Walker Percy - The Thanatos Syndrome

“Back to Fort Pelham.”

“Look, Tom. Tom, please turn around and look at me.”

I turn my chair around and look at him. He has put his hat on and is standing, feet wide apart, hands clasped behind his back.

“Hear this, Tom. I’ll make it short and sweet. We’re not talking about some bush-league medical project — fluoridating water to cure tooth decay. We’re not even talking about curing AIDS. We’re not even talking medicine, Tom. We’re talking about the decay of the social fabric. The American social fabric. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know — all the way from the destruction of the cities, crime in the streets, demoralization of the underclass, to the collapse of the family. I don’t have to tell you this, because you already know. What I’m telling you is that we’ll be here at two o’clock and that we need you.”

“All right. I’ll be here.”

He gazes at me, eyes going fine, then laughs. “Well, I’ll be damned. Gottlieb said you’d give me static.”

“No static. I’ll be here.”

He looks at me curiously. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You seem—”

“I’m fine.”

“Terrific!” He actually claps his hands. “I’ll be on my way. A wedding of the daughter of an old friend right down the road. At Kenilworth. Tom, I got news for you. There is still grace, style, beauty, manners, civility left in the world. It’s not all gone with the wind. You know who’s coming up for the reception? Pete Fountain and his Half Fast Band. And Al Hirt. Both are personal friends of mine. I wish you could join me.”

“So do I.”

He taps on the door for the guard. When the door opens, he steps out, but then, bethinking himself, steps back and waves me toward him.

“Tom, I want you to see something. Okay, Officer? It’s okay, Tom. Just step out here for a second.”

Standing on the top deck of the stranded crewboat, we look out over the vast prison farm. Rows of cotton, mostly picked, stretch away into the bright morning sunlight. Hundreds of black men and women, the men bare-chested, the women kerchiefed, bend over the rows, dragging their long sacks collapsed like parachutes. Armed horsemen patrol the levee.

“Listen, Tom,” says Bob Comeaux softly.

From all around, as murmurous as the morning breeze, comes the singing.

Swing low, sweet chariot, Coming for to carry me home,

“Isn’t that something?” Bob Comeaux almost whispers.

“Yes, it is.”

“It beats Attica and Sing Sing, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Why do you think they’re so content with their lot?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Yes, you could, if you thought of it — you of all people, with your knowledge.”

“I see.”

“They’re not only making restitution for their crimes, paying their victims, they’re enjoying it. Can you force anyone to sing like that?”

“No.”

“I’ll tell you another little secret of our success.”

“What’s that?”

“We allow — ahem — conjugal visits.”

“Good.”

“Would you believe that some of them don’t want to leave and go back to the streets of New Orleans and Baton Rouge when they’ve served their time?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you love those colorful kerchiefs the women wear?”

“Yes.”

We shake hands. He holds my hand in a firm grip for a second, gives me a final level-eyed look. He’s quite handsome with his long sideburns, handsomer than Howard Keel. “Glad to have you aboard, Doctor. Guard!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lock this fellow up. He’s a dangerous character.”

2. I CALL ELMO on the desk phone.

“How you doing, Doc?”

“I’m fine, Elmo.”

“What can I do for you, Doc?”

“Elmo, I need to get out of here.”

Elmo sighs. “I’d like nothing better, Doc. But you know as well as I do we got to hold you for the ATFA. Doc, all you got to do is clear it with that doctor dude from Fedville and he can clear it with the feds.”

“I know that. I’m meeting with them this afternoon. But I need to get out now for a while.”

“Oh, I got you. No problem, Doc. We got exercise period coming up in a few minutes. You can walk the levee. No problem. It’ll do you good.”

“Thanks, Elmo. I appreciate it, but here’s my problem.” I tell him about Belle Ame, the Brunettes, and the sexual abuse, giving him all the technical details. I tell him dryly, as one professional to another, one cop to another cop. “The thing is, Elmo, I have a kid there and I think I’d better get him out. Now.” I don’t tell him the kid is Claude Bon.

There is a silence. I can hear the chair creak as he leans back.

“Goddamn, Doc.” The chair creaks again. There is a soft whistling. “You know, I heard something about that from the sheriff over at Clinton. I thought they had turned them loose for lack of evidence.”

“They did. But now Dr. Lipscomb has the evidence.”

Another whistling of breath through teeth. “Well, I mean shitfire, Doc. Why don’t I call Cooter Sharp over at Clinton and tell him to bust the whole gang? I mean all. I mean, when it comes to messing with chirren—”

“You can do that if you want. But they’ve tried that. And it will take time. And they’ll probably be looking for you, ready with their lawyers, and you’re going to run into problems of federal jurisdiction.”

“Yeah.”

“Elmo, I want to get the kid out of there. Now. We, you, whoever, can bring charges later.”

“Yeah.” The creaking becomes rhythmic. He’s rocking. “Yeah,” he says again and in a different voice. “Tell you what, Doc,” he says in a musing voice. He’s leaning back in his chair. “Tell you what. You go ahead and take your exercise. I’ll send up an officer to let you out the back gate. That will put you on the levee and batture, which is fenced off. What we got here, Doc, is a minimum-security holding facility — for illegals, politicals, suchlike. We’re not part of the high-security prison farm, you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Thing is, Doc, the fence is a joke. Anybody can get over it, under it. But the thing is, even the hard-timers know that nobody but a fool would try to make it out by the river. That’s the Raccourci Chute out there, and ain’t nobody, I mean nobody, ever made it out that way to live to tell about it. You understand.”

“I understand.”

“Now, what we got here, Doc, is a fenced-off exercise area for our detainees, about a quarter mile of levee. Just so you’ll know where you’ll be walking, the downriver end is fenced off. The patrol’s not going to bother you — they know the people here are mostly politicals. The willows begin down there at the batture corner of the fence. You might recall an old jeep road that deer hunters use that runs up from old Tunica Landing. I know you know where that is.”

“Yes.”

“That’s about all I can tell you, Doc.”

“I understand. Thanks, Elmo.”

“For what? Enjoy your walk, Doc, but you be back here by two or my ass is in a sling. What I’m going to do now is send you up some breakfast. It’s staff breakfast. After all, you been up here before on forensic business and are entitled to staff. You also looking a little poorly, Doc.”

“I’m fine. Thank you, Elmo. Give my best to Miss Maude when you see her.”

“I’ll surely do that. She thinks the world and all of you.”

“One last thing, Doc.”

“Yes?”

“If you ain’t back here by two, it’s my ass.”

“I’ll be back.”

“It’s your ass, too.”

“I understand.”

Breakfast is at least four scrambled eggs, fried ham, a mountain of grits — the “big hominy” kind, which I haven’t seen for years — and hot chicoried coffee.