But they had both been much in his
thoughts, and especially the latter, who in memory had grown ten feet tall, a gray-haired wise
man haunting the hallways of his mind. «You pursue the negative,» Willie-Jay had informed him
once, in one of his lectures. «You want not to give a damn, to exist without responsibility, without
faith or friends or warmth.»
In the solitary, comfortless course of his recent driftings, Perry had over and over again reviewed
this indictment, and had decided it was unjust. He did give a damn — but who had ever given a
damn about him? His father? Yes, up to a point. A girl or two — but that was «a long story.» No one
else except Willie-Jay himself. And only Willie-Jay had ever recognized his worth, his
potentialities, had acknowledged that he was not just an under-sized, over muscled half-breed,
had seen him, for all the moralizing, as he saw himself — «exceptional,» «rare,» «artistic.» In
Willie-Jay his vanity had found support, his sensibility shelter, and the four-month exile from this
high-carat appreciation had made it more alluring than any dream of buried gold. So when he
received Dick’s invitation, and realized that the date Dick proposed for his coming to Kansas more
or less coincided with the time of Willie-Jay’s release, he knew what he must do. He drove to Las
Vegas, sold his junk-heap car, packed his collection of maps, old letters, manuscripts, and books,
and bought a ticket for a Greyhound bus. The journey’s aftermath was up to fate; if (things didn’t
«work out with Willie-Jay,» then he might «consider Dick’s proposition.» As it turned out, the choice
was between Dick and nothing, for when Perry’s bus reached Kansas City, on the evening of
November 12, Willie-Jay, whom he’d been unable to advise of his coming, had already left town left, in fact, only five hours earlier, from the same terminal at which Perry arrived. That much he
had learned by telephoning the Reverend Mr. Post, who further discouraged him by declining to
reveal his former clerk’s exact destination. «He’s headed East,» the chaplain said. «To fine
opportunities. A decent job, and a home with some good people who are willing to help him.» And
Perry, hanging up, had felt «dizzy with anger and disappointment.»
But what, he wondered when the anguish subsided, had he really expected from a reunion (with
Willie-Jay? Freedom had separated them; as free men, they had nothing in common, were
opposites, who could never have formed a «team» — certainly not one capable of embarking on the
skin-diving south-of-the-border adventures he and Dick had plotted. Nevertheless, if he had not
missed Willie-Jay, if they could have been together for even an hour, Perry was quite convinced just «knew» — that he would not now be loitering outside a hospital waiting for Dick to emerge with
a pair of black stockings.
Dick returned empty-handed. «No go,» he announced, with a furtive casualness that made Perry
suspicious.
«Are you sure? Sure you even asked?»
«Sure I did.»
«I don’t believe you. I think you went in there, hung around a couple of minutes, and came out.»
«O.K., sugar — whatever you say.» Dick started the car. After they had traveled in silence awhile,
Dick patted Perry on the knee. «Aw, come on,» he said. «It was a puky idea. What the hell would
they have thought? Me barging in there like it was a god-dam five-‘n’-dime . . .»
Perry said, «Maybe it’s just as well. Nuns are a bad-luck bunch.»
The Garden City representative of New York Life Insurance smiled as he watched Mr. Clutter
uncap a Parker pen and open a checkbook. He was reminded of a local jest: «Know what they
say about you, Herb? Say, ‘Since haircuts went to a dollar-fifty, Herb writes the barber a check.'»
«That’s correct,» replied Mr. Clutter. Like royalty, he was famous for never carrying cash. «That’s
the way I do business. When those tax fellows come poking around, canceled checks are your
best friend.»
With the check written but not yet signed, he swiveled back in his desk chair and seemed to ponder. The agent, a stocky, somewhat bald, rather informal man named Bob Johnson, hoped
his client wasn’t having last-minute doubts. Herb was hard-headed, a slow man to make a deal;
Johnson had worked over a year to clinch this sale. But, no, his customer was merely
experiencing what Johnson called the Solemn Moment — a phenomenon familiar to insurance
salesmen. The mood of a man insuring his life is not unlike that of a man signing his will; thoughts
of mortality must occur.
«Yes, yes,» said Mr. Clutter, as though conversing with himself. «I’ve plenty to be grateful for wonderful things in my life.» Framed documents commemorating milestones in his career
gleamed against the walnut walls of his office: a college diploma, a map of River Valley Farm,
agricultural awards, an ornate certificate bearing the signatures of Dwight D. Eisenhower and
John Foster Dulles, which cited his services to the Federal Farm Credit Board. «The kids. We’ve
been lucky there. Shouldn’t say it, but I’m real proud of them. Take Kenyon. Right now he kind of
leans toward being an engineer, or a scientist, but you can’t tell me my boy’s not a born rancher.
God willing, he’ll run this place someday. You ever met Eveanna’s husband? Don Jarchow?
Veterinarian. I can’t tell you how much I think of that boy. Vere, too. Vere English — the boy my girl
Beverly had the good sense to settle on. If anything ever happened to me, I’m sure I could trust
those fellows to take responsibility; Bonnie by herself — Bonnie wouldn’t be able to carry on an
operation like this . . .»
Johnson, a veteran at listening to ruminations of this sort, knew it was time to intervene. «Why,
Herb,» he said. «You’re a young man. Forty-eight. And from the looks of you, from what the
medical report tells us, we’re likely to have you around a couple of weeks more.»
Mr. Clutter straightened, reached again for his pen. «Tell the truth, I feel pretty good. And pretty
optimistic. I’ve got an idea a man could make some real money around here the next few years.»
While outlining his schemes for future financial betterment, he signed the check and pushed it
across his desk.
The time was ten past six, and the agent was anxious to go; his wife would be waiting supper.
«It’s been a pleasure, Herb.»
«Same here, fellow.»
They shook hands. Then, with a merited sense of victory, Johnson picked up Mr. Clutter’s check
and deposited it in his billfold. It was the first payment on a forty-thousand-dollar policy that in the
event of death by accidental means, paid double indemnity.
«And He walks with me, and He talks with me, And He tells me I am His own,
And the joy we share as we tarry there, None other has ever known . . .»
With the aid of his guitar, Perry had sung himself into a happier humor. He knew the lyrics of
some two hundred hymns and ballads — a repertoire ranging from «The Old Rugged Cross» to
Cole Porter — and, in addition to the guitar, he could play the harmonica, the accordion, the banjo,
and the xylophone. In one of his favorite theatrical fantasies, his stage name was Perry
O’Parsons, a star who billed himself as «The One-Man Symphony.»
Dick said, «How about a cocktail?»
Personally, Perry didn’t care what he drank, for he was not much of a drinker. Dick, however, was
choosy, and in bars his usual choice was an Orange Blossom. From the car’s glove compartment
Perry fetched a pint bottle containing a ready-mixed compound of orange flavoring and vodka.
They passed the bottle to and fro. Though dusk had established itself, Dick, doing a steady sixty
miles an hour, was still driving without headlights, but then the road was straight, the country was
as level as a lake, and other cars were seldom sighted. This was «out there» — or getting near it.
«Christ!» said Perry, glaring at the landscape, flat and limitless under the sky’s cold, lingering
green — empty and lonesome except for the far between flickerings of farmhouse lights. He hated
it, as he hated the Texas plains, the Nevada desert; spaces horizontal and sparsely inhabited had
always induced in him a depression accompanied by agoraphobic sensations. Seaports were his
heart’s delight — crowded, clanging, ship-clogged, sewage-scented cities, like Yokohama, where
as an American Army private he’d spent summer during the Korean War. «Christ — and they told
me to keep away from Kansas! Never set my pretty foot here again. Although they were barring
me from heaven. And just look at it. Just feast your eyes.»
Dick handed him the bottle, the contents reduced by half. «Save the rest,» Dick said. «We may
need it.» »Remember, Dick? All that talk about getting a boat? I was thinking — we could buy a boat in
Mexico. Something cheap but sturdy. And we could go to Japan. Sail right across the Pacific,
been done — thousands of people have done it. I’m not conning you, Dick — you’d go for Japan.
Wonderful, gentle people, with manners like flowers. Really considerate — not just out for your
dough. And the women. You’ve never met a real woman…”
«Yes, I have,» said Dick, who claimed still to be in love with his honey-blond first wife though she
had remarried.
«There are these baths. One place called the Dream Pool. You stretch out, and beautiful,
knockout-type girls come and scrub you head to toe.»
«You told me.» Dick’s tone was curt.
«So? Can’t I repeat myself?»
«Later. Let’s talk about it later. Hell, man, I’ve got plenty on my mind.»
Dick switched on the radio; Perry switched it off. Ignoring Dick’s protest, he strummed his guitar:
«I came to the garden alone, while the dew was still on the roses,
And the voice I hear, falling on my ear,
The Son of God discloses . . .»
A full moon was forming at the edge of the sky.
The following Monday, while giving evidence prior to taking a lie-detector