Walker Percy - The Thanatos Syndrome

Sheri’s a good sort. “Welcome home, Tom,” she had said earlier. “You have friends, you know — more than you know.” Sheri was a New Orleans nurse when she married Bob Comeaux. She’s not uptown New Orleans or Garden District, but she’s not Irish Channel or Ninth Ward either. French-Irish-Italian, she’d have gone to school at Sacred Heart, not with the Mesdames of the Sacred Heart Academy on St. Charles Avenue but at Sacred Heart parochial school on Canal Street. She and Ellen both married doctors, both took up duplicate bridge at the same time, neither having to work — Sheri because Bob was a successful doctor, Ellen because she and Marva made a lot of money in real estate. Sheri has the fond, slightly dazed look of many doctors’ wives.

“I better talk fast before she comes back,” says Sheri.

“Okay, talk fast.” Sheri is making me nervous because she’s drinking too, hanging on my arm, talking a lot, mentioning names, and making a point of it as if she knew about Bob and Mickey LaFaye. But she always comes back to Ellen.

“That girl is loaded! With talent I mean. I mean, she is some kind of genius and doesn’t even know it. Do you know what she did?”

“No.”

“We were playing in this dinky little sectional over at Biloxi — this was before we met Van Dorn. It was good for nothing but black points of course. So there we were, two little bridge ladies with a bunch of other bridge ladies. It’s about four women to one man, and what men. And here he comes — surprise, surprise — God knows what they paid him to make an appearance. We were playing women’s pairs the first day and there he is, strolling around the tables watching the play. We were all nervous and giggling. I know you don’t know anything about the strange world of duplicate bridge, but having John Van Dorn show up at a sectional tournament is like Ivan Lendl turning up at the local tennis club. I mean, we’re talking world-class, Tom.” She finishes her drink. Bob Comeaux, to my relief, has gotten up and is talking to Van Dorn in the aisle. He’s listening intently to Van Dorn, looking down, arms folded, ear cocked. Van Dorn catches my eye, winks, makes a casting motion with his wrist. I nod.

“Yes, Sheri?”

“You got the picture? Us little bridge ladies trying to keep our minds on the game and him walking around, kibitzing. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“So next day, it’s mixed pairs. And we’re resigned to anybody we draw. We’re standing at the customers’ desk to get our partners and wondering who we’re going to end up with — you talk about dogs — I mean, you wouldn’t believe who I got. But anyway. There were a few professionals hanging around as usual. You know, you can get a life master or a professional, but you have to pay — personally I think the system stinks — it’s like a bunch of middle-aged ladies looking over the gigolos. But there we were, counting our little money to see if we can afford one of the L.M.s or professionals at least. Actually it’s the best way to learn, but I think it’s degrading. I look up and there he is. Oh, he’s a charmer. He introduces himself to both of us as if we were the famous ones. ‘You’re Mrs. More, I believe, and you’re Mrs. Comeaux?’ I nearly drop my teeth, but you know Ellen, laid back and cool. ‘Yes?’ she says.” Sheri mocks Ellen’s coolness. “He bows, I swear I think he even clicked his heels like a Prussian general, you know? He’s the perfect gentleman, but it’s obvious it’s not me he had in mind. Oh, he knew all about you too. ‘I know your husband’s work,’ he says to Ellen. ‘Magnificent!’ Ellen still hasn’t got the message. ‘But I’ve also seen your work — oh, I can tell in about thirty seconds,’ he tells Ellen. ‘I saw you pull that Steknauer finesse not once but twice.’ Then he turns to me as if Ellen’s not there. ‘Mrs. Comeaux,’ he says, there’s such a thing as card sense and there’s such a thing as a sixth sense. This lady knows where the cards are. I don’t know how she knows but she knows. I don’t think she knows how she knows either. It is as if she had a little computer stored in her head.’ Then he turns to Ellen and there’s Ellen going, Ah — uh — ahem, and so forth. So he says to Ellen, ‘Would you do me the honor of being my partner in mixed pairs today?’ ‘Well, ah uh,’ goes Ellen. ‘I don’t believe I have the — ah—’ And she’s actually going through her purse. I give her a nudge: Dummy! So he says, with another bow, ‘The fee is waived. The honor is mine.’ Well, let me tell you, I have to give Ellen credit. That gal’s got class. Without turning a hair she shrugs and says, ‘Very well.’ Very well, I’m thinking, Jesus. Of course, some of the old biddies were jealous, said he was interested in Ellen’s money, but that’s a lie. She’s a natural-born bridge genius.”

“Did they win?” I ask. I look at my watch. What is keeping Ellen?

“Win! They haven’t lost since. And now they’re not going to Fresno. I don’t get it. Old charmer turns into old asshole. Right, Tom?” She’s got another Tanqueray.

“Right. But why don’t you go see if Ellen’s—”

“Sure.” Her son Ricky comes up and shows her his trophy. She gives him a hug and me a wink. “Wonderful, darling.” After Ricky’s gone, she says, “You want to know what those trophies look like?”

“What?”

“Like K.C. bowling trophies, right?”

“Right. Now—”

“You want to know something, Tom?”

“What?”

“You really screwed up, didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did.”

“But you know something?”

“What?”

“I always thought you were the best around here, the most honest and understanding — unlike some I could mention, namely Dr. Perfect here.” And here in fact is Bob Comeaux, who pays no attention to her even though she hasn’t lowered her voice. Instead, he leans past me, ear cocked with the same intensity, and speaks to the table: “I hope you’ve given some serious thought to our conversation this morning. Okay, Tom?” His hand rests heavily on my shoulder.

“Sure, Bob,” I say, not sure what part of the conversation he means. Probably Father Smith. “Sheri—” I turn to her, but she’s gone — to fetch Ellen, I hope.

Van Dorn, passing behind Bob Comeaux, makes a sign to me as if he did not want to talk to Bob. He holds up one hand open and a forefinger.

“Okay,” I say. “Six o’clock.”

Ellen comes back, seeming all right, and drinks two more Absoluts. She smiles and nods in her new unfocused way at nothing. She’s getting somewhat dreamy but seems on the whole composed and pleasant.

10. ELLEN IS NOT so drunk that she cannot get up the spiral staircase. But it is well that I am behind her, because I can assist her without seeming to, moving up behind her and in step, knee behind her knee, hands up the rail and almost around her. I fear she might fall.

Our new bedroom is on the third floor across a tiny hall from the children’s. Ellen bought two iron convent beds, now in high fashion, when the convent closed. What short narrow nuns. My feet stick out through the bars.

How to sleep with her? There’s no spoon-nesting on these cots. And she’s already flopped on one, dressed, filling it. She’s not passed out or even drunk, but open-eyed, dreamy, placative, and still smiling in the same moony way.

Well then, turn out the light and—

I turn out the light.

“Lights! “says Ellen.

I turn on the light. True, drink and dark can make you sick. I know. But she’s smiling.

I have an idea. “I have an idea.”

She waits, smiling.

“Let’s go downstairs to our old room.”

“Chandra.”

“Chandra’s not here.”