Read Online The Sunlight Dialogues by John Gardner - Free Book Online
Authors: John Gardner
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“Adopted son.” Finally he nodded, noncommittal as ever, and shifted into low. “Wal, getting towards choretime,” he said. “Take care of yourself, Chief.” He spoke too kindly. It sounded faintly ominous to Clumly.
“Same to you,” he said. He stood back, resting his hands on his hips, and watched the truck pull out onto the highway and draw away. Then, his leather shoes slipping a little on the hillside along the road, he hurried back to his car. Late, he thought. Towards choretime, in fact. His chest filled with panic. He’d wasted almost another whole day. The pile of papers on his desk was as high as ever, unless Miller had done some of the work, as he did now and then. There was a letter from the Jaycees, he remembered suddenly, that had come to him May 16th—three months ago. Something about the parking situation, wanted statistics from him, or some fool thing. He ought to have slapped them down right off:
17 May 1966
Gentlemen:
It has come to my attention that
Too late. Couldn’t do that now. Short-handed, that’s the thing. And the men available mostly new, no dedication, no sense of the dangers or difficulties. He suddenly remembered he’d agreed to speak to the Dairyman’s League. When was it? Had he missed it? He bent over the car door, unlocking it, thinking again of the bearded man from California. Was he making a mountain of a molehill? He started violently. There was a dry cowplop on the seat. Kids. Jokers. But how had they gotten it there? He’d locked the door. He got out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead, trying to think. His head ached from the muggy August heat, and his shortsleeved shirt was pasted to his skin with sweat. Open window, he thought, sick at heart. Locked the door but left the window open. Must be losing my marbles.
He stood very still, looking over his shoulder toward the cemetery. He was frightened for an instant. What would they be saying about him at City Hall? Would they have heard about his crazy mistake this morning with Kozlowski?
But the cemetery stood serene in the shadow of its hemlock trees, the tombstone markers solemn and patient and indifferent to the bug-filled heat, the field flowers encroaching on the graveyard grass, indifferent to what City Hall would think, neither troubled nor amused by the joke that had been played on the Batavia Chief of Police. To the left of the cemetery, beyond the iron fence, cows and calves lay chewing in the calm, dry grass, facing toward Nelson St. John’s big red barns, dreaming vaguely of grain and water. Chief Clumly screwed up his face, calmer now, and picked up the dry cowplop with two fingers and threw it in the weeds. He dusted the seat.
“Think you’re smart, don’t you,” he said. He slid in behind the wheel and sighed. Quarter-to-four. If he hurried he could get in his talk with the Woodworth sisters. He sighed again, more deeply, sucking to get more than mere heat inside his lungs. “A funny business,” he said. Poor Hubbard. An image of the casket returned to his mind, the white flowers on the lid already wilting in the cemetery’s heat. There had been someone whispering behind Clumly while the minister prayed. It ruined it. What was the matter with people? Clumly gritted his teeth.
4
On the eleventh of July, 1966, Miss Editha Woodworth, who was said to be aged one hundred and eight and who lived with her younger sister Octave, aged ninety-seven, the only surviving descendants of the Reverend Burgess Woodworth, original pastor of the First Baptist Church of Batavia, New York, had been burgled in broad daylight, when both ladies were at home (they were always at home) by “a wild-looking man,” as they told the police, who had gained access by knocking out a pane of the back-porch door with a hammer and reaching to the latch. The back porch of the Woodworth home, like all the back porches on Ross Street, was glassed in, and had been for fifty years. It was used, or had been long
“Same to you,” he said. He stood back, resting his hands on his hips, and watched the truck pull out onto the highway and draw away. Then, his leather shoes slipping a little on the hillside along the road, he hurried back to his car. Late, he thought. Towards choretime, in fact. His chest filled with panic. He’d wasted almost another whole day. The pile of papers on his desk was as high as ever, unless Miller had done some of the work, as he did now and then. There was a letter from the Jaycees, he remembered suddenly, that had come to him May 16th—three months ago. Something about the parking situation, wanted statistics from him, or some fool thing. He ought to have slapped them down right off:
17 May 1966
Gentlemen:
It has come to my attention that
Too late. Couldn’t do that now. Short-handed, that’s the thing. And the men available mostly new, no dedication, no sense of the dangers or difficulties. He suddenly remembered he’d agreed to speak to the Dairyman’s League. When was it? Had he missed it? He bent over the car door, unlocking it, thinking again of the bearded man from California. Was he making a mountain of a molehill? He started violently. There was a dry cowplop on the seat. Kids. Jokers. But how had they gotten it there? He’d locked the door. He got out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead, trying to think. His head ached from the muggy August heat, and his shortsleeved shirt was pasted to his skin with sweat. Open window, he thought, sick at heart. Locked the door but left the window open. Must be losing my marbles.
He stood very still, looking over his shoulder toward the cemetery. He was frightened for an instant. What would they be saying about him at City Hall? Would they have heard about his crazy mistake this morning with Kozlowski?
But the cemetery stood serene in the shadow of its hemlock trees, the tombstone markers solemn and patient and indifferent to the bug-filled heat, the field flowers encroaching on the graveyard grass, indifferent to what City Hall would think, neither troubled nor amused by the joke that had been played on the Batavia Chief of Police. To the left of the cemetery, beyond the iron fence, cows and calves lay chewing in the calm, dry grass, facing toward Nelson St. John’s big red barns, dreaming vaguely of grain and water. Chief Clumly screwed up his face, calmer now, and picked up the dry cowplop with two fingers and threw it in the weeds. He dusted the seat.
“Think you’re smart, don’t you,” he said. He slid in behind the wheel and sighed. Quarter-to-four. If he hurried he could get in his talk with the Woodworth sisters. He sighed again, more deeply, sucking to get more than mere heat inside his lungs. “A funny business,” he said. Poor Hubbard. An image of the casket returned to his mind, the white flowers on the lid already wilting in the cemetery’s heat. There had been someone whispering behind Clumly while the minister prayed. It ruined it. What was the matter with people? Clumly gritted his teeth.
4
On the eleventh of July, 1966, Miss Editha Woodworth, who was said to be aged one hundred and eight and who lived with her younger sister Octave, aged ninety-seven, the only surviving descendants of the Reverend Burgess Woodworth, original pastor of the First Baptist Church of Batavia, New York, had been burgled in broad daylight, when both ladies were at home (they were always at home) by “a wild-looking man,” as they told the police, who had gained access by knocking out a pane of the back-porch door with a hammer and reaching to the latch. The back porch of the Woodworth home, like all the back porches on Ross Street, was glassed in, and had been for fifty years. It was used, or had been long
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