John Gardner - October Light

He reached clumsily with his right hand for his left hip pocket, but unluckily he was much too fat, and neither by going around front nor by going around back could he get his wriggling, fat-pink-spider fingers near the pocket. “Excuse me,” he said to Dancer with a look of sorrow, “would you object to untying my left hand?”

Dancer did so.

“Ah, thank you!” he said. The clippings were not in the left hip pocket after all, but eventually, by patting all his pockets — trousers, shirt, suitcoat, overcoat — he found them and unfolded them. He sorted through them, glancing them over. “Ah!” he said. “Listen!”

FATHER WHO JOINED SON IN HOLDUP GETS PROBATION

Thomas Pepper, 51, San Diego, was placed on five-year probation today by Judge John Claypole in circuit court, San Diego.

Pepper pleaded guilty to armed robbery of the San Diego American Legion Club Dec. 5, 1960.

In issuing his opinion, Claypole said, “The fact that 17 people appeared in the courtroom on a day when temperatures were below 60 outside and less than 70 in the courtroom, several of them war veterans and people of means, and strongly recommended probation for the defendant, shows, I think, that their request must be taken seriously.”

Pepper was joined in the robbery by his 16-year-old son, Thomas Jr. The youth was committed to the California Youth Commission and then released for military service when he expressed a desire to serve his country.

“Now isn’t that something?” Captain Fist said. “Is that how America works or isn’t it? By God, my fellow countrymen and guests, I tell you wherever you please to look, from Seattle to Miami, from New York to San Francisco, by God that’s America!”

A thrill went through them and they applauded. As for the Captain, for some reason as he spoke his final words his face shattered into laughter. They all stopped applauding and looked at him. He laughed harder and harder. “That’s America!” he squealed. They tipped their heads, looking, and the corners of their mouths began to wiggle. He’d lost all control now. He hooted, howled, bawled, gasped, guffawed and wet his pants; and gradually, after glancing at one another, the others began laughing too, first Jane and Mr. Goodman and Mr. Nit.

“That’s Nebraska!” cried Jane, and laughed more shrilly. Then Dancer and Santisillia and Peter Wagner grinned, then began to laugh, and finally all the Mexicans joined in, rolling around, slapping the ground with their sombreros. The laughter swelled until the whole volcanic basin roared and rumbled and wheeped with it. For a moment the walls themselves shook, and a roar as of terrible laughter came booming from below. Captain Fist was on the jittering, cracking ground, lying on his humped back, kicking like a ladybug, clutching his belly, clawing at his eyes and nose. Dancer gasped and reeled and coughed, so weak he had to drop his machine gun. Captain Fist snatched at it as soon as it fell, but he was laughing so hard his fingers had no strength. Dancer tried to drag the machine gun out of the Captain’s reach, but he lurched and gasped and couldn’t pick it up. Santisillia tried to grab it but he fell down, helplessly laughing, and soon they were all, or almost all, piled up together, hitting each other’s backs with great resounding wallops, hooting, howling, bawling, gasping, and guffawing. This went on for some time.

When the hilarity passed — the earthquake had also stopped, temporarily — they lay exhausted for a while, only giggling now and then, or giving a little chortle, and then at last they began to extricate themselves from the heap, giving each other a friendly hand. When everyone who had been in the pile was on his feet, it began to appear that Captain Fist was not among them.

~ ~ ~

15

THIS PROVES

YE ARE ABOVE, YE JUSTICERS!

The lights went on early in the Governor’s high chambers. Many of those present had been informed only at the last minute of what was to transpire — had been assembled in such haste that some still had on their nightgowns beneath their coats. Only the Governor, the State and Federal Narcotics officials, the CIA, the FBI, several U.S. Senators, and the representatives of the military had been in on the plan from the beginning. They’d been here with the Governor, working out strategy and keeping touch with Washington, the various agencies jockeying for position, since midnight. There had been shouting and some violence and even one such threat of violence as had not been heard between government officials since Ethan Allen and Aaron Burr debated on who should be Governor of Fort Ticonderoga. All that, however, had been behind closed doors. Now, in public view, the whole assembly sat hushed and solemn in wide semi-circular rows facing the television set, the Governor and various politicos in front, serious men with large paunches …

Another gap. She took a bite of her apple.

… “That’s it, Chief,” the Governor’s aide said, and gave him a little poke.

The Governor jerked as if he’d nodded off, then said into his mike: “Go, boys! God bless!”

The fat aide beside him pressed his palms together as if praying.

Over the TV came now the roar of engines.

In his murky living room, the Police Commissioner of San Francisco, tiny eyes staring at the black and white TV, reached over to shake the cosmic flank of his wife beside him. “Zero hour,” he said. She opened one eye, raised her beer, and wriggled her nose. “God be with them,” she said. “Amen,” he said. “Amen,” they said together.

Sally Abbott looked up from her book. “That’s stupid,” she said. Then, pursing her lips, she looked down again.

Now in the Governor’s high chambers everyone sat on the edge of his chair as, in the blood red light of early morning, fifteen miles from San Diego, the big planes lifted off one by one and droned in V-formation south-southwest. A reporter was talking with a bombardier. The emergency call, the bombardier said, had not awakened the post. There had been a party going on. The troops had snatched up their bottles and brought them along.

“Are you afraid?” the reporter asked, and again held the mike to the bombardier.

“Not too bad,” the bombardier said, grinning boyishly.

Twenty minutes into the mission, after some talk and commercials, the camera picked up the lead pilot, Commander Purcel, who was checking the roll. All the planes were still with him. He nodded satisfaction to his co-pilot, a woman, and smiled, showing perfect little teeth. He was an older man, veteran of World War II. He had shaggy white hair pushing out around his helmet, and his leather jacket was covered, like the chest of a Czar, with ribbons and medals. “Our Father, which are in Heaven,” he said. He flicked on the radio button so the others could hear him. “Hallowed be Thy name.”

Far in the distance, black against the red of the sky, towered Lost Souls’ Rock. The Governor abruptly leaned forward in his chair, snatching off his glasses, and squinting at the television. “What the hell is that?” he bellowed.

His aide said, “Holy cow! It looks like—”

A few thousand feet above Lost Souls’ Rock, motionless and gleaming, hung a huge and serene flying saucer.

“No sir! No siree!” Sally Abbott cried, jerking her head up. “Oh, really! For mercy’s sakes!” She stared at the book as if right in front of her eyes it had changed into a garden snake, then threw it so hard that when it hit it made a crack in the panel of the bedroom door. She was surprised her arm had such strength left in it — must have hit the panel just exactly right. She sat wide-eyed and shaking, so angry she could have cursed. What kind of person would write such slop? she’d like to know. And not only that, some company had published it! Had those people no shame? A thought still more terrible came to her: there were people out there who read these things. It made her sit up and put her feet over the side, her hand on her heart, though what she meant to do, once she was up, she was hard put to say. She looked out into the evening darkness, trying to imagine what debauched, sick people would believe such foolishness amusing. “Gracious!” she breathed.