Stillness & Shadows

by John Gardner

  He jerked his head, awakening, and realized that the booming was coming from his door, and the voice was that of Emmit Royce. He sat up, put his legs over the side, and called, “Just a minute! I hear you!” He started for the door, automatically feeling for his shoulder holster, then stopped, his mind momentarily gone blank. He remembered then that Meakins had taken his gun. He started once more toward where Royce waited for him to open up, then again stopped short, and with an expression of bafflement looked around the room—the glass-knobbed deal dresser, three handles missing; the rumpled bed; the desk, trunk, television, disordered piles of books.

  “Craine?” Royce bellowed again.

  “Coming. Just getting my pants on,” Craine called back. His expression was cunning now, like an animal’s, and like an animal—a wolf—he stepped without a sound to the dresser and opened the top drawer. He drew out his second pistol, felt under the socks and underwear for the bullet box, and loaded the gun. He pushed it down into his belt, where if he made a mistake he’d blow his cock off, then quickly stepped back to the bed for his suit coat, pulled it on, and buttoned it. Hurriedly, noisily, he went to the door, turned the night latch, and opened it. Royce stood a little crooked in the hallway, soaked by rain, his right hand clamped around a beer can, a cigarette in his left.

  “I thought you was dead for a while there,” Royce said. He let out the beginning of a grin, then changed his mind, slightly squinting, and raised the cigarette for a pull.

  “Damn near,” Craine said. He stepped back from the door, holding it open, and Royce came in.

  “Jesus,” Royce said. “Stinks in here.”

  Craine nodded. “Pipe smoke, whiskey, old age.”

  “Smells more like socks and piss.”

  “Them too.”

  Royce stood square in the middle of the room now, where he could see into the bathroom and everywhere else. He stood with his cap on, his fists on his hips, one of them holding the cigarette like a pencil, his black boots solid on the floor as a farmer’s. “First thing I’d do,” he said, “I’d burn all these books.”

  “Might set fire to the window shades,” Craine said.

  Royce tipped up the beer and drained it, his back still to Craine, crumpled the can in his fist—no big deal, though it was meant to be ominous; the can was aluminum—then at last turned around to look at him. He had his shoulder holster on. He looked at Craine for a long time, the way a black would do, over in his own territory, backed up by friends. Craine made no scene about meeting the man’s eyes, merely looked out the window at the telephone lines, the gray rain, the day hardly brighter than the gray of the room, then casually went over to the lightswitch and flicked on the bulb.

  “You got anything in this hellhole to drink?” Royce said.

  Craine smiled. “Emmit, you drink too much.”

  Royce laughed, a snort, and for an instant his eyes flashed anger. “I got a hundred dollars here says you got Scotch.”

  “As it happens, I do have a little Scotch whiskey,” Craine allowed, still smiling and went over to the dresser, opened the middle drawer, and drew a new bottle out. He held it up against the light, pretending to admire the color, stalling to break down Royce’s resolve.

  Royce went over to the john to throw his cigarette in the toilet. “You got glasses here somewheres?”

  “On the sink,” Craine called.

  Royce got the glass and started back out into the room, then changed his mind and, without closing the door, stayed to piss. Over the noise he called, “The Building Blocks of the Universe. You read this shit?”

  “Just the pictures,” Craine called.

  “What?” Royce called back.

  “Never mind,” Craine said. The sound of Royce’s pissing went on and on, then the toilet flushed and Royce came back into the room, lighting another cigarette as he came. That was new, it struck Craine now. Royce hadn’t smoked since they’d told him about his emphysema. He came straight toward Craine—it looked as if he’d gotten his anger back—but the thud of the boots was unsure, as if the man were even now of two minds. He held his glass out. Craine put away the first aid box, then uncapped the bottle and filled it. Royce sipped, sloshed the whiskey around in his mouth, and wet his lips, frowning. “Listen, Craine,” he said.

  Craine inclined his head as if interested, moving past him toward the bed to get the dirty glass standing on the floor there. As he picked it up and filled it, Royce sipped again, pushed his cap back. “You want the chair?” Craine said, and waved his glass in the direction of the only chair he had, the lumpy old platform rocker by the window.

  “I’m all right,” Royce said.

  Craine shrugged, stooped again for the ashtray near where the glass had been, straightened up again—or straightened as much as he ever did—and walked with the whiskey and ashtray to the chair Royce had refused. When he sat down, Royce settled on the windowsill a few feet away from him, gray rain behind him, the sky off-color, the breeze coming in through the window unnaturally warm. “Could turn into tornado weather yet,” Craine said.

  Royce glanced past his shoulder, annoyed, then looked back at his glass. He seemed to struggle over something—whether to take another sip of whiskey or a puff at his cigarette—then abruptly raised the cigarette to his lips and sucked in hard. His collar was open, flattened by the holster belt, and it came to Craine that what Royce wore on his hairy chest was not a religious medallion but some kind of war trophy, a piece of shrapnel, or what was left of a bullet. He smiled, then noticed Royce’s eyes on him.

  “What you grinning about?” Royce said. Craine tipped his head back and pretended to close his eyes, still smiling. “You’re a damn good man, Royce. God only knows what I’d do without you.

  “Bullshit,” Royce said, a small explosion, not loud but fierce.

  “You are a good man.” He opened his eyes again, innocent, and leaned forward.

  “That’s not what I mean.” He launched his hand out at Craine, the cigarette dangling between two fingers. “I was thinking of coming here and blowing your head off. Whattiya think of that?”

  Craine made his face incredulous.

  “You’re a foxy bastard.” He shook the outstretched hand in warning. “Shit only knows what goes on in that fucked-up head of yours. But I’ve had it. I’m telling you.”

  Royce was squinting, talking like a killer on TV. Craine made his face not just incredulous but scared, and suddenly Royce lost his nerve, or got confused, drew his hand back and took a gulp from his drink. Behind him, the rain fell harder, the sky had gone darker. “That stunt you pulled yesterday. Shit.” He shook his head.

  “Yesterday?” Craine said. He patted his pockets to find his pipe and, exaggerating clumsiness, drew it out.

  “Jesus Christ, Craine!” Royce said. It was almost a wail.

  “Oh, that!” Craine said. He sat forward as if alarmed and with the back of the hand that held the pipe momentarily covered his eyes. At last he lowered his hand, eyes closed, and took in a deep, slow breath.

  “You know something?” Royce said. When Craine looked at him, guilty, Royce was holding his empty glass out, eyes remote. “I don’t believe one fucking word of this. Everything you’re doing, I’d bet you a hundred dollars it’s a fucking act.”

  Craine shook his head and, with a start, as if he’d just noticed, reached down for the bottle by his shoes and held it out to fill Royce’s glass. “Hard bet to prove either way,” he said sadly.

  “Lie detector?” Royce said.

  Craine shook his head and drew the bottle back. “I’m not a betting man. Matter of principle. But I acted pretty crazy, I won’t deny it. Whole thing had me spooked.”

  Royce drank. “Bullshit,” he said when he’d swallowed.

  “You think I wasn’t spooked?” Now he put on a keen look.

  “Whatever you were, count me out from now on. I quit.”

  “You quit?” He got out his tobacco and poked his pipe in to stuff it, hands trembling. He pretended he
was thinking, trying to understand it. He was, of course, thinking. He should thank his lucky stars Emmit Royce was quitting, yet here he was fighting it—fighting it, it seemed to him, for Royce’s sake. Nobody’d take a man like Royce up in Chicago, and he’d never get an agency moving on his own. Garbage man? Job with the fire department? Yet it wasn’t entirely for Royce’s sake, of course. It wasn’t Royce’s fault, what happened yesterday. He felt something near him, crouching, and glanced past his shoulder. Craine lit his pipe and took quick little puffs, then lowered it and raised his hand unsteadily to drink. In a minute he’d be flat on his ass again, yet it seemed to him his mind was quick and clear.

  “I’ll tell you what you’re missing, Royce,” he said. He leaned toward him, dead serious. “You think there were three of us yesterday—you, me, the girl. But there were four of us. That’s what you’re missing.”

  Royce glanced at him. “Bullshit.”

  “Call Hannah,” he said. “Ask her.”

  “You crazy bastard! I got a hundred dollars says—”

  “Call her,” Craine said.

  Royce stared at him, then down at the cigarette. “You telling me that murderer she thinks she saw in Chicago—”

  “I don’t say it was the same man,” Craine said carefully. “I’m only saying there was somebody, and he was there again this morning when I took the girl to breakfast, and if you’ll just move your ass to that phone and call Hannah—”

  Royce thought about it, taking slow drags on the cigarette, then pursed his lips, ground the cigarette out, and looked over at the phone on the desk. “You’re trying to make me believe,” he said, “that when we put her in the sandwich who you thought I was was—”

  Craine said nothing, crazy with glee, heart racing.

  At last Royce stood up and went over to the phone. He stared at the dial as if he’d never really looked at one before, then lifted the receiver, jutted out one finger and dialed.

  Craine drank while Royce talked, laughing inwardly, like a witch. When Royce was finished he came back and stood in front of Craine with his hands on his hips. “They got him down there now,” he said. “Meakins brought him in this afternoon. Havin a little talk with him.”

  “No foolin,” Craine said.

  Royce nodded to himself. “Some graduate student, Hannah says. Girl had a class with him.”

  “Hot dog!” Craine said. “We should get in on it.”

  Royce was still shaking his head, grinning now. His right hand came up to scratch the hair on his chest. “You foxy old shit,” he said. For an instant, his face clouded. “All the same you could’ve blown my damn head off.”

  “I know that,” Craine said, but he couldn’t stop grinning. “You got your car down there?”

  Royce nodded, scratching on. “I still don’t believe you,” he said. “I don’t believe one fucking word of it.”

  Carefully, Craine eased himself up out of the chair, capping the bottle, pushing it down into his suit coat pocket, then poking his pipe into the pocket inside. “It’s right of them to bring him in for talk,” he said. “We’re only human. We make mistakes.” He chuckled.

  Royce waited at the window, looking out at the gusty storm, dark as night now and gathering more force, while Craine put on his overcoat and, at the last minute, picked up the heavy white Bible from the bed, looked at it a moment, and decided to carry it along.

  Royce said, coming over to leave with him, “You taking that with you?”

  Craine said, “I take it with me everywhere. For luck. Belonged to a world-famous gambler, you know that?”

  “Bullshit,” Royce said, “I saw you buy it.”

  Craine frowned. “That’s true,” he said. “Well, we all make mistakes. We’re only human.” He held the door open and Royce went out, just a little unsteady. Craine followed, switching off the light as he went, and closed the door behind them. “You should think about it, Emmit,” he said, “—what it means to be human. I remember when I was young, in the navy, I used to stand at the rail of the ship, and I’d look out at the endless, starlit sea—”

  Royce glanced at him, missed a step, caught the bannister, and swore under his breath.

  On the street, gusts of rainy wind made signs turn and creak. The street lamps went out for a moment, then back on. A car went by hissing, and Craine—mistaking what it was—at first jumped. When they were seated in the car, he said, “We’re vulnerable, Emmit.” He waved in the general direction of the buildings, the darkened sky. “Everything’s vulnerable.” He noticed that the edges of the pages of the Bible were wet. Carefully, like a man on a precipice, he set the Bible in his lap, unbuttoned his overcoat, suit coat, and shirt, then lifted the Bible, fitted it in next to the skin of his chest, stretched the shirt over it and fastened the buttons, then buttoned the suit coat and overcoat. Royce drove hunched over, having difficulty seeing through the rain.

  Five

  Halfway to the university he was jumped again—suddenly, without warning, as usual—by his colon. “I don’t believe it!” he whispered. He strained against the pressure with all his might, about to explode, nothing in the world he could do but pray, not that Gerald Craine was a praying man—pain shooting up through his intestines to the gouge from his colostomy bag, far worse than usual—no question about it, Craine was in for it!—and floored the accelerator, then at once let up again, alarmed by the jouncing as the truck sped up, jiggling his abdomen, and like a glider pilot when the wind drops from under him, he sat balanced, weightless, his expression frozen, until abruptly, soundlessly, the damage was done. Shocked, on fire with righteous indignation, Craine slammed the brakes on, violently swearing and spinning the steering wheel, slid the truck around one-eighty degrees, half tipped over like a Western-movie stagecoach—by accident striking no curbside trees, parked cars, or pedestrians—and roared, blue exhaust clouding thickly behind him, for home, the bathtub, and new clothes. Still furious, several swigs drunker, by no means philosophical, he started out again.

  He parked in the library parking lot, asked directions twice, and cut through the woods in the direction pointed out to him. The skirt of his overcoat kept snagging on branches sticking out into the path, and once, drunkenly missing a turn, he almost stepped on lovers. He tipped his hat, backing off. “Excuse me.”

  The English Department was a lavish suite of offices on the third floor of Faner, the huge new building of poured concrete at the edge of the woods, a structure like a larger-than-life-sized battleship, concrete wedges and wings flying out at peculiar angles—ramps, high patios and bridges, huge light globes—in its shadow a bazaar of vegetable and fruit carts (nubbly and worm-holed, strictly organic), stalls of ceramics, paintings, blown glass, and loomwork. It would make a fine setting for a Hollywood thriller, he thought, pausing, looking up at free-standing balconies, vast sweeps of window, trying to get his bearings. At the far end of Faner he could make out the Planet X towers of the Student Union and, far beyond those, the walkways and blast chimneys of the chemistry building. To his left lay the “old campus,” castlelike buildings with battlements and towers, formal gardens, huge trees, brick walkways and fountains, the wide sweep of lawn where Old Main had once stood before somebody, at the time of the troubles, had burned it to the ground. Beyond the library, back through the woods behind him, there were places even better for a murder film—the radio, TV, and theater building, the plywood and Fuller-dome slum thrown up by the Design Department, the campus lake, smooth as glass in the dappled shade of trees.

  He started up the ramp, surprisingly steep, helping himself along with the aluminum railing. The students, no doubt some of them graduate students, looked to Craine like young children, junior-high-schoolers, maybe. One out of ten, maybe twenty, was in a wheelchair; another one out of ten was blind. He passed them in silence, eyes straight ahead, like a man who profoundly disapproved.

  Peeking through the glass into the English Department, he had a brief attack of nerves. The place was very classy, like a dean’
s office—carpet on the floor, three desks for receptionists or secretaries, whatever, near one of them a complicated telephone switchboard—and just inside the door soft, leatherlike chairs, coffee tables, ashtrays, heavy wooden bookcases in pleasant disarray: fat, hardbound books, old magazines. Student workers moved in and out, talking for a minute with the secretaries, carrying away papers, fat envelopes. Sometimes one of the doors behind the secretaries’ desks would pop open and a man would poke his head out—the chairman, perhaps, or some other official—and one of the secretaries would jump up to run some errand for him, or would reach for her phone. Craine frowned, his eyebrows ramming toward his nose. Three secretaries, thirty thousand dollars at least; four student workers, say two hundred a month, and God only knew how many more of them in the woodwork—say forty-five thousand dollars in office help, conservative estimate; all for what?—to get grants, play politics, save and increase the Scotch-tape, rubber-band, and paper-clip budget! He heard himself letting out a growl and clamped his mouth shut.