Walker Percy - The Thanatos Syndrome

“So why are you complaining about this pilot project?”

“Tom, I have no quarrel with their short-term goals. Every society has the right to protect itself — even if it means temporary loss of civil liberties. But those cowboys — hell, they like what they’re doing, and I think they want to keep on doing it. You want to know what their trouble is?” He leans over me. I can smell breathed bourbon.

“What?”

“Goals, Tom. They have no ultimate goals. They don’t know what in the hell they’re trying to accomplish. They’re treating everything in sight, curing symptoms and wiping out goals. It’s like treating a headache with a lobotomy. Tom, we have to leave the patient human enough to achieve the ultimate goals of being human.”

“What are the ultimate goals of being human, Van?” I look at my watch. I’m already sorry I asked. Where is Lucy?

Now Van is half-sitting on the poker table, swinging a leg, arms folded, at his ease, well-clad and graceful in his coveralls and — yes, exhilarated. He’s nodding, eyes gone fine and faraway.

“I’ll answer that by telling you what I tell the boys and girls out there. Incidentally, it’s no accident, Tom, that since we took over this seg academy, we’ve got the highest SAT scores in the state and the most National Merit scholars. You know what the answer is, Tom, the only answer? Excellence? We give them the tough old European Gymnasium-Hochschule treatment. We work their little asses—”

“Right. Look, Van. I have to find Lucy. We have an appointment—

“Sure, sure.” He goes on but we’re moving toward the door.

We’re walking in the magnolia alley toward the parking lot, Van taking measured steps, sauntering planter-style, hands in pockets, gazing down at the fine pea gravel. No sign of Lucy.

“Tom, would you like to hear my own private theory of the nature of man?”

The nature of man. I can’t stand theories about the nature of man. I’d rather listen to Robin Leach and watch Barnaby Jones.

“Well, actually I think we’d better track down Lucy—”

But he’s got going on his theory of the nature of man. It has something to do with science and sexuality, how the highest achievements of man, Mozart’s music, Einstein’s theory, derive from sexual energy, and so on. “Didn’t old Dr. Freud say it?” he says triumphantly, stopping me and swinging around to face me.

“Well, not exactly—”

There are times when you can’t listen to someone utter another sentence. This is one of them. Even shrinks run out of patience. Where is Lucy? I find myself looking attentive, either by frowning down at the pea gravel and presenting an ear or by maintaining a lively understanding eye contact meanwhile shifting around a bit so I can catch sight of Lucy, who, I calculate, should appear just beyond Van Dorn’s ear.

Van Dorn is saying something about Don Giovanni, not the opera but the old Don himself being, in his opinion, a member of this company of sexual geniuses. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Actually—” I catch sight of Lucy behind the boxwood. She’s converging on the alley from the service drive. I do not at first see the children but then, just above the hedge, two heads bob. She’s in a hurry. She doesn’t see me.

Van Dorn is talking but I’m not listening. I’m watching Lucy. There is something odd — She is perhaps two hundred yards away and could easily see us but she doesn’t look. Her eyes are straight ahead. She walks with a curious stiff rapid gait.

“One thing,” I interrupt Van Dorn.

“Yes?”

“You didn’t know that Ellen had gotten a dose of heavy sodium?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Van Dorn looks at me level-eyed. “If I had known it, would I have been so curious about her amazing talent for computing probabilities in bridge?”

“Well — no.” He’s right.

Van Dorn has seen Lucy. Her cheek is hard and high. I think she’s seen us.

Van Dorn grabs me and pulls me playfully close — in men’s style of talking at the approach of women and before they come within earshot. “Just suppose, Tom, we could combine the high sexuality of the Don and Einstein without the frivolity of the Don or the repressed Jewish sexuality of Einstein — who needs heavy sodium?”

“Right,” I say. “Where’s Claude Bon?”

Van Dorn turns. We watch the three approach. Lucy, Tommy and Margaret, the children moseying along rapt, regardless, normal; Lucy stone-faced and stiff, headed straight for the truck without looking at us though we’re fifty feet away.

“Oh. I forgot to tell you. Claude’s varsity now and they’re playing Baton Rouge High, the state champs, and I kid you not, B.R. is in for the surprise of the year.”

We meet Lucy at the truck. Van Dorn opens the door for her.

“Howdy, Miss Lucy.”

She doesn’t answer, but Van Dorn calls to me over the cab of the truck. “You can pick up Claude later tonight. Or I’ll send him over. Let me know, folks.”

I catch sight of Lucy’s face as she stoops to get in. It is welted, almost ugly. A rope of muscle twists her black eyebrows. Her cheek is pulled back, freckles dark plum against pale skin. She says only, “Get in,” to Tommy and Margaret, pushing them ahead of her, then backs up to let them in the middle, then gets in and slams the door. She’s driving.

We leave. She looks straight ahead, face set. The pickup is old and big. There is room for the four of us on the broad front seat. In the rearview mirror I catch sight of Van Dorn. He has resumed his head-ducking, hands-in-pockets sauntering.

12. WE DRIVE DOWN the River Road in silence. The Ranger four-door pickup passes, but the driver and passenger don’t seem to notice us.

“Well,” I say at last.

Lucy is still looking straight ahead. “Where are we going?” she says.

“To Popeyes to get my car.”

“Could we get some drumsticks?” asks Margaret.

“I want a Happy Meal,” says Tommy. “You get a baby transformer in it.”

“Okay. Well, Lucy?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“I think you’d better tell me now.”

“Why?”

“I think we might be having company soon.” I am watching the Ranger pickup.

“Yes, but—”

“There is not much time,”

“How do you mean?”

“Did you see that pickup that just passed?”

“Sure. They were locals, a couple of good old boys, complete with gun rack.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“How do you know?”

“Good old Louisiana boys don’t wear business suits like the driver or bib overalls like the passenger. And they wouldn’t be caught dead with an under-and-over in the gun rack.”

“An under-and-over?”

“That was a new.410 shotgun with a.22 on top. It’s a prop.”

“You must have seen them before.”

“I have. Locals might have a 12-gauge or a.30-.30 deer rifle, but not that.”

“I see.” She’s gripping the wheel, frowning, knuckles white.

“I think you’d better tell me now.”

“I can’t in present company.” Lucy is relaxing a bit, but her face is still heavy and she has not looked at me.

“I want a Coke-cola too,” says Tommy.

“They don’t have Cokes at Popeyes, but you can get a diet Sprite,” says Margaret.

“I don’t want a diet Sprite,” says Tommy.

“You’re going to have to tell me. Tell me medically,” I say. “Did you examine some kids?”

“Yes.”

“How about this pair?”

“No, but I think they’re all right.”

“The others?”

“Yes, the others.”

“Lucy, how many children did you examine?” She wants me to ask questions. She seems to be having trouble concentrating.