“Billy! Billy! It’s all right! Billy!” The nurse reached down to touch him, to help calm him, knocking over a shoe box filled with old pieces of a radio, ail taped together in a random fashion. Seeing this, Billy’s explosive, terrified screams became intensified, and the nurse also became filled with panic.
There were urgent-sounding footsteps behind her, and she turned to see Dr. Martin Godell rushing into the room.
His white coat thrown open, Godell rushed past the nurse. “Goddammit,” he muttered, as he reached for the end of the thick twine and retaped it to the wall. “There, Billy…it’s all right now. I’m fixing it…” he said slowly, softly. The doctor picked up the shoe box, carefully rearranging the old radio parts, replaced it at the foot of the bed.
Billy stopped screaming instantly and fell back to his mattress, rigidly staring at the ceiling while he attempted to control his breathing.
“Doctor, I’m sorry,” said the nurse quickly. “I—”
Martin Godell looked at her with dark, burning eyes. “You are new on this ward?”
“Yes, but I—”
“Were you not briefed on Billy’s special condition?”
“Well, yes,” said the nurse, looking down at her shoes. “But I didn’t think it was as serious as—”
“Never mind,” said Martin. He shook his head slowly, ran his fingers through his longish hair. “But in the future, I hope you pay more attention to the recommendations on the charts.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Godell. It won’t happen again.”
“I hope not,” said Martin, looking down at Billy, who seemed to have recovered from his panic and was now lying on his back, hands by his sides, like a robot awaiting to be activated. “You may go now, Nurse. I’ll take care of Billy this morning.”
As the woman left the room, Dr. Godell regarded Billy, who seemed to be ignoring him totally. Nine years old, blond-white hair, Billy was at once fragile and formidable in appearance. His neon-blue eyes had a penetrating aspect which was unsettling to most who knew him, and yet his small, skinny body suggested all the images of the pathetic war orphan, the helpless street waif. As Billy lay before Martin Godell, he was humming to himself in a low pitch, like an engine set at idling speed.
It had been three years since Billy had been admitted to the Schaller Institute for Disturbed Children, and in that time, the boy had shown only a minimal response to treatment. His early diagnoses had been unanimous in proclaiming that Billy Hutton suffered from severe autism—but of a kind that was unique in the literature of child psychopathology.
In essence, Billy was a mechanical boy.
By the age of six, he had already evolved a complex, rational, and frightening array of characteristics which implied that he was a machine—a machine operated by remote control, and powered by other machines of his own delusional fantasy. Not only did Billy believe that he was a machine, but he had the uncanny ability to convey this feeling, to actually create the impression in others, that he was indeed a mechanical construct. He seemed to be a prisoner within his own body, or worse, a body without a soul—a child totally deprived of his own humanity.
His case history contained many of the classic elements which contribute to autism. Billy was born to very young parents who had clearly not wanted a child, and consequently was raised in an atmosphere of resentment, detachment, and ultimately, of loathing. He was never touched by his parents unless absolutely necessary, never cuddled or played with. He was left alone for many hours at a time, and was only attended when he was fed on a rigid schedule, or when his diapers needed changing. Later, his toilet training was carried out with a cold precision that left him confused and full of unfounded fears about human excrement. By the time he mastered speech, he spoke to no one other than himself, and then only in short, clipped passages which were colored by his own invented words and phrases. He showed a remarkable early interest in machines, and by the age of three was able to take apart and reassemble various household devices such as an electric fan, a radio, toaster, and a coffee grinder. From that point on, Billy Hutton began to perceive the world, including himself, in terms of machinery—probably because it was “safer” than trying to be human.
During the next three years, he had been placed in several special schools and institutes, but the host of teachers, therapists, and doctors who encountered him all eventually gave up in frustration. No one was able to break through the barriers which encapsulated Billy and his fantasies.
His elaborate “system” of wires, strings, boxes, and discarded electrical parts which surrounded his bed was called his “Sleep Machine,” and was required while he slept to “live him” when he could not attend to this task himself. It was only one of myriad imaginary and sometimes artfully constructed devices which he needed to perform even the simplest daily tasks and functions. All his liquids were taken in with straws which were “connected” to Byzantine “Pumping Stations” made of boxes and hoses placed beside his mealtime trays. Solid food was eaten only after he had plugged himself to his “Energy Converter,” another Goldbergian machine which Billy claimed allowed him to digest his food. He could not perform acts of elimination unless he held old vacuum tubes or portable radio circuit boards in both hands while he squatted over, but never touched, the commode.
It was only after the staff at Schaller Institute learned to play along with Billy’s numerous machine-fantasies that he was able or willing to communicate with them. When the laws of his private, mechanistic universe were obeyed, he was cooperative and calm, although he seemed to regard all people with a cold disdain, which suggested that he felt sorry for the general lot of humanity who were not machines. He was a lonely, dissociated child, who did not appear to take joy in anything he did, or in any of the things which took place around him.
Despite his gradual acquiescence to the staff, he showed an almost uniform lack of improvement during his years of therapy. The only visible sign of difference in his behavior was an increased interest in drawing, which evolved from bizarre abstract circuit diagrams and wiring schematics into ingeniously designed blueprints for machines. Occasionally, when asked by Dr. Godell, Billy would make drawings of himself, which always resembled robots, or which depicted Billy locked deep inside a baroquely constructed machine.
Under Martin Godell’s direction, Billy was administered every available psychological test—which indicated that he was of extremely high intelligence, facile, clever, and perceptive. Eventually, Godell ordered physiological tests as well, and the results were somewhat surprising. EKG and X-ray indicated that there was no organic brain damage, no neurological dysfunction or other physical irregularities. More intensive tests revealed, however, some interesting and quite baffling data. Although there is no correlation between brain-size and intelligence, it had been noted that Billy’s cranial capacity, even at the age of nine, was more than 150 cubic centimeters larger than that of the average adult, and a CAT-Scan revealed unfamiliar convoluting of the brain surrounding the base of the hippocampus and also along the Fissure of Rolando. Billy also possessed an abnormally high concentration of Messenger RNA and Replinase. Gene density was also high, which indicated a higher chance for incidence of genetic mutation.
Everyone on the staff, except for Dr. Godell, was very surprised at the findings. The physiological tests suggested what he had already begun to believe—that Billy was not a typical autistic child, but something far more special, and possibly quite terrifying.
“The next case is Billy Hutton…” said Dr. Angeline Lorca, the Clinical Director at Schaller Institute. She was an austere, totally pragmatic woman who, as she approached the age of forty, had become an accomplished administrator in spite of her perceived political and sexist adversity. “Dr. Godell, the Hutton boy is one of your patients…”
Martin cleared his throat, glanced about the long conference table where he and the other psychiatrists sat with their monthly progress reports, then down to the end of the table to Dr. Lorca.
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�Yes, that’s correct,” he said, waiting for a gesture from the dark-haired woman to continue. Martin disliked the monthly Clinical Staff meetings, mainly because Lorca conducted them as if each of the psychiatrists were on trial, rather than as participants in an open forum for discussion of treatment programs and individual patient problems.
“I’ve just finished your most recent reports on Billy Hutton,” said Dr. Lorca. “Your ‘treatment’ program hardly merits the term, Doctor. No progress whatsoever. It seems as though the Hutton boy is merely wasting the staff’s time. The latest incident with the new dayshift nurse was very upsetting to her, and I understand that you were quite harsh with her.”
“I don’t agree,” said Martin. “Billy Hutton is the most challenging and most fascinating case I have ever encountered.”
Angeline Lorca smiled sardonically. “That may be true, but we are not in the business of being fascinated, Dr. Godell. A lot of our private and public funding is predicated upon our record of successful treatment. Any more cases like Billy Hutton and we might be accused of logrolling just to get those fat foundation grants and government pork.”
Martin shook his head slowly. “I have always believed that it was the duty of the therapist to be more concerned with his patients than his paychecks,” he said, noticing that several of his colleagues had covered their faces to hide growing grins. He knew that few of them actually liked Lorca, but fewer still had the nerve to speak with her on her own acerbic terms.
Lorca smiled in a way which showed that she was not amused. “As Clinical Director, I must be concerned with all facets of operation at the Institute. The point I was trying to make, Dr. Godell, is that if we are unable to help Billy Hutton, then perhaps he should be transferred to another treatment center.”
“What? You mean discharge Billy?” Martin did not try to hide his surprise and outrage. “To where? If we can’t help him, then no one can!”
“Please don’t raise your voice, Doctor.”
“Please don’t make me…” Martin was suddenly aware of the awkward silence at the table. Everyone was watching the two combatants, waiting to see who would strike the mortal blow.
Dr. Lorca steepled her hands and long, thin fingers in front of her face, stared at Martin with cool, green eyes. “Would you mind telling the staff why you object to discharging Billy Hutton?”
Martin cleared his throat. She was giving in a bit, giving him a chance, at least.
“It’s in my last few progress reports,” he began. “Perhaps more by implication than expressly stated, but I will try now to explain my current feelings about the boy. The last battery of physiological tests indicate that we are not dealing with a normal—if there is such a thing—autistic child. I cite the cranial irregularities and puzzling genetic data specifically. I feel that accepted treatment modalities are not sufficient in the Hutton case.”
“And why not?”
“In order to help Billy,” said Martin, “I must first understand the world in which he lives, the personal, cosmic laws which guide his behavior and his thinking. Until recently, I don’t think I had the handle, the key.”
“But now you do?” Lorca nodded her head patronizingly. “Would you care to share your ideas with the Staff?”
Martin paused, then shook his head slowly. “I think it is too early to do that, since I have only come upon them quite recently. I would like to wait until I can articulate my feelings a bit more lucidly.”
“And what about a revised treatment program? Have you any thoughts along these lines?”
“Yes, I do. But again I would like to have more time to prepare myself.”
Dr. Lorca closed the file folder before her, exhaled slowly, and glanced at the assembled Staff. “Very well, Dr. Godell…if no one has any objections, I will defer my professional opinion on this case until a later date. However, I would hope that some of your ‘feelings’ and your new ‘treatment’ procedures will be included in next month’s progress report.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Martin.
So staggering, so unsettling were his recent feelings about Billy Hutton that Martin was actually afraid to share them with the Clinical Staff. As though the word could make flesh his speculations, he avoided speaking his thoughts aloud. What he feared about Billy Hutton was too improbable, too bizarre; yet he believed, in his heart of hearts, that it was true.
Until recently, Billy’s preoccupation with machines had been kept on the fantasy level, made real only through his own constructions of pseudo-devices from scraps of cardboard, string, and discarded light bulbs or parts from transistor radios. But now, Martin tried something new, and had been scheduling Billy’s therapy sessions in different parts of the Schaller Institute, such as the Medical Lab, the Maintenance Shop, and the Computer Room.
The first time he had taken Billy to the Medical Lab, he noticed a slight change in the boy’s usually placid expression—a brief surge of anticipation and wonder, which he had first noticed during the battery of physiological tests when Billy was exposed to a complex array of machines such as the CAT-Scanner and the EEG. As Billy stood in the center of the Lab, he clutched a cigar box tightly to his chest, from which several pieces of twine snaked into his shirt. He called this device his “Oxy-Forcer,” which he claimed helped to “breathe me.” There was a slight spark in Billy’s neon-blue eyes as he walked to the Formica-topped counter to reach out and touch the centrifuge. His fingers almost lovingly caressed the polished metal surfaces of the small machine, and his grip upon his cigar box seemed less desperate, less urgent. He also examined the electronic, digitally registering scales, and an old IBM typewriter, which particularly fascinated him. Turning to Martin, he had an expectant expression that the doctor had not thought him capable of.
“Yes, Billy…what is it?”
“Current. Make current?”
“You want to turn it on?” For an instant, the corner of Billy’s mouth twitched, and Martin thought that the forlorn street waif might actually smile. But as quickly as the expression suggested itself, so did it vanish.
Billy stared at him hypnotically. “Yes. Make current.”
Martin nodded and flipped on the Selectric’s switch. A low-level thrumming filled the room and Billy seemed transfixed by the sound. His face flushed as though he derived sustenance from the aura of the machine, and slowly he released his grip on his “Oxy-Forcer,” placing it on the desk so that he could touch the typewriter with both hands and feel the vibration of its motor tingle along his broomstick-thin arms.
Martin allowed him to stand before the machine, like a worshipper, for the better part of the hour, then informed him that it was time to go. Reluctantly Billy let Martin turn off the machine, but before walking away from the desk, he picked up his cigar box and quickly thrust the pieces of twine back into his shirt, taking several deep and reassuring breaths.
The boy obviously preferred the surrogate machine to nothing at all and as Martin guided him from the room, he felt a twinge of uncertainty pass through his mind. It was a suggestion that he might be doing something terribly wrong.
For the next few weeks, Martin conducted his therapy sessions in the Lab and the Maintenance Shop, each time Billy becoming more actively involved in the functioning of the various machines at his disposal. But it was not until Billy visited the Institute’s Data Processing Center did Martin notice definitive changes in the boy’s demeanor.
Martin took Billy into the clean, bright room and let him discover the optical scanners, the TV display monitors, the line printers and the word processor, and even the insides of some of the cabinets. The effect on Billy was immediate and remarkable, and for the first time he seemed to resemble the bright, perceptive boy that his testing indicated. Martin observed in his notes that Billy seemed to sense the “greatness” of these computer-machines, and he wondered if his contact with them gave further proof to the boy’s fantasy that machines were the superior entities in the world, and that it was indeed better to be a machi
ne.
The next step in his treatment program was interaction, and therefore Martin taught Billy how to actually use the computers.
“This computer will play games with you,” he told Billy, who was sitting reverently before a keyboard and a TV monitor. “Not like any games we have ever asked you to play before, Billy. Would you like to learn how to play?”
The small, blond-haired boy rocked back and forth in his chair, his blue eyes reflecting the bright colors of the display screen, his small hands holding the “Oxy-Forcer” close to his chest.
“Billy…do you want to play a game with the computer? Answer me, or we will go back to your room.”
Slowly, Billy placed the cigar box on the desk top, next to the keyboard. “Play me,” he said blankly.
“Watch the screen, Billy. In order to play, you must read the instructions, then spell out your answers with the letters on the keyboard, okay?”
“Play me,” he said again with a touch of urgency. He began rocking more quickly.
“This game is called ‘House Haunted,’ and you must go through the house and find a treasure chest. But you must be very careful…there are booby traps, and ghosts and trolls along the way that can get you. You have to read the machine’s instructions very carefully each time you take a turn, and you have to think before you answer each time. All right, if you’re ready, I’ll push this key, which will start the game…”
Billy nodded and the game began as Martin stepped back to watch the boy. After a few initial mistakes, he seemed to grasp the techniques of the game. Within the first hour, he had already “won” his first game—a fact which Martin found remarkable, and a feat which placed Billy’s gaming skill far beyond the average beginner. But Martin was not surprised that Billy would perform well at the computer games. Despite what the skill indicated, the doctor felt compelled to continue the “therapy” sessions.
Fearful Symmetries Page 5
