Free The Sunlight Dialogues by John Gardner

himself no choice. He’d have to take Walter Boyle in with him when he stopped at Stroh’s for the flowers. Well, all right. He drove to Pearl Street and pulled up in front of the hydrant in front of the store.
    It went off smoothly, as he’d known it would. Boyle was no troublemaker. Too slick for that. He got out docilely, walked docilely to the counter with Clumly, waited docilely while the flowers—white roses—were wrapped and boxed. They cost seven dollars, and Boyle held the box while Clumly got out his billfold. The lady behind the counter worked hastily for once, almost gave him an extra two dollars change. Through all this, Boyle said nothing, showed no surprise. Clumly felt grateful. Good man, he thought. What turned a man like Boyle to a life of crime?
    At last Boyle said, speaking for the first time, “Where we going?”
    “You’ll find out,” Clumly said. He was always stern, on principle, with prisoners. Let them learn you were human and you could end up dead in some ditch.
    He turned off Washington Avenue onto Ross.
    “Old Dr. Adams’ place,” Clumly said crisply, pointing to the right. It was a high brick house set back off the street, with round-arched windows, great heavy dentils along the roof overhang, latticework arbors on either side. A house of the type that was common once in Western New York and can still be seen here and there in the country—the Hodge place, for instance, out on Putnam Settlement Road—solid, unspeakably dignified with its great blunt planes of chalky orange brick, its Victorian porches, its cupola: the most beautiful architecture in the world, symbolic of virtues no longer to be found. On the wide, unmowed lawns there were tamaracks over a hundred years old, and at the end of the driveway a morose brick garage. The thief bent forward, looking back at it as they passed.
    “Right there’s the Richmond Library,” Clumly said. He pointed, then clutched the wheel again, slowing and turning into Woodworks’.
    “Ugly,” Boyle observed. “The library.”
    Clumly scowled on principle, though it was true.
    They waited on the porch for a full twenty minutes, Clumly fanning himself with his hat, Boyle standing meekly with his shackled hands folded. Maybe they’re dead, Clumly thought. But they weren’t, he knew. He could see nothing through the stained-glass strips at the sides of the door. The porch sloped badly, but someone had recently been working on it There were new balusters on the railing, and one end of the porch had been jacked up and leveled. The house next door had a black and white sign standing out from the porch roof: SHADY REST. There was no more hint of life over there than here. He mopped his forehead and thought again of the flowers lying in the front seat. They’d be even hotter in the car than here. Should he bring them in with him? But he should have thought of it sooner. Octave Woodworth might appear at the door any minute now, and if she found only Boyle there, standing alone, in handcuffs, who knew? It might give her a heart attack.
    “I should have brought in those flowers,” Clumly said. “They’ll wilt out there.”
    Boyle nodded.
    He tried again to see through the stained glass, but it was useless. “Should have had them delivered,” he said.
    Again Boyle nodded. He indicated with both shackled hands the heavy bronze knocker on the Woodworths’ door, a lion’s head holding a serpent in its teeth.
    “They’ve heard us all right,” Clumly said. Abruptly, before he knew he would do it, he said, “Wait here, Boyle,” and hurried back to the car. He unlocked it as quickly as possible, snatched up the flowers, locked the door again, and hurried back onto the porch. “There now,” he said. He was out of breath. Boyle nodded. They went on waiting. Clumly holding the flower box under his arm.
    At last they heard the raiding of the chains as someone unfastened the safety latches. The main lock clicked, and the big door opened inward.