The Last of Philip Banter

by John Franklin Bardin

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Is he happy with his wife – and is she happy with him?’

  Philip paused. How could he answer that? Until yesterday there would have been no doubt in his mind that Dorothy and he were happy. But now? ‘Yes… I think so,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Why aren’t you sure?’

  Again Philip thought before he spoke. He did not want to come too close to his own personality in describing this mythical friend, or Matthews would realize that he was talking about himself – if Matthews hadn’t realized that already. Yet he did want to strike a fair parallel to keep from misrepresenting his problem. At last he decided to risk it. George had given signs of seeing through his pretence anyway. ‘He, my friend, that is, has played around a little lately. He hasn’t been doing all his sleeping at home. He is afraid his wife might know.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I’ve heard gossip.’

  ‘Do you hear voices, Philip?’ Matthews asked casually.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Do you hear voices? Do you hear someone speaking to you when you are alone?’

  ‘Why should I hear voices?’

  Matthews smoked his pipe in silence. He did not speak, but his eyes were kind. Why must I continue to pretend when I know there is no reason for pretending? Philip asked himself.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me about them?’

  Philip coughed. A great hand seemed to seize his stomach and twist it. He coughed again. ‘I hear a voice. A child’s voice. But first I hear a bell ringing in the distance. The sound keeps coming closer and closer. The lights dim and everything I see looks as if it were covered with scum. It’s then I hear the voice.’

  Dr Matthews carefully kept his own tone casual. ‘What does it say, Phil?’

  ‘It says, “Oh, Philip, why can’t you remember? We had so much fun! Why did you have to forget?”’

  ‘And what have you forgotten?’

  Philip fumbled for a cigarette. His hands shook as he struck a match, the flame wavered and danced as he held it up. He dropped the match in the ashtray and stared defiantly at Matthews.

  ‘You drink a lot, don’t you, Phil?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Philip’s voice had an edge to it. Inwardly, he was frightened.

  Matthews nodded at his hand, which was still trembling as it held the cigarette. ‘Your hands,’ he said. ‘They shake so.’

  ‘Yes, I drink a lot.’

  ‘Too much, do you think, Phil?’

  ‘No. No more than many people I know.’

  Matthews smiled. ‘Why do you drink, Phil?’

  Philip felt bright shafts of anger spear their way into his brain. He wanted to pound his fist on the table and shout George Matthews down. But he spoke quietly because he was afraid to shout or show his rage. ‘I do it to get away from the voice. I never hear it when I’m drunk.’

  Matthews nodded his head. He was silent, gazing at the design he had traced on the tablecloth with his fork.

  ‘I know whose voice it is,’ Philip said.

  Matthews still did not speak.

  ‘It’s my voice. My voice before it changed. My voice as a child, saying “Philip, why don’t you remember?’” Banter said.

  ‘And you drink to escape the voice, drink until you forget what you do – and then the next day you hear the voice again. Is that it?’

  Philip nodded his head. ‘And now I’m writing this “Confession”, threatening myself. It looks as if I want to drive me mad!’

  Matthews picked up his pipe and stroked it against his cheek. He looked away from Philip at the deeply recessed windows of the club’s dining-room. ‘Tell me more about this “Confession” – what did it predict? And what happened?’

  Philip told him the circumstances surrounding his discovery of the manuscript and related briefly the predictions it had made about his meeting Brent and his attempt to make love to her.

  ‘And did these events take place exactly as predicted? Or were there disparities?’

  ‘There were disparities,’ Philip said. ‘But I met the girl as the manuscript predicted, and I made love to her.’

  ‘You had not known her before?’

  ‘I am sure I never met her.’

  ‘You could have met her and then forgotten about it, couldn’t you?’

  Philip had not considered this. Yes, he might have met Brent during one of his ‘forgotten’ periods.

  ‘But if I had done that, why wouldn’t she have said something when we were introduced?’

  ‘There might have been a reason, mightn’t there? Your wife was present…’

  Then Philip had to tell him what had happened after he took Brent home the previous night. He ended by saying, ‘She finally ordered me out of the apartment.’

  ‘And this the “Confession” did not predict?’

  ‘That’s right. The “Confession” had stated definitely that I would sleep with her.’

  Matthews sucked noisily at his pipe and again studied the high sunny windows. But he said nothing, nor did he seem to expect that Philip would have anything more to say. His reaction was disquieting – it made Philip feel uncomfortable.

  ‘After I left her place I had a few drinks and then I went back to the office,’ Philip went on. He felt a need to continue talking in the face of his friend’s, the psychiatrist’s, taciturnity. ‘I do not remember what happened at the office clearly. I must have been pretty drunk. And I must have fallen asleep eventually. I know I do not remember having written anything. But I found a second instalment of the “Confession” on my desk this morning when I awakened.’

  ‘And what did it predict this time?’

  ‘That Dorothy would meet me for lunch today and ask for a divorce. That I would get drunk in Central Park and be rolled by thugs. That I would wind up at Brent’s apartment as before.’

  ‘And what do you intend to do about it?’

  ‘I am going to do my level best to keep any part of it from coming true. I avoided having lunch with my wife. I won’t go back to the office today or home tonight.’ He hesitated and stared grimly at Dr Matthews. ‘I won’t let it happen again!’ he cried.

  Matthews laid down his pipe. ‘I’ve heard of cases similar to yours, but not in all particulars. Of course, every love-sick swain since time began has kept a diary of his peccadilloes. I have encountered adolescents who laid down time-tables for themselves to follow in these matters. “Watch the girl who works in the candy store and find out where she lives. Manage to meet her alone. Ask her to the church supper.” That sort of thing.’ Matthews sensed the extreme anxiety of his patient (for he now regarded Philip as his patient), and he was trying to allay it in part by relating the strange facts of the ‘Confession’ to other more natural diaries.

  But Philip stiffened. ‘I see no similarity,’ he said with dignity. He mistook Matthews’ easy casualness for joking familiarity.

  Matthews grew more serious. ‘It really isn’t as different as you would think. The basic mechanism is the same. Narcissus looking into the pool. Your predicament is only more complex. For example, you have always been quite a lad with the ladies, haven’t you?’

  Philip’s hand, hidden in his trousers’ pocket, began to tremble again. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘And you’re in your middle thirties, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And once or twice lately, you have experienced unexpected failures?’

  ‘Yes, I – I have,’ Philip stammered. And then wondered why he had not lied.

  ‘That might have a bearing on your case,’ Matthews said. ‘If you have a growing fear of impotency – as well as earlier feelings of guilt…’

  ‘But if I did – and if I have, I don’t know it – why would I write a “Confession” about an affair I was afraid I could not have? Wouldn’t that be ridiculous?’

  ‘Not as ridiculous as it seems. I’ll
admit that the part about actually writing down your wishes and then forgetting that you have written them is unusual – although I dare say I could find a similar case if I looked it up. But the mechanism is classic! The young boy who has never experienced sex and the old man who doubts that he will ever experience it again share common feelings of guilt and inadequacy. They both spend an inordinate amount of time daydreaming about exploits they don’t have the courage or opportunity to make real. Sometimes this happens to a man in his maturity, and then his fears are often false. They are only symptomatic of a deeper wound, a hidden conflict. Some men never get over adolescent feelings of inadequacy and guilt, and with such men, every time they have a new relation it is a fresh trial of their ever-doubted prowess – you might call them sexual athletes since they are always trying to break their own records. These men often become psychically impotent prematurely. They day-dream compulsively – you do it on paper! – about imagined triumphs and then force themselves to make them real. Often they come a cropper…’

  ‘Then do you think I’m writing the “Confession” myself?’ Philip clenched a table knife spasmodically as he asked this question. His heart was jumping in his throat.

  Matthews was lighting his pipe again. ‘You do, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

  ‘Philip, I don’t think that “Confession” is so terribly important – if you are writing it. If you are not writing it, and that is possible – who could it be?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have no evidence against anyone. Anyone who knew me that well. Jeremy. Dorothy. Miss Grey hears a lot of my ’phone calls, I’m sure – she might be doing it, but that seems a stretch of the imagination. Steven Foster. Even Brent, if your guess is right and I knew her before during one of my blank periods.’

  ‘Why would any of these do such a thing?’

  Philip dropped the knife on the floor. He bent to pick it up. His head was reeling and he was breathing rapidly – his heart hammered at his ribs. He could see that George thought he was insane. What would he do next? The important thing was to act natural, rational.

  ‘Dorothy might be jealous of me. She might want to get even, to scare me.’

  ‘So she plants a “Confession” on your desk every morning?’

  ‘It sounds weak, doesn’t it?’

  ‘A jealous woman has done queerer things before. What about the others?’

  ‘Jeremy has always resented my success – I suppose you know that. And Dorothy was his girl before she was mine.’

  ‘And now you are making love to Brent?’

  ‘Yes, that would give him a motive. But, if he’s writing the “Confession”, why should he suggest her to me?’

  Matthews nodded his head. ‘Steven Foster?’ he asked.

  ‘The old man has never welcomed me as a son-in-law. But his methods are more direct.’

  ‘Your secretary?’

  ‘She resents me, too. But I don’t think she has the wits to arrive at such a scheme, let alone the drive and stick-to-it-iveness to carry it out.’

  ‘In other words, you don’t think that anyone but yourself could be doing it.’

  Philip tried to smile. ‘I’m afraid that about sizes it up.’

  Matthews knocked out his pipe. ‘If you are writing the “Confession”, we can regard it as a symptom. If you aren’t of course, it might be a matter for the police. But since you and I both come to the same conclusion about it, I think we can look upon it as part of your syndrome.’

  Philip had taken his hand from his pocket. His shirt sleeve was pushed back by the movement, revealing the soiled bandage about his wrist. Dr Matthews now saw his friend’s bandaged wrist for the first time. ‘Have you hurt yourself, Philip?’ he asked casually.

  Matthews had not considered this an important question. His only reason for asking it, beyond that of natural curiosity, was to break the tension his last remarks had created in Philip. He knew that an irrelevant question which shows human interest can often put a patient at ease during a difficult interview. But Philip responded quite differently from what Matthews had expected. He became highly excited, all but hysterical.

  He jumped to his feet, clutching his injured wrist. ‘I don’t know, George, I don’t know!’ He held his wrist up to his mouth, sucking at it as a small child might do. ‘I must have hurt myself the other night. But I can’t remember. When I woke up yesterday morning, it was bandaged. I don’t know how I did it.’ His voice had become petulant, a child’s voice. He whined rather than spoke and tears appeared in his eyes. Matthews saw that his pupils had dilated with anxiety. ‘I can’t remember a thing,’ he said piteously.

  ‘You found your wrist hurt the same morning that you found the first part of the “Confession” – is that right?’ Matthews asked.

  Philip gulped and nodded his head. ‘And when I left the office to go downtown, I was nearly run over. A truck came out of a side street – I didn’t see it coming. I think the driver swerved to hit me, although I could be mistaken. It might have been an accident. But then later, in the elevator, I was nearly crushed between the doors.’ And he told Matthews about the large man, whose face he had not glimpsed, who knocked him off balance as the elevator’s safety doors were closing.

  Dr Matthews listened, but he made no comment. Philip gradually calmed. He realized that he had become abnormally excited – the blood was still pounding in his temples. Suddenly, it had seemed to him that everyone, everyone in the world, was against him and persecuting him. When Matthews opened a package of cigarettes and offered him one, he took it gratefully.

  ‘Do you think that these “accidents” – both the ones you remember and the one you don’t – could be part of a plot against you, Philip? Is that the way you feel?’ Matthews asked.

  Philip hesitated. ‘Sometimes, I think so. Other times, I think that something’s wrong with me – that I am trying to kill myself.’

  ‘You mean that you are afraid that you might have slashed your own wrist while drunk? That you might have stepped into the path of the onrushing truck? That you bumped into the man in the elevator and threw yourself off balance?’

  Philip nodded his head.

  ‘You’re highly disturbed emotionally, Philip. I prescribe a good, long rest in some quiet place where you can get the proper medical attention. Once you have tapered off on your drinking, your other symptoms may disappear. Why don’t you come around to my office now and let me make the necessary arrangements?’

  Philip had again become more and more uneasy as the conversation grew more clinical. Now he jumped to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, George, but I’ve just remembered an appointment I must keep! I will come to see you though. I’ll call you up and make an appointment.’ And he began to walk away.

  Matthews walked after him. There was little he could do, if Philip did not want to come with him. And he was uncertain as to his diagnosis. From Dorothy’s evidence, and Philip’s own admission, he did know that Philip had become an alcoholic. The first thing to do would be to treat his alcoholism; then – when he was less disturbed – would be time enough to attempt analysis. So when he caught up to Philip, who had been walking very fast, he had this to say: ‘I don’t want to alarm you, Phil, but you need a psychiatrist’s care. If you don’t want to come to me, I can give you the name of a good man…’

  But Philip, smilingly, shook him off. ‘I’m not as batty as you think, George. Just been working too hard, that’s all. But I’ll remember what you’ve said, and I’ll come to see you some day.’

  Then they shook hands and Philip hurried away. Matthews puffed at his pipe and looked at the check in his hand. He shrugged his shoulders, went over to the cashier and paid it.

  As he walked back to his office, taking pleasure in the cool, clear light of the December sun and the cloudless blue of the winter sky, Matthews thought over Philip’s peculiar story. And he grew more and more concerned about Philip. If his friend’s neurosis were sufficiently advanc
ed, he might worsen seriously before Matthews could persuade him to submit to treatment.

  So when he reached his office, he gave his nurse Dorothy’s name and the name of Steven Foster. ‘Keep ringing both of them until you get them, and then tell whoever answers that I want to see them both tomorrow morning at Steven Foster’s office.’

  Later in the day, Miss Henry left a note on Dr Matthews’ desk. It read: ‘Unable to contact Dorothy Banter. You have an appointment with Mr Steven Foster at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  3

  Jeremy and Brent had just finished breakfast and Brent was washing the dishes, when the telephone rang. Jeremy walked to the far end of the great loft room to reach the instrument. He spoke into the receiver in a soft, controlled voice, not because he felt the need to be surreptitious, but because an announcer habitually modulates the tone of his speech. When he realized that it was Dorothy at the other end of the connection, he did not speak more loudly. There was no need to, of course, and the rush of water from the faucet would probably have prevented Brent from hearing the conversation had there been a need; but the fact was that Jeremy, if he changed his manner of speech in the least, lowered his voice as the dialogue progressed.

  Dorothy wanted Jeremy to meet her for lunch. She wanted to ask his advice on a matter of importance. When he began an embarrassed apology for his impulsive act of the previous evening, she cut him short with a pleasantry. She told him that she had not been aware until that night of how much Philip and she had missed him. She emphasized Philip’s name when she said this, as if she feared that Jeremy might otherwise infer that she, alone, had appreciated his company. ‘You must come to see us more often, Jerry dear,’ she went on. ‘And you must bring Brent along.’ This time she emphasized Brent’s name, as if it were her particular caution not too imply too much. ‘She is such an interesting girl, so intelligent – with such verve!’

  As Jeremy said less and less, Dorothy’s voice rushed forward. ‘But about today, Jerry. You would be doing me such a favour if you could have lunch with me. I know it’s an imposition – please don’t say it isn’t, I know it is. But I really feel I must see you. Yes, it is important. No, it would be difficult over the ’phone. Yes, it’s confidential, but that’s not the only reason. Well, darling, you see it’s so involved. I wouldn’t know where to begin, but at lunch I can just talk at you and let it all come out. You can sort out and pick up the pieces, and then, perhaps, you’ll tell me what you would do. Oh, Jerry, you are a dear!’