Free Death Kit by Susan Sontag Page A

the police, to be patient, and to await the newspaper’s verdict. Still, he can’t sleep. But (now) doesn’t really expect to.
    At two o’clock the phone rings. The bell’s sound sears his nerves. “Is it here? Yes! Thanks very much.” Diddy has ordered the paper to be brought to him immediately. He hurries out of bed, puts on his trousers, opens the door, and peers down the hall. A teenager in a red suit is ambling along the carpeted corridor, bearing the precious document.
    â€œHere! Here!” Diddy calls out hoarsely. He gives the boy a quarter, grabs the paper, and steps back into the room, bolting the door behind him. Where shall he settle to examine this bundle, smelling of wet ink, that will decide his fate?
    Sitting cross-legged on the white pompon spread covering the bed near the door, Diddy resolutely begins to read. Nothing on the first page. Or on the second. Or the third. He doesn’t allow himself, in his impatience, to scatter the disappointing pages as he finishes with them; each page, once thoroughly perused, is neatly aligned with its predecessors.
    International disasters!
    Department store ads!
    National electioneering!
    Newest model home appliances!
    Local bond issues, the municipal council debates over the new cultural center, a scandal in the sanitation department!
    A sale on sheets and towels!
    Editorial on air pollution and syndicated columns on genocide!
    Society page!
    Ads for movies and road-show theatre!
    Woman’s page!
    TV and radio listings!
    Sports!
    Comics!
    Real estate!
    At Obituaries, his heart jumps. But nothing there, either. Stock market averages, and the paper is done. Nothing. Nothing! Hands trembling, Diddy folds it all up. Wants to hurl the paper into the wastebasket, but.… Maybe he ought to do it again, from first page to last. The mind is a malicious sovereign. Can arrange matters so you simply don’t see what’s right in front of you, if it’s what you most fear to see. Even with the aid of a magnifying glass or a microscope.
    But Diddy knows he can look over the paper later. And doesn’t want to dispirit himself excessively. Better (now) to find a new goal. He phones down again to the lobby. “This is room 414.” Hang on! The night clerk mustn’t notice how distraught Diddy is, mustn’t hear the rabidly demanding edge to his voice. Slowly! “Could you tell me when the next edition of the Courier-Gazette comes out?” The words emerge rather skillfully.
    â€œThere’s only one more edition, sir. Usually delivered to the hotel around 7 a.m., and I don’t think you’ll find it on the streets any earlier. The truck comes straight from the printing plant.”
    Diddy is grateful, painfully grateful, for the innocence of facts. “You’ve been extremely helpful. Thanks. Good night. Oh, and I want to be awakened at six-fifty.”
    Diddy trying to fill the unresponsive room with his attention. There’s nothing to do but wait. Unless.… He tries the television again. On one channel, the Late Show. On another, the nightly sermonette that closes the broadcasting day. A bespectacled priest in an arm chair looks straight out of the screen at Diddy the Guilty. Does he sit in a studio set or the parish library of a real church? The priest earnestly invokes blessings upon this great land of freedom, and on our boys fighting overseas to extend those freedoms to the entire world. Slow dissolve at that point: the vanishing priest was replaced by pounding seas, and in the background organ music began to rise faintly. But the voice went on without its body, as confident and cheerful as before. “Bless those who are strong, that they employ their strength wisely.” Was this for the President, or for America? “Bless those who are weak, that they receive succor and care from their more fortunate brothers.” The sea continued to thrash against the beach, the invisible priest