The Sunlight Dialogues (59 page)

“Good-bye, Maddie,” Will said severely.

“Good-bye,” she said.

Louise appeared at the door, holding Danny’s hand in one hand, Will’s suitcase in the other. “You
taking
this?” she said.

He got out to take it from her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” she said. “You’re always sorry.”

He bent his head and backed away a step. She caught his wrist.

“God damn it, Will,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and winced as the word fell out. Nevertheless, he kissed her, Maddie and Danny standing there watching with solemn faces. In the middle of the kiss the thought of Mrs. Kleppmann crossed his mind, that sudden, beautiful smile, and with the image his weakness and helplessness were transformed to a pleasant feeling of cruelty. As simple as that, he thought. He was closer to the Kleppmanns—closer to both of them, to tell the truth—than to Louise or Maddie or Danny.

He tightened the one-armed hug. It would leave another bruise, no doubt. “Bye,” he said. He carried the suitcase to the car.

IX

“Like a robber,
I shall
proceed
according to
my will.”

We have hitherto considered only two possibilities: that the received opinion may be false, and some other opinion, consequently, true; or that, the received opinion being true, a conflict with the opposite error is essential to a clear apprehension and deep feeling of its truth. But there is a commoner case than either of these; when the conflicting doctrines, instead of being one true and the other false, share the truth between them. …

—John Stuart Mill

1

[The Judge in his Chamber, smoking. Enter Fire Chief, pulling at suspenders, sweating.]

FIRE CHIEF:
Ah! Caught you!

JUDGE:
So you have. Good afternoon.

FIRE CHIEF:
Hardest damn man in the world to get hold of, that’s the truth. We been looking high and low for you all morning. You ever seen such weather?
(Wipes his forehead and neck.)
Kills you in the end. Never mind! You heard about the business at the church?

JUDGE:
Church?

FIRE CHIEF:
So you haven’t. Somebody set it on fire—around midnight, we figure. Or they tried to. Put these holes in the floor behind the pulpit and packed chemicals in, plain fertilizer, the way it looks-ammonium nitrate—and rigged up this contraption so you could stamp on a board and blow it all up, but they figured wrong, looks like; just noise and smoke and barely enough heat to singe the rug. Janitor found it, six-thirty this morning. Smelled something, he said, and he went to look and there it was. Called the police, naturally, and they came and looked around and said “Hmm! Hmm!”—but you know how it is with them, if nobody’s killed they don’t worry their heads, just file it under “Trouble.”
JUDGE:
Which church?

FIRE CHIEF:
Presbyterian. I thought I mentioned.
(He wipes his neck again.)

JUDGE:
I should have guessed.
FIRE CHIEF:
Guessed? You know something then?
JUDGE:
If somebody sees a vision, you can guess it’s one of the Catholic churches. Man gets out of his wheelchair and walks, it’s a Baptist church. But when lightning strikes a pulpit, that’s Presbyterian.
FIRE CHIEF:
I see you’re in a good humor. The police—
JUDGE:
Unlike some, yes.
FIRE CHIEF:
—wanted us to come look, so we went.
JUDGE:
And found?

FIRE CHIEF:
Just what I told you. It’s an old coal miner’s trick—use it in strip mining instead of dynamite, to blow off the side walls along the bed. If they’d packed it right, they could’ve blown that church right to heaven. Ha Ha Ha. Never mind, that’s not what I came to say; you’re a busy man. We have been having a lot of trouble with these arson cases. No cooperation from the cops—not on that or on anything else, matter of fact. Couple months ago I took the bull by the horns and sent some boys of mine over to Albany, the State’s got a course they give there, all about arson investigating. I put ’em right on it this morning, first thing, told ’em “Anything you need, you just sign for it. I’m up to here. Charge the Department.” You want to hear what they found so far?—Sir?
JUDGE:
I’m listening.
FIRE CHIEF:
They found a cigar.
JUDGE:
I see.

FIRE CHIEF:
You may not know it, but a cigar can be just like a fingerprint, at least this one. So they tell me. Found it right outside the door, and it got there since the rain. Now maybe the fellow that smoked it went in and maybe he just set on the steps there and smoked it, but you gotta admit it’s interesting. It’s not as if a lot of people sit on the steps of the Presbyterian church and smoke cigars. I’ll tell you something else. It’s a more or less expensive cigar, kind not too many people smoke, made by a company called Dunhill. You heard of them?
(Pause.)

JUDGE:
Go ahead. I see the point.

FIRE CHIEF:
Right. We checked the drugstores, just to make sure, and Marshall’s Newsstand. It’s dead certain.
(Pause.)
JUDGE:
Clumly.
FIRE CHIEF:
That’s right.
(Long pause.
)

JUDGE:
You got Clumly’s explanation?

FIRE CHIEF:
No, sir. But never mind. What would we know that we don’t know already? Assuming he didn’t set the fire himself, which I suppose we can assume—though I haven’t ruled that out either, in fact—it appears he went there because he’d gotten a tip, or else because he saw something, or was out investigating on his own. However you read it, it adds up to one thing: Clumly’s not working by the rules. And that kind of man, in Clumly’s job—You see why I came to you.

JUDGE:
My hands are tied.

FIRE CHIEF
(bending forward, speaking rapidly):
I don’t believe that. You’ve put people out before, just a word here and there to the right people; the old buzzards that ran this town—

JUDGE:
Not any more. That was the old days. I’ve made people and unmade them, and so did my father and grandfather. But times change, Mr. Uphill. There are no more powers, principalities, gods, demigods. No more wizards, kings. And even if I could

FIRE CHIEF:
There you are. That’s what I thought, you don’t want to. You realize what he’s
like
these days? You realize what kind of trouble he makes? Ask anybody! For his own sake help us get him out. Think of it, a crazy man running the police department! It’s no good. No good. What about the poor devil’s wife?

Look, I call them when we got some big fire and Fred Clumly sends away his boys on a picnic. He won’t work with us. Won’t work with anybody, not even his own men. He’s dangerous, that’s the truth. Just like a rattlesnake. All right, I know what his argument is: can’t do everything, first things first. But never mind. Suppose
I
said that—”Sorry Mrs. Block, we’re working on a fire on North Street right now, we’ll be over soon as we’re finished.” I’d never last a minute! No sir! A fire starts in Batavia and we put it out, that’s
it.
You just do it, whether it’s possible or not. Can’t do it yourself, you call in help from Attica.

JUDGE:
In the last days great cities shall be consumed.

FIRE CHIEF:
Maybe so, I don’t know about last days. But there ain’t gonna be no cities consumed while
I’m
the Fire Chief.

JUDGE:
Commendable.

FIRE CHIEF:
Maybe.
(Flustered:)
I’m not a man of words, I guess you know. So. But get rid of him. And once he’s out of the police department—

JUDGE:
Not yet. Sometime later, perhaps.

FIRE CHIEF:
If you won’t—

JUDGE:
You’ll manage it yourselves, you and Mullen and the rest.

FIRE CHIEF:
I thought if
you
would take care of it—

JUDGE:
Not at this time. As I say, I’m doubtful that I could in any case. But I’ll say this. When he comes to talk I’ll mention the problem.

FIRE CHIEF:
You’re expecting him?

JUDGE:
Not definitely, but I have lines out, so to speak. Your family’s well?

FIRE CHIEF:
Well. Yes. As far as I know. Times like these … Fine, I believe. Yes. Lines?

JUDGE:
Good-day, then.

FIRE CHIEF:
Yes.
(He moves toward the door.
)

JUDGE
(aside, scraping his moustache with two fingers):
Righteous old fool! There are fires and fires, Mr. Uphill! And you, sir, can be replaced by a tidal wave.

FERE CHIEF
(at the door)
: Your Honor. I ought to explain—

JUDGE:
No need.

FIRE CHIEF:
I don’t mean to offend you. I’ve got my duty to the City, you know.

JUDGE:
Of course.

FIRE CHIEF:
I’ve always been very grateful for whatever favors—

JUDGE:
Certainly.

FIRE CHIEF:
Good. That has to be clear. I assume this disagreement—

JUDGE:
Don’t mention it! A trifle! Glad you could drop by, Phil.

FIRE CHIEF:
Good-bye, then.

JUDGE:
Good-day. Don’t forget your hat.

FIRE CHIEF:
I have it. I don’t often forget things, as you know. Well, never mind.

[Exit Fire Chief. The Judge draws back with a sigh into his smoke. The desk he has leaned his elbows on is reduced by his withdrawal to an object, or, rather, to an assembly of objects—pencils, an open ink bottle, papers, books, magazines. Among the magazines a stack of five with bright covers: Hodge’s folly. The shadow of a blowing curtain reaches toward them, misses, reaches again. A sound of retreating footsteps on the stairs.]

2

Chief of Police Fred Clumly suffered a sleep full of troublesome dreams, agitations, old memories. When he turned his head on the pillow he felt his thoughts tumbling from the left side of his head to his right, reappearing there as seemingly new, unrelated dreams and agitations. He had stepped through a familiar door and had emerged in a strange place, and now he’d gotten turned around somehow, had lost his bearings. At odd twistings of the maze he encountered his wife—naked, at one point, with an ecstatic smile which repelled him—but in general he encountered only strangers with muffled chins and with hats drawn low, who spoke to each other with voices as muffled and unrecognizable as their faces. Once he caught sight of the waitress in the magazine picture, sitting at her window high above the street, smiling. It was snowing. The buildings—he was in a city of some sort, not Batavia but some large, dark city where there were chemical plants, or tanneries—the buildings were heavily draped in snow, and there was snow like sifted flour on the sidewalks, treacherous stuff to walk in. He was in a great hurry, though he could not remember what his appointment was, and there was something in the way of his getting wherever it was he had to get. Once a tree fell slowly and solemnly in his path (the crowd drew back, unconcerned, as if they’d been forewarned that the tree would fall). Another time a truck plunged slowly and solemnly over the curb directly in front of him and there, without a sound, turned over, like an elephant falling dead with a heart attack. He came to a peculiar, elaborately wrought concrete portal—columns on each side, statuary (armless figures in attitudes of greed, agony, debauched pleasure: a naked leering fat man, at his feet young girls, also naked, looking up with expressions of mingled delight and disgust—in all this nothing shocking, Clumly felt, nothing out of the ordinary), around the bases of the statues bits of broken glass, a hubcap, a bleeding hand. From a window, a naked, emaciated old woman without a face extended a ticket to Clumly. He took it and tipped his hat. The woman was his wife. He started down the steps; cold, wet stone slabs on which rats scampered. “Terrible place,” Clumly said without either delight or distaste. The fat man beside him nodded curtly. “Terrible.” A public official of some kind, here merely to inspect, like Clumly. A bearded man in a high black hat. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Clumly said. The official smiled, and Clumly saw that the mouth had no teeth in it. He jerked himself awake.

“Incredible,” Clumly said. “Horrible!”

It was light out now, time he should be getting up, but he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift back into sleep. The dream seemed to continue, but it was another dream. He seemed to be standing in a public dancehall—in colored lights above the stage the enormous legend
THE FAT PEOPLE’S PLEASURE CLUB.
All the people were fat and naked, pinkish and bluish in the mysterious light, and all the men were alive, all the women dead. This did not seem strange. Some of the couples were dancing, the men straining and heaving, dragging around their dead partners. Here and there a man stood kicking the body of his partner, or beating the body with a club. “This won’t do,” Clumly said. But someone was clutching at him, dragging him toward the floor, stripping his clothes from his back like skin as she pulled him along. “All right,” he said irritably. He could think of no reason to refuse, though it gave him no pleasure. “It’s time,” she said. She gave him a loaf of bread. “You’re supposed to feed me. It’s
time,”
she repeated, cross. “What’s the matter with you?” He opened his eyes and, half awake half asleep, saw the staring, scrawny hen’s face of his wife.