Stillness & Shadows by John Gardner (accelerated reader books TXT) 📕

of a perfectly good evening, perhaps—then up at Craine’s face. “It wasn’t serious, I hope—the operation.”

“Cancer of the colon,” Craine said. He opened the front of his suit coat as if showing off his wounds. “But they got it all out, they say. Clean as a whistle.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He turned toward the kitchen, reaching out and touching the door frame. “I’ll stick with wine, I think. You want water and ice?”

“No, thank you,” Craine said, “wrecks the color.” He grinned. As Ira Katz went back into the kitchen, Craine strode, slightly staggering, to the middle of the livingroom and stood looking around, bent forward, as if taking possession. In the kitchen behind him the cat said something Craine didn’t catch, some irritable question, and Ira Katz said something back to him. Above the ticking of the clocks Craine heard a growling sound, something like “Ow, ow, ow!”—an electric can opener, it came to him—then the sound of a spoon hitting the side of the plastic cat dish, and his neighbor’s voice, talking softly. The cat said nothing. Craine set his cup of sugar on the nearest of the bookshelves, between two tall clocks, and bent close to read the top row of titles. A long stretch of them—French paperbacks—were called Situations. At last Ira Katz came in with a fat Almadén bottle, a wineglass, and an empty glass for Craine.

“Have a seat,” he said, and gestured vaguely, letting Craine choose his chair.

Craine, as usual, chose the chair that seemed less likely to be his neighbor’s favorite, the one farthest from the photograph and snapshot, took the glass his neighbor held out to him, and carefully—steadying the bottle against the rim of the glass—splashed in Scotch. His neighbor, standing by the other chair, pouring wine for himself, smiled with just his mouth, like a man lost in thought, then finally seated himself—his head under the lamp so that the black hair shone brown in a ring exactly like a halo around his head—put the bottle on the carpet to the right of his feet, raised his glass as if to say “cheers,” and took a small sip. Craine took a slightly larger sip, then set the wobbly glass down. For a long, awkward moment, they sat listening to the clocks. The cat came wandering in from the kitchen, his wide head tipped, eyes grumpy, to see what they were doing. At last he went over to lie down with his head against Ira Katz’s shoeless left foot. As if by magic, the instant the cat closed his eyes all the clocks began chiming, first one, then another. Ten o’clock.

“Ten o’clock!” Craine said, surprised.

His host half-smiled and nodded. The cat lay quiet as a doorstop, pretending to be asleep.

Craine got his pipe out, loaded it, and lit it, all the while frantically trying to think what he might say.

Ira Katz leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. After a moment he asked, “Is something wrong, Craine?”

Craine jumped at the terrible simplicity of the thing and, to cover himself, reached for the Scotch glass on the table beside his chair. “I’ve been thinking about what we talked about the last time we talked,” he said. He shot a look at Ira, but the poet’s eyes showed nothing. Craine put the pipe down in his lap to hold the glass with both hands and keep it steady. He drank, then leaned forward. The lines and colors of the books in the lamplight behind Ira’s head were slightly sharper and brighter than they ought to be, intensified by the whiskey. Ira Katz waited, slightly smiling, his eyes sad and distant.

“We were talking about novels, you remember, and detectives and exi—” He paused, stopped cold by a memory lapse, struggling in vain after the word, though he knew it as he knew his own name.

“Existentialists?”

“That’s it!” He took another gulp, then put the glass down and picked up his pipe. “Existentialists, yes!” He paused, feeling awkward about leaping so abruptly into serious conversation. Katz looked bored, as if the word existentialists annoyed him. No doubt it did. He’d know, as a university man, the stupidity of all those big words, all that talk, talk, talk. Craine listened to the clocks—a patternless, frantic clicking like a random beating of electrons—then in spite of himself, in spite of Katz’s displeasure and his own sure knowledge of the uselessness of it all, pressed on: “We were talking about how the existentialists feel about detective novels. It was interesting, and the more I got to thinking about it, the more interesting it got. You don’t like them, I think—these existentialists—but I believe that’s what I am myself—what we have to be, us detectives.”

Ira waited. His shadow lay perfectly still, draped over the cat and reaching halfway to Craine. Another shadow, fainter, stretched up the wall behind him and to the right of him, cast by the dim light coming from the bedroom.

“The world’s neither one thing nor the other, that’s what we believe,” Craine said. “ ‘Complementarity,’ as the physicists say.”

“That’s not exactly—” Ira began, then stopped.

“We’re simply here, that’s the thing,” Craine explained, hurrying, sensing that he’d made some mistake. “We don’t know what happened before we came onto the case, who did what or why, nothing, and we don’t give a damn; not really.” He squinted, playing crafty detective. “We’re not committed one way or the other, that’s our profession. Dispassionate.”

Ira straightened up—the shadow leaped back with him—and looked at his glass. “I suppose that’s true,” he said. He seemed now a little like a detective himself, trying to see around behind the conversation.

Craine laughed, trying to make light of it. “A detective cares no more for the victim than he does for the murderer,” he said. “His heart’s cold as ice. He’s a man without a past, you might say. No past and, for all practical purposes, no future.” He laughed again, then, trembling, put his pipe between his teeth and relit it.