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  The Detective passes through.

  ————

  A promontory point on the northern coast of Maine. Its rock worn smooth, washed by wind and rain, perpetually damp—always the salt spray, always the fog rolling off the North Atlantic and condensing on its abraded, undulating face. Daylight asphyxiates; no sun, no stars, no moon, a time when all things become their shadows, when ernes turn invisible and, bodiless, screech from within the cove, a resonating cry muted by the rhythmic rush of the tide, a water-soaked echo. A metallic walkway, raffish orange, arrives at the point from two directions, merges into a cul-de-sac, a low-railed rim around the promontory's edge; and there, sealed in by the fetid ceiling of a sky, framed by the railing and by time, the couple stand face to face. A man, a woman, a promontory point, a moment. The North Atlantic—white-capped, rock-torn—five hundred feet below.

  Fact: now and forever it is January.

  A man and a woman in a moment. Living, relived, they stand stage center, spotlit by the Detective's eye as he peers into, peers from, the blurred and darkened corners of the crime. Note how the man is propped against the railing; note the arms cast into the air, struggling for balance; note the arched back, the bowed thighs, the heels raised from the ground, toes begging for a hold. Note the face, try to focus on the face—its desperation or surprise, mouth dropping and eyes gone wide, yet focused on the other face. Yes, note the man's face, an expression there, a message, silent because words take time, a plea, but which plea: to live? to die? Note the woman, how she faces the man, close, so close, an arm's length away. Note how their positions balance, how she mimics him in reverse, her shoulders pulled back, arms drawn to her side—a flinch perhaps, a reflex, the body's wisdom beating time? And the face, her face, is there a message there too, a plea? a denial? Note the scene, its formal beauty, its unity, the organic quality appreciated by the aesthetician's eye, and then sketched by him, entitled: “The Fall”? “The Crime”?

  A man and a woman in a moment. But there is no title, there is no meaning without movement—and no movement without meaning. In the cove, tide-tossed, Dexter waits, not knowing that he waits; in the bedroom, Sadie waits, pen in hand, not knowing that she waits. For the new scene. The new moment. For another miracle, another door to the world beyond.

  It happens; now and forever it happens, one moment into the next, one frame into the other, movement and meaning. She reaches, has reached, is always reaching, her hand on his chest; frozen there at the fulcrum, the critical moment, a time when the world demands an accomplice—everything possible still. In the cove, Dexter waits; in the kitchen, Sally waits, always waiting. Somewhere below a lone gull cries and, time suspended, echoes again and again its crying, waiting for the sound to die, as her hand rests on his chest: to push or to pull? to save or to kill?

  The Detective peers into, peers from, the blurred and darkened corners. Note the face, her face, fate's accomplice; the sketch is incomplete, the solution elusive, without understanding that face. But there is only one angle of vision, one point in time and space that can provide the solution. Truth always a risk, to know or not to know—only he can decide.

  It happens; now and forever it happens, one frame into another; he too becomes fate's accomplice, taking a step into the world beyond. The Detective becomes, has become, is always becoming a man in a moment, a man at a railing, back arched, arms cast into the air, heels raised from the ground, toes begging for a hold—the North Atlantic, rock-torn, five hundred feet below. The Detective becomes this man in this moment, the man at the fulcrum, his wife's hand on his chest, and who can say, does he himself even know for sure, which plea is in his own eyes? But note the face now, her face in this moment, the key to the solution—the protuberant eyes, the pride smoldering in silence. Is the jittery search over? Is the dream at its climax? Have all the accusing glances been merged into one?

  A man, a woman, a promontory point, a moment. Helplessly, Descartes awaits the judgment of history; passively Moses, the sentence of God. Helplessly, passively, with her hand on his chest, the truth-seeker, the detective, awaits the solution; the absent husband, the declaration: to be pushed or to be pulled? affirmation at last or guilty as charged?

  But does it happen—now or ever? objectively or in a manner of speaking? And who can say, does she herself even know for sure, the declaration, the final answer? No, she fails him; no longer an accomplice, she withdraws her hand; no longer his inspiration, she withdraws into mystery, into movement whose meaning can never be spoken, whose essence can never be frozen. No, the moment fails him; hypothetical, it is a possibility never to be born. And answerless, he waits; judgment ever suspended, he waits, while somewhere below them, the gull's cry dies and dissolves within the wash of the tide.

  ————

  They sat silently in the living room before the glass wall. Brine dampened the Detective's forehead and salted his lips, and he dabbed at it slowly with his handkerchief as he emitted a series of involuntary sighs. His heart wasn't racing, the pain in his leg bearable, but weighed down by an exhaustion so complete that even gravity seemed palpable, sucking at every muscle and drawing him down into death, he suddenly threw back his head and stretched for air, gasped like a whale at the surface, trying to inflate himself with life. Mrs. Klein sat close to him, her face blood-drained and expressionless, her short gray hair, wet along its edges, hanging in water-darkened points across her forehead like a crown of thorns. She seemed to shrink before him, a change from menacing interrogator to plausible widow, and attempting to pace his recovery with hers, the Detective watched her closely, waiting for signs. But ever a mystery, she hid from him, hid behind the glass shell of her excluding silences, and unable to break through, too tired to speak, to think, he waited as night obscured the cove and darkened the room.

  She shivered; the Detective watched her shiver, a sudden disruptive shuddering which caught him by surprise, her arms and legs twitching, chest shaking. Amazed, he thought: “Her feet barely touch the ground.” She was motionless for a moment, as if in that one violent exorcism, she had expelled some core of coldness she had absorbed from the out-of-doors; but then, the shaking began again, her hands thrown up to her face, her fingers quaking, muffling sounds—were those sobs he heard?

  The Detective fought to stand, struggling out of his chair, out of his bone-drenched exhaustion and onto his feet, all motion a compromise now between speed and pain. The room reeled as the weight of his body shifted to his feet, became an extension of its own decor—the swirling paintings and spinning mobile—until the Detective steadied himself, his hand grasping the arm of the chair. Limping, he slowly crossed the room and stood beside her, staring down at her sobbing body. At a loss for a moment, indecisive, his hand fumbled like a clumsy lover's until, finally, it found its object, settling softly on the back of her head. There, in some lullaby of comfort, of gentle caring, he caressed her hair.

  “It's all right,” he said.

  He waited there above her, a watchful father, until her crying had spent itself and her shuddering had receded to a slumped, still calm. Then, when she reached up and softly touched his hand—an expression of gratitude, a sign of recovery—he returned to his chair and sat down again. They remained there in their chairs, in their silence, in the dark, the room's meager light scattered around them like the firefly memories of an old man's childhood. He could just barely discern her face across from him; no longer blank or bitterly ironic, it mourned now—a solemn, passive grief, a glowing ember of pain, slow-burning and eternal. There was a purity to her suffering, a depth beyond feeling, a breadth beyond personality which awed the Detective, made him feel responsible, as though he were sole witness to a sacred ritual. He needed no words from her now; the power of her grief was eloquence enough, and he wished only to remain there forever, a quiet mirror to her sad surrender.

  But then, the sound of tires biting into gravel, of car doors slamming and approaching voices, drew him out of that calm, reminding him that the Chief wou
ld be returning any moment, reminding him that he had a case before him, a case still unsolved—he had been alone with Mrs. Klein for over three hours and still didn't know if there had been a crime. Pride, fear of failure, allegiance to the old self-image, panicked him; he had to have something far them, something definite. And so, ashamed of himself but helpless to act upon it, he heard himself violate their perfect silence.

  “Mrs. Klein?”

  She turned toward him. Although only five feet away, she seemed removed from him, as distant as death from life; beyond the glass again, as if she had never returned. She watched him, waited.

  “Did you…?” he started to say, but suddenly incapable of completing the question, of profaning her mourning, he stopped. He knew what he should ask, what a detective should want to know, but his time with her nearly over, he sensed that there was another, more important and personal question to ask, one that only Mrs. Klein could answer for him, if he just knew how to phrase it. Desperate, he struggled after it, a form for his need, words slipping through his fingers, though, failing him. “Did you…?” he began again, but again he faltered; his hands, pleading with her, kneaded the air.

  Mrs. Klein nodded. The Detective watched her nod to him and felt relief—teammates, they understood each other; teammates, they completed each other; she would give him what he needed to know.

  “I loved him,” Mrs. Klein said.

  The Detective leaned forward; her voice, soft, receding, drew him toward her, and he paused in expectation as she held her breath. She closed her eyes, and her face, radiant with pain, seemed to float before him, to drift on the exhalation of her whispered answer.

  “I love him.”

  The Detective sat motionless and silent, a dumb and stunned supplicant before the priestess, weighing her oracle, unsure of its meaning. Footsteps outside the room finally broke the spell, twisting him in his chair; her voice, though, followed him there, refusing to let him go.

  “I'll tell you,” she said.

  He turned back to her. She nodded to herself, opening her eyes.

  “If you must, if you must know, come back to me—I'll tell you then. But for now, I can only give you this: whatever happened, it was for the best.”

  The Detective stared at her, trying to freeze-frame the face, to draw it out of the darkness and fixate on it, extracting from it the meaning of her words—a friend's promise or the last obfuscation of a desperate defense? Incredibly, he thought he saw a shade of a smile appear there, not quite mockery and certainly not joy, something of sadness endured, of survival, but he couldn't be sure: there was too little light, too little time to consider, the door creaking open, a surprised silence following the first steps in.

  “Hello?” the Chief finally called out into the darkened room.

  They didn't answer; the Detective refused even to turn in his seat, his eyes locked on hers. The smile dissolved. He saw her nod to him once (the last line of her message or just another meaningless gesture?) before she disappeared into the glare of the room's struck lights. And then, by the time his eyes had recovered, he found a different woman sitting before him, the one he sought withdrawn again, her face as cold and featureless as glass.

  “There you are,” the Chief said as he walked toward them, Officer Truax trailing behind. Mrs. Klein immediately rose from her chair and, without a word, left the room. The Chief let her go, waiting until she had disappeared behind a closed door before sitting in her chair. There, he unzipped his official coat and placed his hat on his knee. He turned toward the Detective.

  “For a moment there I was afraid I'd lost two more people.”

  “You haven't found him yet?”

  “I haven't; the city cops where he teaches haven't; the Coast Guard hasn't. And that leads us right back here to you.

  The Detective ignored the implied question, instead staring at the door where Mrs. Klein had stood just moments before. “She's a strange woman,” he said.

  “Can't disagree with you on that. And to be honest with you, it's comforting to hear someone else say it. After a full morning of interrogating her, I was beginning to wonder if I wasn't a little strange. She's a challenge, all right.” The Chief paused, struggling to be polite, to maintain his patient composure. “Well?” he finally asked.

  The Detective shrugged.

  “Come up empty-handed?” Officer Truax said; standing beside the Chief, he smiled sarcastically.

  “I don't know.”

  “He don't know,” Truax said to the Chief.

  “I got ears, Truax.” The Chief leaned forward. “You don't sound too sure about that,” he said to the Detective. “You sound like you just might have something.”

  The Detective was silent; he sensed suddenly the widening gap between already divergent loyalties, afraid then of betraying either side. He looked to the glass wall for a moment, but it was full night now and the cove, the ocean, the sky were nearly indistinguishable.

  “I don't know. I'll have to think about it.”

  “Yes,” the Chief said; he looked toward the ceiling. “Yes, why don't you do that. Tried it myself this afternoon—sat alone and tried to sort out the facts, to get some distance on it. Didn't have much luck, frankly, but maybe you'll do better. Just give me a call if you come up with anything.”

  “I'll do that.”

  The Chief stood. “I had to chase Charlie Wriggins away from here. He was parked down the road, waiting to ambush you for the inside scoop, killing himself from carbon monoxide poisoning. I figured you'd want to avoid him for awhile anyway; he can be a real pain in the neck when he gets like this. I'll have Truax here drop you off at your home.”

  The Detective rose slowly; he accepted the Chief's hand and shook it.

  “I appreciate it,” the Chief said, “I appreciate you coming over here and taking a shot at it.”

  The Detective nodded; felt again the camaraderie, the bond of common work. You're a good man, he wanted to say; you're one of the good ones, one of the professionals. A good man not to have acknowledged my failure, to have remained a gentleman in spite of your job—not many do; Sadie had been right about that. But he didn't say it; instead, he reached out with his second hand and grasped the Chief's more firmly. Wavering from fatigue after a moment, though, he fumbled for support.

  “Are you all right?” the Chief said. “Do you want to lie down for a few minutes?”

  The Detective steadied himself, keeping his eyes off the mobile's spinning blades, its clockwork universe machinations. “No, no, I'm okay—but I better get home. My daughter will have supper waiting for me.”

  3

  The Detective sat in his study's easy chair, his eyes closed, his feet resting on the cracked leather ottoman, time suspended, body suspended; only the wave of heat pressing against his cheek from the fireplace beside him and the warmth radiating from the food in his belly reminded him that he was alive, a reminder as casual and pleasant as the sound of rain against a roof at night, or the first shovel's scraping on a snow-bound morning. The best times in an old man's life were when, free of pain, he could forget his body—times of rest, of slow recollection. The old rested well; they practiced their dying. Perhaps it won't be so terrible, after all, the Detective thought; but then, suddenly frightened, irrational: perhaps it's happening now. The Detective stirred his legs; they talked back to him with their pain, their angry exhaustion, telling him that he was alive. For now, he thought, for this moment, one more night. And what would it be like? A serene, sleepy withdrawal from consciousness like a wave from the shore? Or painful, an awful wrenching, something torn from your chest, from your mind; a separation, you from your life? You die alone. An old man was forced to suffer too many separations as it was, a parade of goodbyes, subtractions of the vital stuff—people he loved, a way of life. The Detective thought of Sadie then, ached for her, and not just her words or the sight of her, and not even her touch in the night, but a knowledge beyond the senses, a feeling he had had when lying beside her, a wordless and
secure belief in her life. This much we owe each other, the Detective thought, the assurance that someone will be beside you, a human hand for your head when you're crying, dying…. He shouldn't have left Mrs. Klein alone.

  From the next room, the Detective heard his granddaughter Nan's laughter, girlish still, flirting with his consciousness, obscured by the crackling of burst wood fiber and the hot exhale of the fire. How reassuring that laughter was, reminding him of how Sadie had smiled at Sally's childhood laughter, and of how he had smiled at the two of them, his family frame-frozen in a happy moment. Etiology, Mrs. Klein had called it, the cause of the cause: her laughter caused her smile caused his smile, a case history for the cure to his loneliness—not hypothetical, but simply gone. Did Mrs. Klein have children and grandchildren, he wondered, or was her husband all that she had? And how could that ever be for the best—to be deserted on that rock overlooking the ocean, that desolate point? The city, though, was not much better, the Detective suddenly remembered. During those first few weeks after the funeral, there were a million hands to stroke his head, but no one had touched him. Perhaps no one could.

  Nan's laughter disappeared now, and the Detective struggled to find it; tried to will its existence out of the busy respiration of the fire; pleaded to hear it, a lifeline to the world beyond his solipsistic study, beyond his time. They had sneaked Nan into the hospital the week before Sadie had died, he remembered. Sadie herself had begged them to break the rules, asking time and time again until, guilt-ridden, they were forced to give in. Ten years old then, Nan had been unselfconscious and energetic, bouncing around the room and from subject to subject, first offering to recite a poem she had learned, but then forgetting about it, caught up in relating the outrage of a schoolgirl betrayal. How Sadie had smiled at Nan that day, radiant, content for the first time since she had been told there could be no cure, a smile miraculously defying her pain and the stuporous drugging to kill it. The Detective had been jealous of his own granddaughter then, jealous of her effortless ability to bring happiness to Sadie, happiness that should have been his to give.