by John Gardner
When she said nothing he glanced at her and saw that she was angry and alarmed; rightly enough. A thought of the bottle in his pocket came briefly into his mind. “I didn’t mean to offend you with that question,” he said. “Part of my business is figuring psychological angles, you know what I mean? But you’re the client, it’s your money. You don’t like the way I work—” Still she said nothing, and Craine sucked the insides of his cheeks, thinking fast. “It’s a hard thing, working for a client that doesn’t trust you—client that thinks you don’t respect her human rights.” He kept the irony—a mere hint. “I’ve noticed how you’ve been. I don’t blame you, understand.” He glanced over. She was listening. He reached inside his suit coat pocket and drew out his pipe. They were coming up on Ash, and though he drove more slowly than a farmer between fields, he knew he’d never bring her around before she was out of the truck and free of him. Hurried though he was, he fitted his pipe between his teeth and got out matches, then looked at her. The lines of her face were too sharp; another trick of the Scotch. “I can let you off and wait for you, if you like, and then drive you to class.”
“I missed class,” she said. She looked straight ahead. “I haven’t got another one for an hour.”
“Well, in that case—”
They’d come to the house. Craine eased over to the curb and parked. He left the motor running. The girl’s lips were pursed, and Craine thought without a trace of intent of kissing her.
She put her hand on the door handle, then said, staring forward, “You say you’ve noticed how I’ve been. How have I?”
He lit his pipe, taking his time, then shut off the engine. On the porch of the house where she had her apartment, three students sat talking, looking without interest at the truck.
“Well,” Craine said, “talkative. Eager to give no offense.” He rolled down the window to let the smoke out. Warmth rushed in. “Desperate, you might say. Scared half to death because you think I’m a crazy old drunk.”
She nodded.
“Which I am, of course. Though it seems to me I’m the best hope you’ve got.”
To his surprise, she nodded again, brow furrowed, eyes still gazing straight ahead. He risked closing the fingers of his left hand around the neck of the bottle in his pocket.
“You don’t believe he means to kill me,” she said.
“No.”
“But you believe he exists.”
“I’m not sure about that yet.” The pipe had gone out and the matchbook was empty. He reached in front of her—she pressed back against the seat—to open the glove compartment and get out more matches.
“You think it’s someone who heard that paper of mine.”
Craine lit his pipe. “It could be that.”
She continued to sit with her hand on the door handle, gazing forward. “Is it really too late for tornadoes?”
“They’re not likely, anyway, this time of year. I suppose it’s possible.”
She considered it, or considered something else. He had no choice but to smoke and wait. Suddenly something flew straight at the windshield then shot up and right. He started, but inwardly. Elaine, he saw, had missed it. He tightened his grip on the matchbook. She said, “Why did you ask me that … question about men?”
“Just groping,” he said. He blew smoke out the window, masking his alarm. There was that tingle. Something stirred behind him, or perhaps stirred in the truck’s side mirror—flash of steel, sudden light—and he froze. But the street was empty—an old Pontiac down the block, moseying home like an old woman who’s been to market; nothing more.
The girl said, “I’m not really as bad as I sounded in that letter. Once a teacher of mine, an older man—”
The flash came, ghostly, too brief to register except as an afterimage. “I don’t need to know,” Craine said. “It’s all right.”
“He was married.”
“Don’t tell me. I shouldn’t have asked.” He pocketed the matches, put the pipe on the dashboard. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the girl’s hand on the door handle was trembling, all wrinkled and spotted, not a young girl’s hand but a palsied old woman’s. He turned to look straight at it and it resumed its former shape.
“Look, if there’s something I can tell you that will help,” she was saying.
“I’m a detective,” Craine said. “Just a detective.”
She turned her head to look at him, her eyes brimming tears, and then, with sudden violence, she pushed down the door handle and opened the door.
“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.
When the mumbles became clear and Craine’s vision adjusted, Craine was lying on a lumpy couch, Elaine not far from him, Tom Meakins standing next to her, on her right. At the foot of the couch and elsewhere in the room there were other people, college students Craine didn’t know.
Meakins came forward. “You awake, Craine? You all right?” His voice was crabby, his face dark red, and stern.
Craine nodded, then ruefully shook his head. “Must’ve missed the top step,” he said. Someone laughed.
“I’d say you missed most of them,” Meakins said. “With your feet, anyway. Think you can sit up?”
He made an attempt. Pain shot up his elbows. “What time is it? We gotta get Miss Glass here to her class.”
“I’ll see to it,” Meakins said. He came forward and bent down to pull Craine up into sitting position. “I’m taking over for you. Hannah’s orders. How in hell you manage to get so plastered so early in the morning?”
“It wasn’t that,” Craine said. “If you’d seen what I—” He thought about it, then nodded. “Must’ve gotten carried away,” he said. He squinted at Elaine, wondering if she knew the extent of his insanity. Her face wouldn’t focus, and when he reached up he found that his glasses were missing.
“It’s all right, I’ve got ’em,” Meakins said and drew them from his pocket.
Craine continued to pat himself—pants pockets, coat pockets. “You find my gun?” he said.
“Hannah says you’re not to have it,” Meakins said. “Think you can walk?” Again he reached for Craine’s armpits.
“I’m all right,” Craine said, testy, though he was glad to have the help. When he was standing he could feel all the places he’d hit, lump on his head—when he touched it he found it was large and broken open—pain in his elbows, back, and legs. The first step he took, his left leg buckled. Meakins caught him. “Sorry,” Craine said. He did not sound it.
“Come on, we’ll get you home first,” Meakins said. He took Craine’s left arm. Elaine came around on the other side. “Lean on me,” she said. They helped him out onto the porch and down the steps toward Meakins’ Chevy.
Craine pulled back. “Can’t leave the truck,” he said.
Meakins pulled him forward. “The hell you can’t.”
“Nobody’ll bother it, I think,” Elaine said. She let go of his arm and stepped ahead to open the car door. In the front seat lay the plastic-covered Bible. Slowly and carefully, favoring his bruised parts, Craine got in. “Tom,” he said, “Hannah find anything about tumps?”
Meakins came around to the driver’s side before answering. “She says they’re not even in the dictionary.” He held the door open so Elaine could get in back.
“Anything about—” Craine hesitated—“that license?”
“You’re on vacation, Craine,” Meakins said. Though his voice was boyish, it was fierce, closing the subject. “Sit back and close your eyes, or read your Bible.”
Obediently, Craine closed his eyes.
“Do you hurt a lot, Mr. Craine?” Elaine asked.
“I’ll make it.”
The car swung out onto the street. Meakins switched on the radio so he wouldn’t have to talk. Craine, head back on the seat, opened his eyes just enough to look at him. They were taking over for him, it was plain to see—Meakins and Hannah. No harm, point of fact. No business for a person in Craine’s condition. If someone had said to him, “Craine, if I were you I’d seek out employment more suitable,” he would have said, “You’re right. I will.”
Meakins said, “Craine, what made you suddenly run in there like that?”
Craine sighed. Never mind that his brain was a shambles. If they were going to take over they’d have to smarten up. What if the answer he’d had to give, there in front of the girl, was “I thought I saw the murderer.” He thought of
telling the truth, pretending it was a joke, then at once thought better of it. He closed his eyes. “I had to pee,” he said. Then, with his eyes still closed: “Royce all right, after yesterday?”
“I’d stay clear of him, if I was you,” Meakins said.
Craine looked at him. Tom Meakins’ face was dark again, his mouth firmly set, distressed.
“You’ve heard from him then?” Craine smiled and let his eyes fall shut. “So he says he’s gonna get me.”
Meakins was stubbornly silent. They came to Craine’s hotel.
“Get some sleep, Craine,” Meakins said as Craine climbed out.
Elaine Glass leaned forward in the back seat, eyes wide. “Don’t do that,” she said, “it’s the worst thing you can do! When I was knocked down one time on my bicycle—”
Craine closed the car door, ducked his head to smile and wave at her, climbed the narrow stairs to his room and went to bed.
Four
He slept like a log for hours. Then dreams came. He dreamed he was visiting a House of Horrors with a woman of uncertain identity—sometimes she seemed to be his long-dead aunt Harriet, sometimes for a moment she seemed to be Elaine. At times both his aunt and Elaine took over as narrator of the dream, as if all that was happening was a movie or book. He was excited, reaching up to pay for his ticket, which cost seven cents. He could not make out who was selling the tickets, but the hand that reached down to him was white with age and palsied. All around him, people in black hats or black shawls waited patiently for a small dark green door to open, then went in, three or four at a time. Inside, where they could not turn back, a sign said, proceed at your own risk. They made their way carefully over a long narrow plank, black and slippery with oil, that spanned a pit containing rattlesnakes and people who had fallen. Occasionally people screamed, or a sudden mechanical shriek came, accompanied by the brief illumination of a green, dead face, a descending axe, a huge winged bull that came charging on steel tracks, a striking serpent head four feet wide. The deaths were real—gushing blood, rolling eyes—but most of the visitors moved safely past each horror. Sometimes the woman who was with him would cling to him in terror, but neither of them spoke. He found himself comforting a young man who had died and come to life again. “It was like another world,” he said. “It was white with clouds and beautiful trees … a beautiful, sunny day.” An old woman said, “I know what he means. I’ve had it too. I was floating in air toward a wide-open door with light all around Jesus. Behind Him was a long staircase with angels lined up the stairs.” Someone said—a doctor, perhaps; he was holding a stethoscope to a severed head—“About twenty-one percent of the people I’ve interviewed have had these experiences. The Florida team had eleven out of fifty, which is very close to my results.” They were standing on a sparkling white linoleum floor, all around them a great silent crowd wearing black. From the ceiling above them, and above the many balconies crowded with people, rising ring after ring, came a booming noise. No one seemed to hear it, so carefully were they listening to the doctor. “My reaction was initially one of skepticism,” the doctor said, “but now I’m totally convinced that these experiences are real.” The booming became louder, and a voice began shouting, “Craine! Craine!”
