Walker Percy - Love in the Ruins - The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World

“The country has been taken over by our enemies and there is no respect for God or country,” says Dr. Matthews menacingly. “Last Sunday some niggers tried to come into our church. And now this.”

“Now what?”

“Those fellows,” says the chiropractor in a loud voice and directly at the four scientists. “They’re teaching disrespect for both the cross and Old Glory.”

“Actually they were speaking of an experiment with primates.”

“That’s what I’m talking about! Monkeys! And that fellow there is a known Communist,” he says in a lower voice, nodding toward Dr. Habeeb.

“I seriously doubt that,” I say, remembering that Dr. Habeeb recently testified in a trial in which Dr. Billy Matthews had been sued by a woman whose husband had been treated for cancer of the liver by manipulating his spine.

“Where do you stand in this, Doctor?” asks Dr. Matthews, eyeing me suspiciously.

Moon shifts around uncomfortably. “Don’t worry about Doc here. He’s a hundred percent with us. Aren’t you, Doc?”

“With you on what?”

“On God and country.”

I am silent.

“You do believe in God and country, don’t you, Doc?”

“Yes.”

“I remember when Doc and I were in high school,” Moon tells the chiropractor. “Doc wrote a prize-winning essay for the Knights of Columbus on how there was no real conflict between science and religion. You remember what you said about transubstantiation, Doc?”

“Yes.”

“Transubstantiation is an invention of the Roman popes,” says Dr. Billy Matthews, flipping his flip-ups down for some reason. “It’s a piece of magic to fool the ignorant and has no basis in the Bible.”

“Whoa, hold on, Billy!” cries Moon. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Christ said ‘This is my body,’ Didn’t he, Doc?”

“Yes,” I say and utter a groan.

“That’s the Eyetalian translation,” says Dr. Billy Matthews. With his flip-ups down he looks blind as a bat.

“No, it isn’t, is it, Doc? Tell him.”

“Later. Oh Lord. What am I going to do?” I ask them, rending my shirt. “What if the wind springs up?”

My eyes are swelling again. The world is seen through the slit on a gun turret.

“Max, something is dreadfully wrong.”

“You’re damn right there is. We’ve lost our N.I.M.H. funding for next year, thanks to our Ecuadorian venture.”

“No, I mean something a great deal wronger than that.”

“You look ill, Tom.”

“I’m very tired and my eyes are swelling but I feel fine deep down. In fact, I’ve got a heartful of love, Max.”

“Love?”

“Max, I’m a lucky man. I’ve got three wonderful girls waiting for me.”

“Three girls. Look, sit down here on the grass and let me check you out. Just as I thought. You’re going into anaphylaxis again. What have you been eating this time?”

“Gin fizzes.”

“Oh no. Not again. Why? ”

“I don’t know. Lola fixed one for me. She’s a lovely girl.” Feeling very tired, I lie down on the velvety Tifton 451 Bermuda at the bunker’s lip. “But that’s not what bothers me.”

“What bothers you?”

“You. And them. That is, you four and those two.” I nod toward Moon and Dr. Billy Matthews, who are still arguing about transubstantiation.

“What about us and them?”

“You’re both right and wrong.”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean that it’s almost hopeless now. One whiff of the vapor and you’ll kill each other.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Max asks dryly.

I open my mouth to say something but can’t utter a word. Max leans over and peers at me through the blue smoke and, suddenly seeing what is wrong, jumps up. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t worry about—” I begin, lifting a feeble hand, and pass out.

There comes a familiar smell of sweat intricated by deodorant.

I open my eyes.

The smell comes from a push of air as Art Immelmann, who is sitting on the lip of the sand trap, leans over me and his bi-swing jacket flaps.

“I won’t say I told you so, Doc.”

“Told me what?”

“That nobody would believe you even if you showed them. Only two people in this world believe in you.”

“Who?” Did Max give me a shot? My eyes open easily.

“I and your excellent nurse.”

“Leave her out of it. She’s no concern of yours.”

“Then you’d better take care of her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Get back to the motel, Doc.”

“Why?”

“Because there is nothing you can do here and a great deal you can do there.”

“But these people don’t realize what is happening.”

“And you can’t tell them.”

“They’ll get hurt.”

“Therefore you’d better save yourself for the long pull.”

“I think you are somehow responsible, you and your goddamn foundations.”

Art winces and shakes his head. “Doc, we operate on a cardinal principle, which we never violate. We never never ‘do’ anything to anybody. We only help people do what they want to do. We facilitate social interaction in order to isolate factors. If people show a tendency to interact in a certain way, we facilitate the interaction in order to accumulate reliable data.”

“And if people cut each others’ throats meanwhile, it’s not your fault.”

“Doc, we’re dedicated to the freedom of the individual to choose his own destiny and develop his own potential.”

“What crap,” I mutter.

“Crap? Crap.” Art searches his memory. “I’m not sure I understand — but never mind. Aren’t you feeling well enough to go now?”

“Go where?”

“Back to the motel and look after the three ladies. Your lapsometer is still there. You can protect the three of them and yourself from any unfortunate little side effects from this.” He glances at the column of smoke, which is thicker than ever. “Stay there three months.”

“Three months?”

“It’s your duty. By saving them and yourself, you can save millions later.”

“What will we do for three months?”

“You have books, food, drink, music. But most of all you have your obligation.”

“To whom?”

“To the three ladies.”

“And what do you suggest that I do with three women for three months?”

Again the coat flaps as Art leans close. I’m enveloped by the smell of sebum and Ban.

“Love them, Doc! Believe me, it lies within your power to make all three of them happy and yourself too. Didn’t God put us here to be happy? Isn’t happiness better than unhappiness? Love them! Work on your invention. Stimulate your musical-erotic! Develop your genius. Aren’t we all obliged to develop our potential? Work! Love! Music! That’s what makes a man happy.”

“True.”

“Then you better get going.”

“In a minute. One little nap,” I say, closing my eyes with a smile as I think of the future.

Somewhat confused. I examine the contents of my pockets to get a line on the significance of the past and the hope of the future. Contents: 12 Phillips screws and one small dry turd folded in a clean handkerchief. I recall the latter but not the former. 12 Phillips screws …

A light hand touches my shoulder. It is Ellen. She squats on her heels, tucking her uniform under her knee. “You all right, Chief?”

“Fine. Just taking a nap.”

“You’ll be all right. Dr. Gottlieb gave you a shot.”

“What are you doing here?”

“There was no reason for me to stay over there.”

“Where are Moira and Ellen?”

“Your two little popsies have flown the coop.” Popsies. She’s been talking to Max, all right.

“What happened?”