Walker Percy - The Thanatos Syndrome

“Did you say tapes, Mr. Brunette?” I ask.

Eyes still closed, he waves me off. “Tapes, photos, Whatever.”

“No one mentioned tapes,” I tell Mr. Brunette.

Vergil still can’t bring himself to look at the pictures or anybody. He sits perfectly symmetrically, hands planted on knees, eyes focused on a point above the photos, below the people.

The uncle, still on the prowl, stops behind my chair, gives me a nudge on the shoulder. “She’s still a damn fine-looking woman,” he actually whispers.

“Cut it out,” I tell him. “Sit down. No, stand by the door.”

“No problem,” says the uncle.

Coach, who can’t decide whether to go or stay, settles for a game of Star Wars 4.

Van Dorn sits comfortably on the sofa opposite me. He knocks out his pipe on the brick floor, settles back, sighs.

He makes a rueful face at Coach and the exploding satellites. “I sometimes think we belong to a different age, Tom.”

“Yes?”

“Did I ever tell you what I think of your good wife?”

“You spoke of her bridge-playing ability.”

“I know. But I didn’t mention the fact that she is a great lady.”

“Thank you, Van.”

The plantation bell rings. Van Dorn puts his hands on his knees, makes as if to push himself up, yawns. “Well, I’ll be on my way.”

“Not quite yet, Van.”

He pushes himself up. “What do you mean, Tom?” says Van, smiling.

“I mean you’re not leaving.”

“Ah me.” Van Dorn is shaking his head. “I’ll be frank with you, Tom. I don’t know whether you’re ill and, if so, what ails you. At this point I don’t much care. I bid you good day.” He starts for the door.

“I’m afraid not, Van.”

“Move, old man,” says Van Dorn to the uncle.

“No, Van,” I say.

Van Dorn turns back to me. Now he’s standing over me. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” he asks, shaking his head in wonderment.

“Sure. Spell it out for me.” For some reason my nose has begun to run. My eyes water. I take out a handkerchief.

“I think you’ve got some sort of systemic reaction, Tom.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You’ve been ill before.”

“I know.”

“You’ve harbored delusions before.”

“I know.”

“You want to know one reason I think you’re ill?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem to realize your position. Isn’t that what you shrinks call the breakdown on the Reality Principle?”

“Some of them might. What is my position?”

“Your position, Tom — which, as you know, is none of my doing — is that you either join the team — and as you yourself have admitted, you approve their goals, you just don’t have any more use for some of those NIH assholes like Comeaux, nor do I — or you go back to Alabama. You’re in violation of your parole. You know that, Tom. Come on! You don’t want that! I don’t want that. All I have to do is pick up that phone.”

“I thought you said the phones didn’t work.”

“They work now. As for those phony photos—”

“Yes?” I am blowing my nose and wiping my eyes with a soggy handkerchief.

“There are two theoretical possibilities— Let me give you some tissues, Tom.”

“Thanks. That’s better. What are the two possibilities?” During the great crises of my life, I am thinking, I, develop hay fever. There is a lack of style here — like John Wayne coming down with the sneezes during the great shootout in Stagecoach. Oh well.

“Consider, Tom,” says Van Dorn gently, even sorrowfully. “It’s a simple either/or. Either the photos are phony — which in fact they are — or they are not. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes.”

“If they are phony, which I’m sure a lab can demonstrate, then forget it. Right?”

“Right.”

“If they are genuine, ditto.”

“Ditto?”

“Sure, Tom. Once we get past the mental roadblocks of human relationships — namely, two thousand years of repressed sexuality — we see that what counts in the end is affection instead of cruelty, love instead of hate, right?”

“Yes.” He gives me another tissue.

“Look at the faces of those children — God knows where they come from — do you see any sign of pain and suffering, cruelty or abuse?”

“No.”

“Do you admit the possibility that those putative children — whether they’re real or cooked up — might be starved for human affection?”

“Yes.”

“Case closed,” says Van Dorn, sweeping up the photographs like a successful salesman. “Tom, we’re talking about caring.”

“I’ll just take those, Van,” I say, taking them.

“Okay, gang,” says Van Dorn, putting his pipe in his mouth and clapping his hands. “Let’s go.” He makes a sign to Coach, who has stopped playing Star Wars 4.

I nod to Vergil. Vergil understands, joins the uncle by the door.

Coach and Van Dorn face Vergil and the uncle.

“What’s this?” asks Van Dorn wearily, not turning around.

“Before you leave, I suggest that all of you drink a glass of the additive,” I say, blowing my nose. “Starting with Coach. You first, Coach.”

Coach winks at Van Dorn, steps up to the cooler.

“I don’t mind if I do.”

“Not from the cooler, coach. From the tube,”

“Shit, that’s molar.”

“That’s right.”

Coach looks to Van Dorn. “I can take them both.” Smiling, he starts for the uncle. His big hands are fists.

The uncle looks to me. I make a sign, touch my ear. The uncle understands, nods.

“If he tries it, shoot him,” I tell the uncle.

Coach looks quickly back at me, looks at the Purdy propped against the door behind the uncle, shrugs, and starts for the uncle. Meanwhile, the uncle, who has got the Woodsman from his inside coat pocket, shoots him.

A crack not loud but sharp as a buggy whip lashes the four walls of the room.

“You meant ear, didn’t you?” says the uncle, putting the Woodsman away.

I am watching Coach closely. Part of his right ear, the fleshy lobe flared out by the sternocleidomastoid muscle, disappears. There is an appreciable time, perhaps a quarter second, before the blood spurts.

Coach stops suddenly as if a thought had occurred to him. He holds up an admonishing finger.

“Oh, my God!” screams Coach, clapping one hand to his head, stretching out the other to Van Dorn. “I’m shot! Jesus, he’s shot me in the head — didn’t he?”—reaching out to Van Dorn not so much for help as for confirmation. “Didn’t he? Didn’t he?”

Van Dorn stands transfixed, mouth open.

“My God, he’s been shot!”

I look at Coach. There is an astonishing amount of blood coming between his fingers.

Coach turns to me. “Help me! For God’s sake, Doc, help me!”

“Sure, Coach. Don’t worry. Come over and sit right here by me. You’ll be fine.”

“You swear?”

“I swear,” I say. “Mrs. Cheney.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Mrs. Cheney, who has sat down twice and risen twice, rises quickly.

“Please bring us two towels from the bathroom. Don’t worry, Coach. We’re going to fix you up with a pressure bandage.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

“My God, my brain is damaged. He could have killed me.”

“I know.”

He turns to show me. The blood running through his fingers and down his arm drips on me. My nose is also dripping. Every time I fool with surgery, my nose runs. This doesn’t work in surgery. I think I might have chosen psychiatry for this reason.

I knot one towel, tie the other towel around his head, twist it as hard as I can. “Mrs. Cheney, you hold it here. Coach, you press against the knot as hard as you can.”