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20 by John Edgar Wideman Page A

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Authors: John Edgar Wideman
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when one thought one ran the world, when one assumed responsibility for it, a middle-aged martyrdom. It seemed so silly,so sad to him now, the Sea Gull Sallys striving to save us all, and for an instant he thought he might sit up and tell her: “Leave it alone, Sally; it will happen on its own.” But time suspended, body suspended, he didn't move; knew at last that he wouldn't, couldn't tell her. That was what old age was for—you had to feel it in your bones before you could believe that it was true.
    The room seemed so calm, his body so painless and peaceful, that the Detective felt as if he could wait there forever with his breath held. Only the fire was impatient, busily consuming itself, a hushed but relentless rustling beside him. He knew that his daughter still hovered above him, indecisive and concerned, and he knew too, in another feat of detection, that she would call out to him one more time—out of guilt for having hung up earlier in the afternoon, out of concern for his, her father's feelings; because she cared about him, because despite her worrying and her need to maintain control, she would do what she thought would make him happy as best she could. And when she did that, when she leaned closer and once again called softly just above the steady pant of the fire, “Dad,” he wanted to reach up and hug her for her effort. She tried so hard, her struggling ascent out of the pith of her own failures into kindness was so desperately human that he was moved to recognize it, to let her know that he knew. But by the time he could arouse his inert body—raise his head and open his eyes—the study door was closing, her back disappearing behind it.
    Too late, again too late to give comfort to his family. The Detective straightened up in his chair and conversed with his body, the language of old age, the paradox of suffering; reminding him that he was, at the same time, both alive and dying; arousing a fear that he would die before Sally would return again, before he could show her how much she mattered to him—a curse-prayer-promise tossed out into the night begging his survival for just that much longer. There seemed no end to this business of living, only to life itself; always a few more facts needed to settle the issue, solve the case. Death seemed to lack resolution; he put it off with these pleas for reprieve because he had too many things to do, a lifetime of loose ends to tie up. At the end, one should be able to gather all of the accomplices in one's life into a single room as at the climax of a murder mystery story, and there resolve one's relationships with them; explain every false lead andmissed connection, reveal the alibis and extenuating circumstances; and then, after assigning guilt, bestow and receive forgiveness in an ordered, happy finale. If only he could see Sally just one more time before he died, one more chance to explain his feelings; if only he could have seen his father one more time, held his hand as he was dying; and Sadie, above all Sadie, if only she had told him, if only she had understood…. My gift, the Detective thought, was detection, a miraculous gift that appeared as if from nowhere, that wasn't even mine except to cherish and protect, that will leave me like a soul when I die, that seems to have deserted me already, the vessel empty, a prelude to the end. Detection was my gift and I wasn't very good at anything else; but I tried, Sadie, I did try, he wanted to tell her. I hope you knew, I hope you felt it somewhere behind the silence I so rarely broke through—how much you mattered, how much I would have sacrificed for you if I had only known how. To ease your suffering, to quiet your pain, I would have absorbed it all myself. I hope you knew, I hope you know that I'd accept, that I'd embrace even this awful loneliness if it brought you peace.
    The Detective suddenly remembered Mrs. Klein, felt again the shaking of her shoulders beneath

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