“You can leave whenever you want to.”
“All right.”
“There’s no reason for this sort of thing. She wasn’t worth it. Why don’t we just talk it over like two grown men?”
“You’ve said that before.” He looked up. “All right,” he said. “Let’s talk it over.”
“You mean it?”
“Why not?”
“Well then, let’s go to my house and have a drink.”
“All right, Ralph, Let’s go to your house and talk about it.”
They went out of the station together, Ralph’s arm around his shoulders. Juraska was already gone and none of the policemen looked at them. Sarling wondered whether, when he was gone, they would laugh at him or pity him.
Ralph made a fire when they reached his house and didn’t turn on any lights. He said they could talk by firelight. Men talk more honestly, he said, when the lights aren’t too bright. “You know,” he said, sipping at his drink, “this is more sensible than hating each other.”
“Did you hate me?” Sarling asked. “What did you have to hate me for?”
“Oh, I didn’t hate you. But you hated me. That’s what I meant. And it was for nothing.”
“For nothing?”
“She would have left you anyway. And we’re probably both better off with her out of the way.”
“Is that your justification, that she would have left me anyway? Even if you hadn’t had an affair with her? I heard a man say once that a woman he killed with his car was sick and didn’t have long to live even if he hadn’t hit her.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No.”
Sarling looked into the fire again. “You know,” he said, “you’d have been better off if you hadn’t stopped what I tried to do tonight.”
“I’d have been ruined and you’d have gone to prison.”
“You humiliated me again tonight.”
“I saved you.”
“You saved yourself.” He put down his glass and stood up. He picked up the poker from beside the fireplace.
“Don’t.”
Sarling looked down at the poker, surprised, and put it back. “Did you think I was going to kill you?” he asked.
“No. No, of course not.”
Sarling smiled. “That was fear, brother.” He laughed out loud. “How much money do you have left after tonight?”
“Not much. You know that.”
“I know. You know, I thought you might buy me out tonight. I hoped Juraska wouldn’t let you, but I thought it might happen.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“What will you do tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’m going to rob the bank.”
“You’re crazy,” Ralph said, jumping up. “I’ll stop you.”
“I don’t think you can, not until after it’s done. This time I think I’ll spend the money on myself. It should take them a few days anyway to catch me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe.” He walked past, ready to leave. “That’s the wonderful thing about the human mind, though, there are so many possibilities.” He stopped at the door and turned. “Incidentally,” he said, “I rather hope you get me out of this one, too. Next time I think I’d like to write a threatening letter to The President. That should bring an interesting number of Secret Service men on the run. I may even sign your name to the letter.” He laughed. “You really should have kept your money, Ralph. You’ll wish you had it to retire on.”
A Reform Movement
by Donald Martin
It is difficult, if not impossible, for members of two different generations to understand one another. Even when engaged in the same profession, so to speak, standards change with the passage of time, and what is acceptable to one generation is shocking to another.
As usual, Mrs. Grady read the morning paper with her breakfast. And again as usual, she skipped over the national and international news — it had become too vast and complex for her to understand — and read the local news on the inside pages. With morbid fascination she found the inevitable crime stories. Mayhem was flourishing with ever-increasing flagrance. She winced and cringed inwardly as she sipped her coffee and read the unblushing details of the latest brutal robbery or murder.
“It’s as Oliver always said,” she said aloud. Oliver was her late husband, dead these twenty years, but still orally referred to by his widow, for he had uttered many memorable things. Oliver had said once, and Mrs. Grady was remembering it now: “I tell you, Myrt, instead of civilization advancing, actually it’s the opposite. The very fact that people, in the face of scientific and intellectual progress still remain heartless brutes, means that they are going backwards.” Oliver had been a subway motorman and had come into daily contact with thousands of people, so his observations meant something. According to Oliver people were becoming less patient and less understanding, more cold and selfish. He was able to document these grim theories by tales of the incidents he saw daily. Perhaps Oliver had been too sensitive a man for such a position, but his tales of mankind’s thoughtless brutality had always made Myrt shudder, and she still shuddered today as she saw in the daily newspaper reports vindicating her late husband’s words.
Finishing her breakfast and folding away the paper (she was always careful to save half of it to read with her lunch), Mrs. Grady prepared to go downstairs to attend to her morning shopping. She put on her hat and coat and went out. As she was going down the hall stairs she noticed someone bent over the letter boxes. It was a youth. He was intent on what he was doing. His fingers were busily seeking entry into one of the little boxes on the wall.
Mrs. Grady froze on the steps watching the youth: she wished she could turn invisible, she wanted that much to continue to watch. The youth’s fingers were picking away at the box when he glanced around and locked eyes with the enthralled spectator. Mrs. Grady started, feeling a momentary guilt; the youth jumped back, gave Mrs. Grady an accusing stare, and then turned to run. There was a baby carriage standing near the door, and in his frantic flight he did not allow for its presence, as he ran with his head half turned. He crashed into the obstacle and fell to the floor with a bellow as the carriage rocked and giggled on its springs as if it had been tickled. He twisted on the floor, made an effort to rise but sank back with a gasp.
First alarm and then fear had swept through Mrs. Grady. Now she felt a certain cautious pity as she stared at the prostrate youth. She was uncertain what should be done. When the carriage had ceased to rock, she began a slow advance down the stairs, one hand riding the bannister, her eyes fixed on the youth.
As she passed her mailbox she glanced in. She saw there the familiar tan envelope with the cellophane window which contained her monthly check. So that was what he had been after. She looked down at him, savoring the superiority a standee feels, looking down on the fallen,
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
He groaned, not from pain alone, but because this was the most absurd question.
“What is it?” she asked. “Your leg?”
He nodded, grimacing. Now he managed to sit up on his hands. He looked down at his throbbing ankle. His face revealed considerable strain. As he peered at his foot, she examined him. He was not more than twenty. His long black hair had not been cut for some time. His black leather jacket had silver buckles. It hung apart over his T-shirt. His blue jeans bound tight around his thighs. His face changed; it reflected intense displeasure, self-directed. He looked up at Mrs. Grady.