was nothing in this world …

It lasted only a few minutes. He gave a little laugh, drawing away from her, shaking his head and wiping his eyes, embarrassed. Head tipped, full of sorrow, she watched him compose himself, then handed him his drink.

“Richard, whatever happened between you two?” she said.

He smiled as if in panic, and for an instant it seemed he might cry again. Then he said, falsely brave, “I guess she found out about my faults.” He smiled.

“Fiddlesticks,” she said. “You have no faults.”

“Ah, Aunt Sally,” he said, “do I have faults!”

She’d pressed him no further, then or at any other time. She knew well enough what his fault was: cowardice. Or perhaps she should say half-legitimate fear of his father. He should have run away with the girl, of course. But no. “Soon,” he kept saying. Even Horace had hinted that he was stalling too long; James was already half onto them, suspicious as a hen. “In the spring,” Richard said, and seemed to mean it.