I Know This Much Is True

by Wally Lamb

  “Your line of work, Mr. Birdsey? What line of work is that?”

  “No comment.”

  “I’m just trying to understand, Mr. Birdsey. Do you mean your coffee and newspaper business or something else?”

  “Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it? Raid kills bugs dead. Don’t check into the Roach Motel just yet, Dr. Earwig.”

  Another pause. “Mr. Birdsey . . . I’m wondering if I may call you Thomas?”

  “No, you may not.”

  “No?”

  “I’m Simon Peter.”

  “Simon Peter? The apostle?”

  “I-eleven. Under the G-fourteen. Bingo, Mrs. Gandhi!”

  There was a pause. “Why do you refer to me as Mrs. Gandhi, Mr. Birdsey?”

  “Why? Because you dress the part.”

  “I do? Do you mean my sari?”

  No answer.

  “When you say you are Simon Peter, Mr. Birdsey, do you mean by that that you emulate him or that you feel you are his physical embodiment?”

  “Who wants to know and why?”

  “I do, because I’m trying to understand you. To help you if I can.”

  Deep, impatient sigh. Speaking in a revved-up mumble, Thomas began to murmur Scripture. “Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it; I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of Heaven; and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven.” Thomas stopped, came up for air. “Are you following me, Mrs. Gandhi? I’m a fisher of souls! The keeper of the keys! It’s not my idea; it’s God’s. How do you like them apples, Suzie Q?”

  “Suzie Q? Why am I Suzie Q?”

  “How should I know why you’re Suzie Q? Go ask Suzie Wong. Go check in with Suzie McNamara. Go shit in your hat while you’re at it.”

  I was leaning forward, staring at the tape recorder. When I looked up at Dr. Patel, I saw that she was watching me. “Umm?” I said, raising my hand.

  She stopped the tape. “What is it, Mr. Birdsey?”

  “Nothing, probably. It’s just that . . . I don’t even know if it means anything, but that was . . . that was what my stepfather used to call my mother sometimes. Suzie Q. For a second there, he sounded like Ray.”

  “Was Suzie Q your mother’s nickname? Her name was Susan?”

  “No. Her name was Concettina. Connie. My stepfather used to call her Suzie Q when he was . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed. Shaky. Demoted back to my childhood on Hollyhock Avenue. “When he was mad at her. . . . When he was ridiculing her.”

  She jotted something down. “That’s helpful, Mr. Birdsey. Thank you. This is exactly why I wanted to play the tape for you. You can provide insights and observations that I cannot get from reading your brother’s medical records. Please feel free to interrupt the tape whenever there’s something you want to tell me.”

  I nodded. “He’s not usually like that, you know?” I said. “Thomas.”

  “Like what?”

  “Snotty. Sarcastic. That go-shit-in-your-hat stuff.”

  She nodded. “It’s all right, Mr. Birdsey. I hear much worse in the course of a day. After some of the things I hear, ‘Go shit in your hat’ sounds almost courtly to me.” She put her finger on the “play” button, then took it off again. “Your stepfather?” she said. “Was he often derisive?”

  I didn’t answer at first. Then I nodded.

  “Relax, Mr. Birdsey.”

  “I am relaxed.” She looked unconvinced. “Really. I am.”

  “Look at your hands,” she said. “Listen to your breathing.”

  Each hand was a fist. My breathing was fast and shallow. I flexed my fingers back and forth. “Better?” she said.

  “I’m fine. He sounds pretty fried, though, doesn’t he? My brother? On the tape?”

  “Fried?”

  “He’s worse, I mean. Worse than he was when he was at Shanley, right after. . . . I was hoping that when you said you’d made some progress today, I was hoping . . .” That’s when I lost it. My chest heaved. My sobs came from nowhere. Dr. Patel handed me her box of tissues.

  I looked away from her. Blew my nose. “I thought . . . I thought when I came in here and saw this Kleenex box that you had them on hand for, I don’t know, hysterical housewives or something. Women whose husbands just dumped them. I feel like a jerk.”

  “Grief has no gender, Mr. Birdsey,” she said.

  I took another tissue. Blew my nose again. “Is that what this is? Grief?”

  “Why wouldn’t you grieve, Mr. Birdsey? Your twin brother is, as you said, an abandoned house. If no one is home, then someone is missing. So you grieve.”

  I stuffed the used tissue into my shirt pocket. Handed her back the box. “Yeah, but you’d think by now. . . . You figure you got a lid on things and then. . . .”

  “Mr. Birdsey, human beings are not like—oh, those plastic containers—what are they called? The ones Americans buy at parties?”

  “At parties? . . . Tupperware, you mean?”

  “Yes, yes. That’s it. People are not like Tupperware, with their lids on securely. Nor should they be, although the more I work with American men, the more I see it is their perceived ideal. Which is nonsense, really. Very unhealthy, Mr. Birdsey. Not something to aspire to at all. Never.” She was waving that scolding finger at me again.

  I looked over at her grinning statue. “Hey, do me a favor, will you?” I said. “Call me Dominick.”

  “Yes, yes. Very good. Dominick. Shall we go on, then?”

  I nodded. Her finger hit the “play” button.

  “Mr. Birdsey, tell me a little bit about yourself.”

  “Why? So you can sell my secrets to the Iraqis? Hand my head on a platter to the CIA?”

  “I have no connections to the CIA or to the Iraqis, Mr. Birdsey. No hidden agendas whatsoever. My only agenda is to help you get better. To take away some of your pain. Some of your burden.”

  No response.

  “You know, we have been talking to each other for several days now, and yet I know very little about your family. Tell me about them.”

  Silence.

  “Your mother is deceased, correct?”

  Nothing.

  “And you have a stepfather?”

  Silence.

  “And a brother?”

  “A twin brother. We’re identical twins. . . . He likes to read.”

  “He does?”

  “You should see his house. It’s filled with books. He’s very, very intelligent.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “That’s me,” I said. “Joe Einstein.”

  “And how about you, Mr. Birdsey? Do you like to read, too?”

  “I read the Bible. I’m memorizing it.”

  “Yes? Why is that?”

  “Because of the Communists.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If they take over, it’s the first thing they’ll do. Ban the Holy Word of God. So I’m memorizing it. If they ever find out, I’ll be a hunted man. My life won’t be worth a plugged nickel. I’ve seen their game plan. They don’t realize it, but I have.”

  “So the Bible is the only thing you read? Not newspapers or magazines? Or other books?”

  “I read newspapers. I don’t have time for books. Or the patience. I had my concentration stolen from me, you know? Not wholly. Partially.”

  “Stolen?”

  “When I was seventeen. Our family dentist was working secretly for the KGB. He planted a device in me that damaged my ability to concentrate. I went to college, you know. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, I read it in your record.”

  “I couldn’t concentrate. Dr. Downs, his name was. They expelled him during the Carter administration. Kept it very hush-hush.”

  “This is your dentist you’re referring to?”

  “That was his cover. They convicted him on my testimony. They wanted to execute him, but I said no. I talked to Jimmy Carter
about it over the phone. He called me up and said, ‘What’ll we do?’ and I said ‘Thou shalt not kill. Period.’ I’m not a hypocrite. Who are you playing this tape for, anyway?”

  “You don’t remember? I’m playing it for Lisa Sheffer and your brother. I’d also like to play portions to Dr. Chase if that’s okay, although you said earlier you have some reservations about—”

  “Do you think Muslims can’t change their names? Obtain false identification? It’s going to be put in a safe, isn’t it? This tape?”

  “A safe?”

  “A safe! A vault! If you can’t secure this cassette, then I’m stopping right now. If this tape got into the wrong hands, there could be major repercussions. Major ones.”

  “Relax, Mr. Birdsey. All of your medical records are safeguarded, including the tapes of our discussions. You have my word. Now, we were talking before about your brother. Is he a good brother?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Birdsey? I asked you if your brother is a good brother.”

  “He’s average.”

  I shook my head. Had to smile. “Now there’s a rousing endorsement,” I said.

  “I went to his class once. When he was a teacher. I was an invited guest.”

  He was?

  “You were?”

  “My mother and I went. It was an open house at his school.”

  “Yes?”

  “People thought I was Dominick. One of the parents came up to me and thanked me for helping her daughter.”

  “So you and your brother are hard to tell apart?”

  “Very, very hard. Especially now that he wears contacts. When we were younger, he had to wear glasses and I didn’t. Then it was easy to tell us apart. We were like Clark Kent and Superman.”

  Yeah, right, I thought. Thomas as the Man of Steel.

  “I was going to be a teacher, like him. That’s what I had decided to be. Then things took a turn.”

  “A turn? What kind of turn?”

  “I was called. Chosen by God. And then, almost immediately, they started pursuing me. What nobody in America seems to realize—least of all His Majesty George Herbert Walker Bush—is the similarity in their names: S-A-D-D-A-M. S-A-T-A-N. Get it? Get it? GET IT?”

  “His train of thought is like channel-surfing, isn’t it?” I said.

  “He was nice to his students. My brother. They liked him. They respected his brains. But he quit.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Something happened.”

  “What was that?”

  “I forget. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “And what does he do for a living now? Your brother?”

  “I forget.”

  “You forget?”

  “He paints houses. I tell him, ‘Watch out for the radioactive paint, Dominick,’ but he doesn’t listen to me. What do I know, right? I’m just the crazy brother.”

  “Do you hear that, Dominick?” Dr. Patel said. “In his own way, he is still worrying about your safety.”

  “Mr. Birdsey, let’s change the subject for a minute. Shall we?”

  “Suit yourself. What do I care?”

  “Why don’t we talk a little about what happened in the dining room at breakfast today? Do you remember what happened? The problem in the dining room?”

  “I didn’t start it. They did.”

  “Who?”

  His voice thinned—revved up a little. “I’m just sick of it, that’s all. They think they’re such a covert operation, but they’re not. They’re so obvious, it’s pathetic. I just wanted to let them know what amateurs they are.”

  “Who?”

  “How should I know? They’re both after me. Either side would love to eat my flesh and drink my blood.” He made a succession of weird gulping sounds.

  “Are you afraid of something, Mr. Birdsey? Is that why you shouted and threw your food?”

  Pause. “Can I go now? I’m tired. When I agreed to enter this witness protection program, I didn’t think I’d have to be interviewed all day long by underlings. No one said a word about interrogation. I’d prefer to speak to someone at the top.”

  “Could you answer my question, please? Are you afraid?”

  His voice sounded near tears. “Personally, I think it’s the CIA. They’ve messed with me before, you know? Beamed infrared lights on me. Sucked out my thoughts like they were sucking a milkshake up a straw. You think that’s a pretty sight? Seeing your own gray matter go up a vacuum tube? Now I forget things, thanks to them. I FORGET things! I want to concentrate my efforts on the Persian Gulf—I want to be of service to God and my country—to let people know that God wants them to turn from Mammon to Him. But they distract me. They know how dangerous I am to them. Look what they did to one of yours!”

  “One of mine?”

  “Rushdie! Salman Rushdie! Read the newspapers, Mrs. Gandhi! They silenced him. Of course, that was completely different. That was heresy. When have I ever blasphemed? What sacrilege have I committed? Bush used to head the CIA, you know? Did you know that? I suppose that’s a coincidence? I’ve lost 35 percent of my brain cells. They’re being siphoned from me night and day, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it!”

  I looked out the window, tapped my fist against my lip. I wanted her to stop the tape, but their voices went on and on.

  “Mr. Birdsey, do you feel that the CIA and President Bush are in collusion? Trying to steal your thoughts?”

  “Trying and SUCCEEDING, thanks to their goddamned electric eyes. Their brain siphons.”

  “Why are they doing this, Mr. Birdsey? Why are they singling you out?”

  “Because of what I did.”

  “What did you do?”

  “This!” There was an unidentifiable noise on the tape, a staccato thumping sound.

  “Mr. Birdsey, please stop that now. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  I looked up quizzically at the doc, then suddenly realized what the sound was. “He was whacking his stump against something, wasn’t he?”

  She nodded. “Against the table where we were seated. Only for a moment, Dominick. Only to make his point.”

  “Jesus,” I mumbled. Sighed.

  “I followed God’s dictate! Cast off the hand that sinneth! And it humiliated Bush. Rained on his Desert Shield parade. He hates the fact that I opened people’s eyes.”

  “About?”

  “About the stupidity of war! About how, in his bumbling, incompetent way, Bush is going to bring about the end of the world unless I intervene. If he orders the bombing to begin, then we’re done for. S-A-D-D-A-M. S-A-T-A-N. It’s so OBVIOUS! Read your Bible, Suzie Q! Read about the Pharisees and the moneylenders and the serpent in the garden. Be my ever-loving guest.”

  “Mr. Birdsey, when your thoughts are being robbed, what does it feel like? Can you feel it happening?”

  A disgusted sigh. “Yes!”

  “Yes?”

  “During the day I can. Sometimes they do it while I’m asleep.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “They’re getting back at me.”

  “Does it hurt, Mr. Birdsey? Is there any pain when it happens? Any headache?”

  “They can’t just annihilate me—I’m too high-profile. Newsweek, Time, U.S. News & World Report. I’ve been on the cover of every major news magazine in this country. You people can hide all the newspapers and magazines from me that you want to, but I know about them. I have my sources. Don’t think I don’t. I’m one of People magazine’s 25 Most Intriguing People of the Year. I have a following! They can’t kill me, so they have to settle for mental cruelty. Incarceration. Brain theft. He gets printouts, you know? Twice a day.”

  “Who does?”

  “George Bush, that’s who!”

  “Okay,” I said, bolting out of my chair. “That’s enough!” I walked over to the window. Dr. Patel stopped the tape. “You call that session a breakthrough?” I said. “That crap he was just talking is progress?”

  “Pr
ogress in that he was much more verbal than he had been. Much more trusting and communicative. Which is good. May I pour you some more tea?”

  I shook my head. Strapped my arms around myself.

  “You’re all right, Dominick?” she asked.

  “It’s just so weird. How lost he is in this fantasy bullshit. In his own ego.”

  “Well, Dominick, to a certain extent, that is true of us all. Just yesterday, I was on the road, hurrying to a meeting in Farmington when an elderly man pulled out from a side street. He was going twenty or twenty-five miles below the speed limit, and I caught myself wondering why this man was trying to make me late for my meeting.” She laughed at her own folly.

  “Yeah, but . . . presidents studying his thoughts? Only he can save the world?”

  “It’s narcissistic, yes. But please keep in mind that these grandiose delusions are not delusions to him. They are his reality. These mind-thefts and dangers are happening.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “Do you? When you say, ‘I know that,’ do you mean you understand it intellectually or that you can feel the fear and frustration as he must feel it? Imagine, Dominick, how frightening his days must be. How exhausting. The weight of the world is on his shoulders. He can trust almost no one. What’s interesting to me as an anthropologist—what fascinates me, really—is that he has assigned himself a task of mythic proportions.”

  I looked up. Looked over at her.

  “Your brother is alone in the universe. Lost to his twin, lost to a conventional life. He is afloat in a world of evil and malignant power, his mettle tested at every turn. Thomas is, in effect, starring himself in his own hero-myth.”

  “Hero-myth? That’s a little bit of a stretch, isn’t it? Aren’t you mixing up your two majors a little there?”

  Her smile was sad. “It’s his futile attempt to order the world. Do you have children, Dominick?”

  We lost eye contact. The little girl in the yellow leotard flashed before me. “Nope.”

  “Well, if you did,” she said, “you would most likely read them not only Curious George but also fables and fairy tales. Stories where humans outsmart witches, where giants and ogres are felled and good triumphs over evil. Your parents read them to you and your brother. Did they not?”

  “My mother did,” I said.

  “Of course she did. It is the way we teach our children to cope with a world too large and chaotic for them to comprehend. A world that seems, at times, too random. Too indifferent. Of course, the religions of the world will do the same for you, whether you’re a Hindu or a Christian or a Rosicrucian. They’re brother and sister, really: children’s fables and religious parables. I believe that both your brother’s religiosity and his wholehearted belief in heroes and villains may be his brave but futile attempt to make the world orderly and logical. It’s a noble struggle, in a sense, given the chaos his disease has put him up against. At least, that’s one way of interpreting it.”