20 by John Edgar Wideman Read Free Book Online Page B

husband,” the Detective said, trying to initiate the interrogation.
    â€œYes, about my husband. Do you think he's dead?”
    The Detective blinked, his hands fumbling with his pocket notebook; stunned, he stared at her for a moment. The question had been normal, but the manner of its asking, incredible—intellectual curiosity, as if she were working on some academic problem.
    â€œI'm…well, I'm skeptical, let's put it that way. What about you?”
    â€œYes,” Mrs. Klein said, “that makes sense. You're skeptical—the definite knower, the objective truth-seeker, the detective. Andy, who is a detective in a manner of speaking, has always promoted skepticism. We believe in it.”
    â€œYes, Mrs. Klein, but your husband, right now: do you think that he's dead or alive?”
    Mrs. Klein looked away from him, her sarcasm suddenly failing her, her eyes gone manic again, caught up in their waking dream, searching, searching. Her loss of control frightened the Detective, but excited him too, his blood-instinct aroused by her sudden vulnerability, by the appearance of a pressure point that he could use.
    â€œAt this moment, Mrs. Klein, at this exact moment, is your husband dead or alive?”
    The Detective tried to lean forward in his chair, to press home the question with his physical presence, his body resisting with its inertial pain, Mrs. Klein avoiding his insistent stare.
    â€œWhy must you know? Why do you have to keep on the trail? What if I told you that whatever happened, it was for the best—couldn't you just leave it at that?”
    She knew; she did know. “Dead or alive, Mrs. Klein?”
    Mrs. Klein hid her face in her hands. “I,” she began, “I believe…” She paused, measuring her breaths, gaining control by degrees. She dropped her hands, lifting her face to meet his stare; yes, she nodded to herself, yes. Her eyes had begun to steady themselves.
    â€œWe believe he's alive.”
    She had slipped away from him; he had allowed her to slip away, into her sarcasm or her pretense of sarcasm, out of her vulnerability, the pressure point so visible just a moment before suddenly gone. The Detective was tired, felt a tepid disgust for his own inadequacy. Fact: he was losing his touch. He no longer had the mental tenacity, the will required to force the connections—he didn't really want to. Something was missing, a subtraction of old age, some basic drive dried up, that insatiable desire for solution. But he must try; if only to keep his life coherent, if only out of allegiance to his old self-image, he must try to finish it. And so he stalled, staring at the blank pages of his notebook, twisting his feet in the orange carpet, as he tried to organize his thoughts.
    â€œMrs. Klein, when did you arrive here? Exactly how long have you been up here?”
    â€œAlways.”
    â€œYou've always been up here—with no food or water.”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking.”
    â€œI'm not interested in manners of speaking. I'm interested in facts, times of arrival and departure, confirmed and witnessed events; facts concerning your husband's disappearance.”
    â€œI don't doubt that,” she said. “I don't doubt that at all. It makes perfect sense that you should. You're the detective and the detective believes in facts; the detective sees what he sees.”
    â€œWell, then, perhaps you'd like to give me some facts to believe in. For example, was your husband here at the house last night?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHe was here?”
    â€œHe's always here.”
    â€œHe's not here now, Mrs. Klein; that's a fact I believe in.”
    â€œYou see what you see when you see it.” She tilted her head, consideredhim. “You do think he's dead, don't you? That's your subjective view of the objective truth.”
    Curiosity again; the wrong mood at the wrong time—always. The Detective watched her helplessly and felt