Walker Percy - The Thanatos Syndrome

“What game are you playing, Ricky?” I ask him.

Mrs. Cheney answers for him. “Concentration. Y’all remember. I put all the cards on the floor face up. He takes one look. Then I turn them face down. You know. Then you’re supposed to pick them up by pairs. You make mistakes, but you begin to remember where the cards are.”

“I remember that,” says the uncle.

“You know what Ricky does?” He picks them up by fours and in order, you know, four aces first, deuces, and so forth. And he doesn’t make mistakes.”

“I got to see that,” says the uncle, eyes still somewhat rolled back.

“Do you want to see him do it, Dr. More?” Mrs. Cheney asks me.

“Yes.”

Vergil looks at me: Why are we watching this child play cards?

Mrs. Cheney shuffles the cards expertly. Now she is on her hands and knees putting the cards down face up. She is agile and quick. A stretch of firm dusky thigh shows above the old- fashioned stockings secured in a tight roll above her knee. Ricky watches her but does not appear to be concentrating on the cards.

“Where are the others?” I ask Mrs. Cheney.

“Who? Oh, the children. Some are in class, some in rec. They’re all over at Belle Ame.”

“What are they doing in rec?”

“Oh, some watch the picture show, some play in the attic.”

“Why isn’t Ricky with them?”

“Ricky just came last week. He’s still in our little boot camp, getting strong on vitamins in mind and body so he can join the teams. And he’s doing so well!”

“We came to pick up Claude Bon. Do you know where he is?”

“Pick him up? What a shame! He’s one of our stars. What a fine big boy. He’s probably watching the movies or playing sardines.”

“Where do they have the movies?”

Mrs. Cheney doesn’t mind telling me. “They show the regular movies for the children in the ballroom and the staff watches the videos up there.”

“You mean upstairs here?”

“You know, they take videos of the children and the staff sees them to check on their progress, you know, like home movies.” Mrs. Cheney has turned the cards face down and now stands up, face flushed. “All right, Ricky.”

Ricky starts picking up cards, first four aces, shows them to us in his perfunctory way, stacks them against his stomach, then four deuces.

“Well, I be dog,” says the uncle. “That’s the smartest thing I ever saw.”

“Where does he get his vitamins, Mrs. Cheney?” I ask.

“Right there.” She nods to the bank of water coolers. “They all do. It’s enriched Abita Springs water, for little growing brains and strong little bodies. You can see what it does.”

“Enriched by what?”

“Vitamins and all. You know, Doctor.”

“How much do they drink?”

“Eight glasses a day. And I mean eight, not seven.”

Ricky picks up four sixes, shows them, stacks them.

“Do you drink it too?”

“Me? Lord, Doc, what’s the use? It’s too late for me. We are too old and beat-up.”

“Why, you’re a fine-looking woman,” says the uncle, his face keen, and begins blowing a few soft duck calls through his fingers.

Is Mrs. Cheney winking at me?

“Mrs. Cheney, call the big house and get Claude. Ask for Dr. Van Dorn or whoever, but I want Claude. Now.”

“What, and interrupt sardines up in the attic. They would have a fit.”

“I see. I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Cheney,” I say, changing my voice.

“What’s that, Doctor?”

“I want you to go over to the big house and find Claude Bon and bring him back here.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Doc!” cries Mrs. Cheney.

“Why not?”

“I’m not supposed to leave Ricky.”

“We’ll look after him.”

“No, I’m not allowed to do that.”

“Mrs. Cheney, get going. Now.”

Both Vergil and the uncle look at me when my voice changes.

“All right, Doctor!” says Mrs. Cheney, smile gone, but not angry so much as resigned. “As long as you take the responsibility.”

“I take it.”

“It may take a while to find him.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“All right!” Her voice is minatory, but she leaves.

“How can you talk that way to Mrs. Cheney?” the uncle asks me. “I mean she’s one fine-looking woman.”

I don’t answer. We are watching Ricky pick up cards. Vergil is frowning.

“If that ain’t the damnedest thing I ever saw,” says the uncle. “That boy ain’t even concentrating.”

“He doesn’t have to,” I say. Somehow it is difficult to take my eyes from the back of Ricky’s slender neck.

Ricky picks up kings, shows them, sits around cross-legged, evens up the cards against his chest to make a neat deck.

“Ricky.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come over here and sit by me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ricky sits on the plastic sofa close to me, legs sticking straight out. He’s got a seven-year-old’s guarded affection: You may be all right, I think you are, but— He hands me the deck, looking up, big head doddering a little. I flip through the deck, showing Vergil and the uncle. “That’s very good, Ricky. Say, Vergil—”

“Yes, Doc.”

“You notice anything unusual about the water fountains?”

“There’s that tube coming down from the ceiling behind the drinking fountains.”

“Yeah. It’s clamped off with a hemostat, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll tell you what let’s do. You listening, Uncle?”

“Sho I’m listening. But you tell me how in the hell that boy did that. I don’t think he knows himself, do you, Ricky?”

Ricky looks up at me but doesn’t reply.

“Vergil, you go upstairs and take a look around. Look for the source of whatever is coming down that tube. Look for tapes, video cassettes, photos, transparencies, anything like that. Books, comics, and such.”

“Okay.” He starts for the iron stairs.

I look at my watch. “I think we’ve got about five minutes. Mrs. Cheney will bring Claude, all right, but the others will be coming too. Ricky and I are going to talk a little bit, maybe play a card game. Uncle, I think it would be a good idea for you to stand outside. When you see the others coming, give a couple of knocks, okay?”

“Don’t worry about a damn thing,” says the uncle, not quite sure what is going on but glad to do something.

“All right, Uncle. Do this. Keep your eye peeled on the big house. When you see anyone come out and head this way, knock twice.”

“No problem,” says the uncle, glad to get back to his shotgun.

“Ricky, where is Greenville, Mississippi?”

“That’s”—Ricky is practicing some trick of ducking his big head rhythmically to make the sofa creak—“one hundred and thirty miles south of Memphis, one hundred miles north of Vicksburg, on the river.”

“Where’s Wichita, Kansas?”

He doesn’t stop ducking, but I notice that he closes his eyes and frowns as if he is reading the back of his thin veined eyelids. “About a hundred and twenty-five miles southwest of Kansas City.”

“Do you know your multiplication tables?”

He shrugs, goes on ducking.

“How about your sevens?”

“You mean going by the tables?”

“Yes.”

“Sure.” But he strikes out, doesn’t know seven times three.

“What’s the biggest sunfish you’ve caught?”

He shows me.

“What’s eighty-seven times sixty-one?”

He doesn’t stop ducking but closes his eyes. “Five thousand three hundred and seven.”

“Do you know how to play War?”

“Sure. You want to play?”

“Sure.”

We play War on the sofa. War is the dumbest of all card games, requiring no skill. High card wins. If there is a tie, it is a war. You put three cards face down and the next high card wins.