for happy dreams.” I put my arm around her shoulders and felt her shudder.
She said, “Imagine if people didn’t mean harm to others. It seems like a fantasy to think of a world where no one would die at the hands of another person. What a different, wonderful world that would be.”
We were silent for a moment.
Diamond’s left foot made a barely perceptible tap on the floor, like a poker player’s tell.
“What say you?” I said.
“People meaning well instead of harm would still cause other people to die,” Diamond said. “It the unfortunate nature of life.”
“Sure,” Street said. “Accidents and such. But that’s not the same, right?”
“Sometimes the difference between an accidental death and murder is a very fine line,” he said. “The problem is trying to tell if a person meant well or not.”
I drank wine. “Example?”
“Sure” Diamond said. “Thomas Aquinas addressed this in his Doctrine of Double Effect. You can intend one thing, but that can lead to another. It always gets down to intent. Exact same action, exact same result. But one way, he’s a hero. The other way, he’s a murderer. As an example, there’s a standard philosophical conundrum that illustrates what Aquinas said. It’s called the trolley problem,” he said.
“I’ve heard of that,” Street said.
Diamond nodded. “A runaway trolley is going to hit a group of five people and kill them. A person up the tracks sees an opportunity to pull a lever and send the trolley onto another track where there is only one person who will get killed. He pulls the lever. Instead of five people dying, only one person dies. The man saves a lot of lives.”
“And some people will think he’s a hero,” I said. Then I realized where he was going with the scenario. “But it’s possible that the person pulling the lever wants to kill the single person on the side track. Then he’s a murderer.”
“Right.”
“Aquinas was a saint, right?” Street said.
I got the sense that she was eager to help direct the conversation away from Scarlett and her macabre murder.
“Yeah,” Diamond said. “They knew Aquinas was a big deal back in the thirteenth century, and they made him a saint. He was an important theologian. But where he really kicked butt was as a philosopher.”
Diamond picked up his wine glass and drained it. He set the glass down on the counter and turned to Street. “I’m sorry. In an effort to change the subject away from Scarlett Milo’s murder, I went off a different direction that was no better. Please accept my apology.”
Street started to protest, but Diamond smiled and said, “I should be going. Thanks for your time.” He gave Spot a pet and then left.
Street and I looked at each other for a long, quiet moment.
Street spoke first. “I thought I’d grill the veggies on the perforated barbecue pan. Gives them great flavor. How about you light the charcoal while I pour more wine?”
I looked at her glass. It was down a half an inch. Either the wine was really good, or I’d stressed her talking about Scarlett Milo.
I picked up the box of wooden matches and headed out onto the deck. Spot pushed out before me. Like all dogs, he was always eager to figure out where the humans were going and then get in front of them and lead them.
I squirted lighter fluid on a pile of briquettes and lit them afire.
Street came out carrying our glasses. We stood at the railing, looking out toward the forest where here and there were filtered bits of lake view during the day, dense intimate forest at night. Spot stood to Street’s side. He looked at her, then looked where she was looking.
When the coals were ready, Street brought out two bowls of vegetables, one onions and garlic cloves and the other peppers and carrots and broccoli and celery and bok choy. She sprayed olive oil into a pan that had hundreds of holes in it, then poured the onions into the pan and set it on the grill. The heat and smoke seeped
She said, “Imagine if people didn’t mean harm to others. It seems like a fantasy to think of a world where no one would die at the hands of another person. What a different, wonderful world that would be.”
We were silent for a moment.
Diamond’s left foot made a barely perceptible tap on the floor, like a poker player’s tell.
“What say you?” I said.
“People meaning well instead of harm would still cause other people to die,” Diamond said. “It the unfortunate nature of life.”
“Sure,” Street said. “Accidents and such. But that’s not the same, right?”
“Sometimes the difference between an accidental death and murder is a very fine line,” he said. “The problem is trying to tell if a person meant well or not.”
I drank wine. “Example?”
“Sure” Diamond said. “Thomas Aquinas addressed this in his Doctrine of Double Effect. You can intend one thing, but that can lead to another. It always gets down to intent. Exact same action, exact same result. But one way, he’s a hero. The other way, he’s a murderer. As an example, there’s a standard philosophical conundrum that illustrates what Aquinas said. It’s called the trolley problem,” he said.
“I’ve heard of that,” Street said.
Diamond nodded. “A runaway trolley is going to hit a group of five people and kill them. A person up the tracks sees an opportunity to pull a lever and send the trolley onto another track where there is only one person who will get killed. He pulls the lever. Instead of five people dying, only one person dies. The man saves a lot of lives.”
“And some people will think he’s a hero,” I said. Then I realized where he was going with the scenario. “But it’s possible that the person pulling the lever wants to kill the single person on the side track. Then he’s a murderer.”
“Right.”
“Aquinas was a saint, right?” Street said.
I got the sense that she was eager to help direct the conversation away from Scarlett and her macabre murder.
“Yeah,” Diamond said. “They knew Aquinas was a big deal back in the thirteenth century, and they made him a saint. He was an important theologian. But where he really kicked butt was as a philosopher.”
Diamond picked up his wine glass and drained it. He set the glass down on the counter and turned to Street. “I’m sorry. In an effort to change the subject away from Scarlett Milo’s murder, I went off a different direction that was no better. Please accept my apology.”
Street started to protest, but Diamond smiled and said, “I should be going. Thanks for your time.” He gave Spot a pet and then left.
Street and I looked at each other for a long, quiet moment.
Street spoke first. “I thought I’d grill the veggies on the perforated barbecue pan. Gives them great flavor. How about you light the charcoal while I pour more wine?”
I looked at her glass. It was down a half an inch. Either the wine was really good, or I’d stressed her talking about Scarlett Milo.
I picked up the box of wooden matches and headed out onto the deck. Spot pushed out before me. Like all dogs, he was always eager to figure out where the humans were going and then get in front of them and lead them.
I squirted lighter fluid on a pile of briquettes and lit them afire.
Street came out carrying our glasses. We stood at the railing, looking out toward the forest where here and there were filtered bits of lake view during the day, dense intimate forest at night. Spot stood to Street’s side. He looked at her, then looked where she was looking.
When the coals were ready, Street brought out two bowls of vegetables, one onions and garlic cloves and the other peppers and carrots and broccoli and celery and bok choy. She sprayed olive oil into a pan that had hundreds of holes in it, then poured the onions into the pan and set it on the grill. The heat and smoke seeped
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