Read October Light for Free Online Page A

Listen. I’m married. A sweet, good wife, three sweet, good children. You think I’m ignorant of despair?”
    â€œWhere have we gone wrong?”
    â€œThat’s what Tolstoy asked himself.”
    They had cars going over the bridge again now. It seemed a little unfeeling. How could they know Peter Wagner was not that poor mad weeping maiden, or the bow-legged prostitute, hardly more than a child? Yet all life is compromise, of course. The mail must get through, and the groceries; almonds to San Diego, squash to Pasadena. God bless, God bless. His father had made his fortune in sugar beets. A splendid man; frail and coughing, those last few years, but optimistic to the end. His rural background. “Europeans,” he said, “know how to live. We’re mites by comparison to the wise old Europeans.” Everything he said was true, always, for the moment at least. Peter Wagner’s respect for his father was boundless, his admiration downright religious, though he agreed with him in nothing. “Between them, big government and the unions are ruining this country,” his father said, “and a few unscrupulous big businesses.” It was not that what his father said was untrue; it was merely tiresome, like great art forever staring ga-ga at the black abyss. “Drink up, Andrew,” his mother would say. That too was a tiresome philosophy. His uncle Morton had a book, which he was unable to get published, about “the great Negro-Jewish conspiracy.” The rest of his childhood, so far as he could remember, had been bird-baths and elm trees and lawns. Sometimes at parties, to his horror, his stepmother spoke French.
    â€œDoesn’t it?” Dr. Berg asked sharply.
    He realized his mind had been wandering. He wondered if arthritis was the feeling in his knuckles now. He called up, “If despair is the meaning of life, a man should seize it, clutch it like a god!” He felt his overcoat ripping at the armpits.
    â€œThat’s true,” Dr. Berg said. “Or anyway, it’s as true as anything else. So drop.”
    â€œYou’re a very complex person,” he said. “You make it extremely difficult for a man to drop.” He felt openness below him. Another ship was moving in. A small one. Half a mile away there was a blurry searchlight, a Coast Guard cutter. Ah, civilization! Swift, swift! The cutter came on with incredible speed. It was too late already. He hung on. He said: “Death is as meaningless as life. You agree, Dr. Berg?”
    â€œOf course. So what else? Listen. Come talk with me in my office. If you convince me that suicide is the only way, I won’t prevent you. You believe me?”
    â€œI do, I do!”
    â€œThen let us pull you up.”
    â€œI don’t want to.”
    â€œThen drop.” He saw his mistake instantly. The ship had passed and the water below was clear. “Grab him!”
    He dropped. The beautiful lights of San Francisco hung level for a time then sank upward, slowly, slowly. The rush of wind sucked his breath out. He fell and fell.
    Aboard the Indomitable, Mr. Goodman turned with a jerk. “Man overboard!” he yelled, though it was not quite fitting. Whatever it was that fell, six inches from the larboard bow, went down like a boulder, throwing almost no splash. Choong, it went, and he yelled, “Full speed backwards!” A strange command. “You’re crazy,” Mr. Nit hissed. “If the Captain hears—” “It was a man,” Mr. Goodman said. “I saw it.” It wasn’t quite true. He knew it was a man; he saw nothing, merely heard it come screaming like a bomb. The boat jerked and shuddered, then backed up as Jane reversed the engine. “There!” Mr. Goodman yelled. Jane cut the engine and the Indomitable was silent except for the trickle of a few small leaks.
    â€œJesus,” Mr. Nit said, and glanced back at where the Captain would emerge