Hob Broun - Odditorium

Dr. Dopesh muttered to himself as he thumbed through the contents of a loose-leaf binder, boosting his volume to mention the patient’s original court-ordered detention after a trial on two counts of forgery.

“I was never convicted on that charge,” Christo said, regretting the pinch of belligerence in his voice. “And I paid back the money, too.”

“Really, Mool, I think that’s yesterday’s papers,” Rechette said hurriedly.

“What papers?” Dopesh was confused, fearful that some bundle of charts, some crucial file, had eluded him.

“A figure of speech, Mool. But I think after six months with us, Mr. Christo is sufficiently mindful of the consequences of antisocial behavior that I don’t foresee any repetition.”

The director brought a Styrofoam cup to his whisker-hemmed mouth and took little sucking sips of black tea. “Certainly our main concern should be conduct inside the walls of this institution. I’m wondering about this dust-up with Miss Amato two weeks ago.”

“Just one of a series,” said Monica Fortgang in her wind-up Victrola voice. “Patient has continually shown a marked resentment toward authority, an unwillingness to cooperate and follow orders. He has been a disruptive force on the ward, and frankly I’m far from convinced that there’s been the slightest forward movement since he arrived.”

Christo felt that the floor was a hydraulic lift pushing him immutably toward the ceiling where, amid the crunch of bone and geysers of blood, he would be mashed against the twin eggbox light fixtures, neatly cube-steaked and ready for boiling. He took a deep breath.

“I deeply regret that incident. Since then I have had an opportunity to apologize personally to Nurse Amato. I’ve come to realize that however severe the other patient’s pain might have been, however much I might have felt that he was being denied the proper attention, it was wrong of me to interfere with staff since they know best how to deal with each patient on an individual basis. I understand now that I was improperly assigning to myself responsibilities I wasn’t either capable or eligible to handle.”

Monica Fortgang broke the paperclip she had been bending while she relived a year-old incident in which Rechette had accused her, in front of three members of the janitorial staff, of administering a near-fatal dose of Amytal to one of his favorite patients. “Very nice, Marty,” she hissed through glistening choppers. “Did you type that up for him?”

“I might point out, Monica, that I have been at this hospital considerably longer than you have. And any intimation that I am attempting to abet Mr. Christo in hoodwinking this committee is totally out of line and an insult to me professionally.”

“I’m sure you’re quite thorough and expert when it comes to bladder obstructions or cystitis, but this …”

“I fail to see how Monica expects to make a judgement on this case when she is so clearly biased.”

“Enough,” said the director, striking the desk top with an invisible gavel. “I’d hate to give patient the impression that the review process is in any way a matter of who your friends are.”

Dopesh pursed his lips as though he were about to kiss something. “Yes, we are all of integrity here.”

“Thank you, Mool.” The director, a habitual fisherman who tied his own flies, who had made many a turn with waxed thread around the shanks of Tufted Mites and Red Skimmers, wound the string twice around his tea bag and squeezed out tannic acid. “What about return to the community? Have any arrangements been made?”

Rechette launched into excited accolades for Synergy, a local halfway house and rehab program that had recently secured a sizable grant from Washington, but the director cut him off.

“I think you’ve said enough already, Marty.”

Rechette scanned his face for traces of suspicion or censure — there was little precedent for his going to bat for a patient in this way — but the director’s eyes were as neutral as a snapshot of topsoil.

“I would prefer to hear what patient has to say on this subject.”

Moistening his lips, Christo leaned forward in his chair and played straight to the director. “I’d have to say that from what I’ve heard, I’m pretty enthusiastic about the Synergy program. They stress a very supportive group environment there and I know I’m going to need a lot of help and reinforcement in the first couple of months. Another thing I like is that they have a strong vocational emphasis, and to get through to those final stages of recovery, I’ll need a steady, regimented work situation. Something I have to show up for every day, you know, something repetitive. I was thinking possibly about an electronics factory. I used to have a real flair for circuit diagrams in high school. Yeah, basically my goal is to make my life as, you know, as humdrum as possible.” He cracked his mouth and tipped his head bashfully to one side.

Bingo. The director was smiling and twirling the edges of his beard.

Christo thought: I’m in, three to one. Which means I’m out.

And: These people are defenseless. If I waited six months to take them, maybe I am crazy.

Eighteen hours after his official release, Christo appeared at Rechette’s suburban chalet with all his personal effects in a canvas sea bag. These included a memento from Harris (a cigarette lighter “which once belonged to Eddie Fisher”); two clip-on black bow ties; a personally annotated road atlas; his diploma from a mail-order locksmithing school; and a large baggie of blue Valiums. They were a kind of long-term going-away present from Dennis, the social worker upon whom Christo had prevailed to steal in installments over the last couple of months. Dennis wasn’t a total loser. He just needed friends. His mother had died over the summer in a boating accident on a private lake outside Rome.

Rechette answered the bell in a velour pullover, designer denims and no shoes. “You never called.”

“I couldn’t think of anything to say. Going to invite me in?”

Rechette grabbed the sea bag and stepped back. “I was starting to think you might not show.”

“I’m not a welsher. At least I try not to be.”

Christo followed along to the living room. The carpeting felt like marshmallow. The decorating theme was early-to-mid 70s men’s magazine: German stereo components, half-ton glass coffee table, African bronzes and carved wooden masks. He settled into a leather-upholstered sofa and took peanuts out of one dish and a cigarette out of another.

“Real nice layout, as they say in the crime films.”

“You look tired. Where have you been?”

“Nowhere. Out and around.”

A tingle moved up Rechette’s leg, spread an insistent puddle of heat around his hips. He ran his eyes over Christo’s hooded face, the round, full arms capable of delivering blows with nonchalance, solidly wedged knuckles twisting against bone.

“Something to drink?”

“Whatever you’ve got.”

Rechette poured brandy from an apothecary jar and brought the glass over on tiptoe, bending as he relinquished it to peer down Christo’s shirt.

“You’re sleek as an otter.”

Christo didn’t like the way Rechette was behaving in his home ballpark, all smug in his sportsclothes. His thinning brown hair was wet-combed over his forehead in shaggy Brutus bangs and he gave off a mossy vapor of expensive cologne.

Then, for a moment, he was back in character. “If you’re going to put that down on the sofa, please use a coaster.”

“Good liquor,” Christo said. “The first good liquor I’ve had in six months.”

Rechette sniffed his own glass. “Didn’t Waldo sell to you?”

“Garbage. Grapefruit wine, stuff like that.”