T. Boyle - T.C. Boyle Stories II - Volume II

At any rate, Mercedes Funes appeared at the clinic one sun-racked morning with her son in tow. She came through the door tugging him awkwardly by the wrist (they’d named the boy Dámaso, after her husband’s twin brother, who sent small packets of chocolate and the occasional twenty-dollar bill from Los Angeles when the mood took him), and settled into a chair in the waiting room while Elvira’s parrot gnawed at the wicker bars of its cage and the little air conditioner I keep in the front window churned out its hyperborean drafts. I was feeling especially good that morning, at the top of my game, certain real estate investments having turned out rather well for me, and Elvira keeping her eye on a modest little cottage at the seashore, which we hoped to purchase as a getaway and perhaps, in the future, as a place of retirement. After all, I was no longer as young as I once was and the Hippocratic frisson of healing the lame and curing the incurable had been replaced by a sort of repetitious drudgery, nothing a surprise anymore and every patient who walked through the door diagnosed before they even pulled up a chair. I’d seen it all. I was bored. Impatient. Fed up. But, as I say, on this particular day, my mood was buoyant, my whole being filled with an inchoate joy over the prospect of that little frame cottage at the seashore. I believe I may even have been whistling as I entered the examining room.

“And what seems to be the problem?” I asked.

Mercedes Funes was wrapped in a shawl despite the heat. She’d done up her hair and was wearing the shoes she reserved for mass on Sundays. In her lap was the child, gazing up at me out of his father’s eyes, eyes that were perfectly round, as if they’d been created on an assembly line, and which never seemed to blink. “It’s his hands, Doctor,” Mercedes said in a whisper. “He’s burned them.”

Before I could say “Let’s have a look” in my paternal and reassuring tones, the boy held out his hands, palms up, and I saw the wounds there. The burns were third degree, right in the center of each palm, and involved several fingers as well. Leathery scabs — eschars — had replaced the destroyed tissue and were seeping a deep wine-colored fluid around the margins. I’d seen such burns before, of course, on innumerable occasions, the result of a house fire, smoking in bed, a child blundering against a stove, but these seemed odd, as if they’d been deliberately inflicted. I glanced up sharply at the mother and asked what had happened.

“I was busy with a customer,” she said, dropping her eyes as if to summon the image, “a big order, a family of seven, and I wasn’t watching him — and Francisco wasn’t there; he’s out selling bicycle tires now, you know, just so we can make ends meet. Dámaso must have reached into the brazier when my back was turned. He took out two hot coals, Doctor, one in each hand. I only discovered what he’d done when I smelled the flesh burning.” She gave me a glance from beneath the continuous eyebrow that made her look as if she were perpetually scowling. “It smelled just like goat. Only different.”

“But how—?” I exclaimed, unable to finish the question. I didn’t credit her for a minute. No one, not even the fakirs of India (and they are fakers), could hold on to a burning coal long enough to suffer third-degree burns.

“He’s not normal, Doctor. He doesn’t feel pain the way others do. Look here”—and she lifted the child’s right leg as if it weren’t even attached to him, rolling up his miniature trousers to show me a dark raised scar the size of an adult’s spread hand—“do you see this? This is where that filthy pit bull Isabel Briceño keeps came through the fence and bit him, and we’ve gone to the lawyer over it too, believe me, but he never cried out or said a word. The dog had him down in the dirt, chewing on him like he was a bone, and if my husband hadn’t gone out into the yard to throw his shaving water on the rosebushes I think he would have been torn to pieces.”

She looked out the window a moment, as if to collect herself. The boy stared at me out of his unblinking eyes. Very slowly, as if he were in some perverse way proud of what had befallen him or of how stoically he’d endured, he began to smile, and I couldn’t help thinking he’d make a first-rate soldier in whatever war we were prosecuting when he grew up.

“And do you see this?” she went on, tracing her index finger over the boy’s lips. “These scars here?” I saw a tracery of pale jagged lines radiating out from his mouth. “This is where he’s bitten himself — bitten himself without knowing it.”

“Señora Funes,” I said in my most caustic tone, the tone I reserve for inebriates with swollen livers and smokers who cough up blood while lighting yet another cigarette, and right there in my office, no less, “I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth here. This boy has been abused. I’ve never seen a more egregious case. You should be ashamed of yourself. Worse: you should be reported to the authorities.”

She rolled her eyes. The boy sat like a mannequin in her lap, as if he were made of wood. “You don’t understand: he doesn’t feel pain. Nothing. Go ahead. Prick him with your needle — you can push it right through his arm and he wouldn’t know the difference.”

Angry now — what sort of dupe did she take me for? — I went straight to the cabinet, removed a disposable syringe, prepared an injection (a half-dose of the B 12I keep on hand for the elderly and anemic) and dabbed a spot on his stick of an arm with alcohol. They both watched indifferently as the needle slid in. The boy never flinched. Never gave any indication that anything was happening at all. But that proved nothing. One child out of a hundred would steel himself when I presented the needle (though the other ninety-nine would shriek as if their fingernails were being pulled out, one by one).

“Do you see?” she said.

“I see nothing,” I replied. “He didn’t flinch, that’s all. Many children — some anyway — are real little soldiers about their injections.” I hovered over him, looking into his face. “You’re a real little solider, aren’t you, Dámaso?” I said.

From the mother, in a weary voice: “We call him Sin Dolor, Doctor. That’s his nickname. That’s what his father calls him when he misbehaves, because no amount of spanking or pinching or twisting his arm will even begin to touch him. Sin Dolor, Doctor. The Painless One.”

—

The next time I saw him he must have been seven or eight, I don’t really recall exactly, but he’d grown into a reedy, solemn boy with great, devouring eyes and his father’s Indian hair, still as thin as a puppet and still looking anemic. This time the father brought him in, carrying the boy in his arms. My first thought was worms, and I made a mental note to dose him before he left, but then it occurred to me that it must only have been his mother’s cooking and I dismissed the idea. A stool sample would do. But of course we’d need to draw blood to assess hemoglobin levels — if the parents were willing, that is. Both of them were notoriously tightfisted and I rarely saw any of the Funes clan in my offices unless something were seriously amiss.

“What seems to be the problem?” I asked, rising to take Francisco Funes’ hand in my own.

With a grunt, he bent down to set the boy on his feet. “Go ahead, Dámaso,” he said, “walk for the doctor.”

I noticed that the boy stood unevenly, favoring his right leg. He glanced first at his father, then at me, dipped his shoulder in resignation and walked to the door and back, limping as if he’d dislocated his knee. He looked up with a smile. “I think something’s wrong with my leg,” he said in a voice as reduced and apologetic as a confessor’s.