Walker Percy - The Thanatos Syndrome

“He was never in yours,” says Elmo, an old states’-righter. He is speaking to Louisiana Fats, for whom he seems to have a special dislike.

“I beg your pardon, Officer,” says Purvis crisply, pronouncing it perrdon. Midwest after all? “If you will consult the federal statute for ATFA detainees, I think you will find you’re in error.” Errr.

“Come back tomorrow and see the warden,” says Elmo, not looking at either one of them.

“But—” begins Louisiana Fats.

“Let’s go,” says Purvis.

They leave.

“Doc,” says Elmo, “what in hail you doing here?”

“I don’t rightly know. I’m tired. What time is it?”

“You look like you been rid hard and put up wet.”

“You got a room, Elmo? I’m tired.”

“I got the V.I.P. room for you, Doc. The one we keep for political refugees. The last occupant was the ex-President of Guatemala. You think I’ll ever forget what you did for my auntee, Miss Maude from Enon? You cured her after the best doctors in New Orleans tried and couldn’t.”

I remember old Miss Maude Jenkins. She had shingles. I often get patients after medical doctors and chiropractors strike out. She was over the worst of the shingles but still had pain which, with shingles, can be pain indeed. I perceived that she was the sort of decent and credulous woman who believes what doctors tell her. The other doctors had not bothered to tell her anything. I did what I seldom do, used hypnosis and a placebo, gave her a sugar pill and told her that the pain would soon get better. It did. It might have, anyway.

“Here’s what is going to happen, Doc,” says Elmo. “It seems you’re being held for some sort of parole violation. Tomorrow morning a Dr. Comeaux and a Dr. Gottlieb will come to see you and you’ll be taken care of one way or another. That’s about all I know. You going back to Fort Pelham?”

“I don’t know. Could I go to bed?”

“Sho now.” He takes me upstairs.

My cell could be a dorm room at L.S.U., except for the steel door and barred window. There’s even a student-size desk with a phone on it.

“Can I use the phone?”

“Sho you can. I’ve authorized it. Just dial direct. If it’s long distance, call me and I’ll fix it up. There’s some pajamas under the pillow. Left by the President of Guatemala. Silk. How about that?”

“That’s fine.”

“He jumped ship in Baton Rouge. Before him we had six Haitians. They were as nice as they could be. Highest-class niggers I ever saw. Three of them spoke better English than you or me. All spoke French.”

“Thanks, Elmo.”

“If you need anything, call me. Here’s my number downstairs.”

“I’m fine. Thanks, Elmo.”

After Elmo leaves, I call Lucy

“My God, where are you?”

“At Angola.”

“My God, I thought so.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not bad. Are the children all right?”

“They’re fine.”

“Lucy, did you get Claude out of Belle Ame?”

“No. I tried. They’re not answering the phone and the gate is locked.”

“I see.”

“My God, where have you been all night?”

“Making a house call.”

“Bob Comeaux has been looking for you.”

“I know.”

“He’s been calling all evening. He wants to see you tomorrow. Before the wedding.”

“He knows where I am now. What wedding?”

“At Kenilworth next door. You know. That fellow from Las Vegas bought it — Romero? Romeo? He had in mind an English manor house, but it looks like Caesar’s Palace. His daughter is getting married at noon. But Comeaux is mighty anxious to see you. He’ll be there first thing.”

“I know.”

“What are they going to do with you?”

“Probably send me back to Alabama.”

“They can’t do that!”

“They can.”

A pause. “You sound funny. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“I want you over here by me.”

“That may be possible later.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes. Can you be available tomorrow morning and have Vergil and your uncle available?”

“Sure. You mean—”

“I mean stay there. By the phone. We have to get Claude. It’s no good calling the police. Wait by the phone until you hear from me.”

“Sure. I will. Are you—”

“What?”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. A little tired.”

“You sound funny.”

“I’m fine.”

“Please—”

“What?”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

Sure enough, the pajamas are under the pillow. They are silk. The cot is hard but comfortable. The sheets and pillowcase are fresh.

I never slept better. There is something to be said for having no choice in what one does. I felt almost as good as I did in prison in Alabama.

1. WEDNESDAY MORNING.

Bob Comeaux is striding up and down my cell. He is shaking his head mournfully.

“Son, you blew it. You really blew it.”

“How is that, Bob?”

He is on his way to the wedding at Kenilworth and is dressed in a kind of plantation tuxedo, a formal white linen suit with a long-skirted jacket, scarlet cummerbund, ruffled shirt, and scarlet bow tie. He carries a broad-brimmed panama hat. His sideburns seem longer. He looks like an old Howard Keel in a revival of Showboat.

I am sitting at my little desk. He sets his hat on the desk and brushes back his sideburns. He stands over me, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Tom, you’ve not only violated your parole — by trespassing on the shunt compound. Hell, like I told you, we can live with that. But now you’ve blown your security.”

“How is that?”

“We know that you and your friend, Mrs. Lipscomb — Dr. Lipscomb? — have accessed the NIH data bank on Blue Boy. We can’t have the cover blown on Blue Boy until we’re ready. Think of it as another Manhattan Project.”

“All right.”

“Now we have reason to believe you’re trying to shoot down John Van Dorn. Tom, we can’t afford to lose him. He’s a bit eccentric, but he’s our resident genius.”

“He’s a pedophile.”

“Look, Tom”—Bob Comeaux picks up his hat and, spreading the skirt of his jacket, rests a haunch on my desk— “I know there’ve been some reports of irregularities in the staff out there. But I’ve got some news for you.”

“Yes?”

“Belle Ame is closing down. Van is on his way to M.I.T. within the month. I knew we couldn’t keep him. But we picked his brain while he was here and we’ve got Blue Boy on track. Exit Dr. Van Dorn. End of chapter. End of problem.” He clears his throat. “I would think you of all people, Tom, would be glad of that.”

“I am.”

“Tell me one thing, Tom.” Bob Comeaux puts a hand on my shoulder.

“What?”

“Were your kids molested in any way?”

“No.”

“O — kay.” He stands up briskly. “Look. I think I see a simple way out of this silly business.”

“Yes?”

“Just to show you what we think of you, you old turkey, we’re going to convene a little ad hoc meeting of the med-ethics parole board right here, today, in this room, and get this dumb-ass business squared away for once and all.”

“Where is Gottlieb?”

“He’ll be here. Two o’clock. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“We’re going to make you a proposition you can’t refuse, ha ha.”

“What?”

“You know, I think. We want you aboard. We’re losing Van Dorn, but if we can sign you on as senior consultant in cortex pharmacology, we’ll be ahead of the game.”

“And if I don’t?”

Bob is holding the panama at arm’s length, eyeing it, evening up the brim. “That would be your choice. It would be out of our hands.”