“After she died, what did you do?”
“Went on, of course.”
The doctor continued to suspend judgment. “Now, this second marriage. What did you feel for Sarah?”
“She was a lovely, lively spirit,” said the minister. “We could talk. Oh, how we could talk.” He fell silent.
“And you loved her?”
“Not with the same kind of love,” said Macroy, faintly chiding, “since we weren’t young any more. We were very—compatible, I believe, is the accepted word.”
Putting me on? He must be, thought the doctor. “And her money was no object,” he said cheerily.
“The love of money is the root, Doctor.”
“All right. I know my questions may sound stupid to you,” said Leone. “They sound pretty stupid to me, as a matter of fact.” He leaned back. Leone never took notes. He was trained to dictate, in ten minutes, the gist of fifty. “Now, I’m going to become rather inquisitive,” he announced, “unless you know that you not only can but should speak frankly to me.”
Macroy said gently, “I understand.” But he said no more.
Going to make me push, thought the doctor. All right. “Tell me about your honeymoon.”
“I see,” said Macroy. “You want to know—whether the marriage was consummated? Will that phrase do?”
“It will do.”
“No, it was not,” said Macroy. “Although it would have been, sooner or later, I think. She was—so warm-hearted and so lovable a presence. But you see, we had understood, quite well . . .”
“You had both understood,” said the doctor, more statement than question.
“I told you that we could talk,” said Macroy, catching the latent doubt. “And that meant about anything and everything. That was our joy. As for—after all, in my case, Doctor, it had been nine years. I was a Minister of the Gospel,” he added in a moment, gently explanatory.
“Did you try with Sarah and fail?” the doctor said easily.
“No.”
“There wasn’t a disillusion of any kind in the intimacy?”
“No. No. We enjoyed. We enjoyed. I can’t be the only man in the world to have known that kind of joy.”
Macroy’s face contorted and he became silent.
“Which you have lost,” the doctor said softly.
“Which I have lost. Yes. Thank you.” The man’s head bent.
“So the very suggestion that you—yourself, —might have thrown all this violently away . . . It must have been very painful to you.”
“Yes.”
“Knowing that you wouldn’t, couldn’t, didn’t—there’s still that sense of guilt, isn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“Surely you recognize that very common reaction to sudden death, to any death, in fact.” The doctor wasn’t having any more nonsense. “You have surely seen it, in your field, many times. People who compulsively wish that they had done what they had not done and so on?”
“Oh, yes, of course. But am I not guilty for letting her venture alone on that cliff?”
“It was the natural thing.”
“It is the human convention.” The voice was dreary and again it ceased.
The Doctor waited, but time flew. So he said, “Every one of us must take his time to mourn his dead. But Bishop Everard tells me that you wish to give up the ministry, now. Why, Mr. Macroy?”
Macroy sighed deeply.
“I am thinking about the silly, but seemingly inevitable snickering, because of the circumstances.”
The doctor hesitated. “The—er—circumstances do make an anecdote—for thoughtless people,” he said. “That must be very hard for you to endure.”
“Oh, my poor Sarah.”
“Then, is this a factor?”
“I will say,” said Macroy, “that I don’t altogether understand that snickering. And why is it inevitable? If I may speak frankly to you, Doctor—”
Leone thought that there was a glint of life and challenge in the eyes.
“Surely,” said Macroy, “every one of us knows his body’s necessities and furthermore, knows that the rest of us have them, too. Yet all of man’s necessities are not as funny as all that. Men don’t think it funny, for instance, that they must eat.”
“The whole toilet thing,” said the doctor, “is too ancient and deep-rooted to be fully understood. It may be that the unpleasantness is too plain a reminder of our animal status.”
“We laugh at what we hate so much to admit?” Macroy said quickly.
“Possibly.” The doctor blinked.
“ ’Tis a pity,” Macroy said in mourning.
“Why,” said the doctor, who was beginning to feel that he had fallen into some trap, “is it that a man like you, who can look with this much detachment at human inconsistencies, cannot transcend an unimportant and temporary embarrassment? Surely, you ought not to be driven out of a life’s work just because of—”
“I didn’t say that those were my reasons.”
“I’m sorry. Of course you didn’t. What are your reasons?” The doctor was sunny.
“I cannot continue,” said Macroy slowly, “because there are too many people I cannot love.”
“Could you—er—amplify?”
“I mean that I felt so much anger. Fury. I hated them. I despised them. I wanted to hit them, shake them, scream at them, even hurt them back.”
“In particular?”
“It began—” said Macroy. “No, I think that when the police officer asked me whether I had pushed Sarah to her death . . . Oh, it hurt. Of course, it did. But I remembered that he might be compelled, by the nature of his duties, to ask me such a thing. But then there was a newspaperman. And when to him . . .” The face was bitter. “Sarah’s death meant somewhat less than the death of a dog would have meant to a man who never cared for dogs . . .”
Macroy’s voice became cutting-sharp. “That’s when I found myself so angry. I hated and I still do hate that man. From then on I have seemed to be hating, hating . . .”
The doctor was lying low, rejoicing in this flow.
“Sarah’s own child, for instance,” Macroy went on, “who was so cruel in her own pain. Oh, I know she was not herself. But I had better not go near her. I would want to make her suffer. Don’t you see? Of all the contemptible . . . I want revenge. Yes, I do. That young lawyer who missed the point. I know he meant no harm, but I just couldn’t . . .
I even loathe my poor secretary. For making some kind of idol out of me. But I’d known and understood and borne that for years. Even if she is wrong to do that, I should not suddenly loathe her for it. Yet I find I do. And I loathe the cowards and the hypocrites and the snickerers—they all disgust me. There seems to be no way that I can bring myself to love them. I simply cannot do it.”
“You cannot love?” droned the doctor hypnotically.
“Even the Bishop, who is a good man. When he refuses—oh, in all good heart—to hear the truth I keep trying to tell him, sometimes I must hang on desperately to keep from shouting at him. Isn’t that a dreadful thing?”
“That you can’t love?” said the doctor. “Of course it is a dreadful thing. When your young love died so many years ago, perhaps—”
“No. No!” Macroy groaned. “You don’t seem to understand. Listen to me. I was commanded to love. I was committed to love. And I thought I could, I thought I did. But if I cannot do it, then I have no business preaching in His Name.”
“I beg your pardon?” The doctor’s thoughts were jolted.
“In the Name of Jesus Christ.”
“Oh, yes. I see.”
“No, you don’t! You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”
The doctor got his breath and said gently, “I see this. You have a very deep conviction of having failed.”
“Indeed,” said Macroy, “and I am failing right now. I would like, for instance, to hit you in the mouth—although I know you are only trying to help me.”
The minister put bo
th hands over his face and began to cry bitterly.
The doctor waited it out, and then he said that they wouldn’t talk about it any more today . . .
When the Bishop returned to town he had a conference with Dr. Leone.
“He’s had a traumatic experience,” the doctor said, “that has stirred up some very deep guilt feelings, and, in projection, an almost unmanageable hostility that he never knew was there. I doubt he is as sophisticated as he thinks he is—in his understanding of the human psyche, I mean. He does need help, sir. He isn’t really aware of the demons we all harbor. It is going to take a lot of digging to get at the root.”
“Hm. A lot of digging, you say?”
“And I am not the man,” said Leone. “I doubt that he and I can ever establish the necessary rapport. Furthermore, my fees—”
“I know.” The Bishop was much distressed. “But what is to be done,
I wonder. He isn’t fit, you imply, to go on with his tasks?”
“You know he isn’t.”
“Oh, me,” The Bishop sighed. “And he has nobody, nowhere to be taken in. Since I—” the Bishop shook his head sadly— “am not the man, either. You don’t think this—this disturbance will simply go away? If he has shelter? And time to himself?”
“May I suggest,” said Leone smoothly, “that the State Hospitals are excellent? Very high-class in this state. And even the maximum fee is not too high.”
“Well, as to that, there is what amounts to a Disability Fund. I should also suppose that the Minters, who are very rich people—” The Bishop was thinking out loud. “—even if the marriage has to be declared invalid. But wouldn’t it be cruel?” The Bishop blinked his eyes, hard. “Am I old-fashioned to think it would be cruel?”
“Yes, you are,” said the doctor kindly. “He needs exactly what he can get in such a place—the shelter, the time, the trained attention. As far as time goes, it may be the quickest way to restore him.”
“I see. I see.” The Bishop sighed again. “How could it be done?”
“He would have to commit himself,” said Leone gently.
“He would do so, I think,” said the Bishop, “if I were to advise him to. It is a fearful—yet if there is no better alternative—”
“The truth is,” said Leone fondly, “you have neither the free time nor the training, sir.”
“We shall see,” said the Bishop, who intended to wrestle it out in prayer. “We shall see.”
Two years later Saul Zeigler approached the entrance with due caution. He had stuck a card reading PRESS in his windshield, anticipating argument since he wasn’t expected; but to his surprise there was no gate, no guard, and no questions were asked. He drove slowly into the spacious grounds, found the Administration Building, parked, locked his car, and hunted down a certain Dr. Norman.
“Nope,” said the doctor, a sandy-colored man who constantly smoked a pipe, “there is no story. And you won’t write any. Absolutely not. Otherwise, how’ve you been?”
“Fine. Fine,” said Zeigler, who was up-and-coming these days and gambling that he could become a highly paid feature writer. He’d had some bylines. “Just insane, eh?”
The doctor grinned cheerfully. “Not my terminology.”
“Put it this way: you’re not letting him out?”
“Uh uh.”
“Will you ever?”
“We hope so.”
“When?”
The doctor shrugged.
“Well, I suppose I can always make do with what I’ve heard,” said Zeigler impudently.
“Saul,” said the doctor, “your dad was my old buddy and if I’d been the dandling type I probably would have dandled you. So you won’t do this to me. Skip it. Go see Milly. She’ll have a fit if you don’t drop in to say hello.”
“So would I,” Zeigler said absent-mindedly. “Tell me, did he murder his wife?” There was no answer. “What set him off, then?”
“I’m not going to discuss a case with you or anybody else but the staff,” said the doctor, “and you know it. So come on, boy, forget it.”
“So how come I hear what I hear?” coaxed Zeigler.
“What do you hear?”
“You mean this is an instance of smoke without even one itty-bitty spark of fire? Not even one semi-miraculous cure?”
The doctor snorted. “Miraculous! Rubbish! And you’re not going to work up any sensational story about him or this hospital. I can’t help it if millions of idiots still want to believe in miraculous cures. But they’re not coming down on us like a swarm of locusts. So forget it.”
“I’ve met Macroy before, you know,” said Zeigler, leaning back.
“Is that so?”
“Yep. On the night it happened.”
“And what was your impression?”
“If I tell you,” said Zeigler, “will you, just for the hell of it and off the record, tell me what goes on here?”
The doctor smoked contemplatively.
“Religion and psychiatry,” said Zeigler, letting out his vocabulary and speaking solemnly, “have been approaching each other recently, wouldn’t you agree, Doctor—in at least an exploratory manner? Supposing that you had, here, a clue to that growing relationship. Is that necessarily a ‘sensational’ story?”
“Oh no, don’t don’t,” said the doctor. “For one thing, he isn’t preaching religion.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
Zeigler said, “You won’t even let me talk to him, I take it.”
“I didn’t say so. If we understand each other—”
“Well, it was a long drive and it shouldn’t be a total loss. Besides, I’m personally dying of curiosity. My impression, you want? Okay, I felt sorry for him, bleeding heart that I am. He was in shock and he sure had been pushed around that night. If he didn’t always make plain sense, all I can say is that I wouldn’t have made sense, either,” Zeigler waited.
“I will admit,” said the doctor between puffs, “that there have been some instances of sudden catharsis.” He cocked a sandy eyebrow.
“Don’t bother to translate,” said Zeigler, crossing the trouser legs of his good suit, because the reporter got around these days and needed front. “I did. How many instances?”
“A few.”
“Quite a few? But no miracles. Didn’t do a bit of good, eh?”
“Sometimes treatment was expedited.” The doctor grinned at his own verbiage. “We are aware of a running undercurrent. One patient advises another, ‘All right, you can go and talk to him.’”
“So if he doesn’t preach, what does he do?”
“I don’t know. They talk their hearts to him.”
“Why don’t you find out?” said Zeigler in astonishment.
“Tell me this, Saul. On that night was he annoyed with you in any way?”
“Might have been.” Zeigler frowned. “He sure brushed me off. But he had taken quite a beating. I didn’t blame him.”
“Why don’t you go and see him?” the doctor said. “I’d be interested in the reaction. Afterward, come by and we’ll make Milly feed us a bit of lunch.”
“Where can I find him?” Zeigler was out of the chair.
“How should I know?” said the doctor. “Ask around.”
Zeigler went to the door, turned back. “I don’t want to hurt him, Doc. How shall I—”
“Just be yourself,” the doctor said.
Zeigler came out into the sunshine of the lovely day. He had never been to this place before and it astonished him. He had expected a grim building with barred windows, and here he was on what looked like the sleepy campus of some charming little college, set between hills and sprawling fields, with the air freshened by the not-too-distant sea. There were green lawns and big trees and some mellow-looking buildings of Spanish design. There was even ivy.
It was very warm in the sun. He unlocked his car, tossed his jacket inside, and snatched the PRESS card away from the windshield. He locked the car again and
began to walk. Ask around, eh? There were lots of people around, ambling on the broad walks, sitting on the grass, going in and out of buildings. Zeigler realized that he couldn’t tell the patients from the staff. What a place!
The fourth person he asked was able to direct him.
The Reverend Hugh Macroy was sitting on a bench along the wide mall under one of the huge pepper trees. He was wearing wash trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt without a tie. He seemed at ease—just a handsome, well tanned, middle-aged gentleman growing quietly older in the shade.
Zeigler had begun to feel, although he couldn’t tell who was who around here, that they could and were watching him. He approached the man with some nervousness.
“Mr. Macroy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember me, sir? Saul Zeigler.”
“I don’t believe I do, Mr. Zeigler. I’m sorry.”
Zeigler remembered the voice well. But the face was not the old mask of agony and strain. The mouth was smiling, the dark eyes were friendly.
Zeigler said smoothly. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember. I met you only once, a long time ago, and very briefly. Is it all right if I sit down?”
“Of course.” The minister made a token shifting to give him more welcoming room on the bench and Zeigler sat down. “This place is sure a surprise to me,” said Zeigler.
The minister began to chat amiably about the place. He seemed in every way perfectly rational. Zeigler felt as if he were involved in a gentle rambling conversation with a pleasant stranger. But it wasn’t getting him anywhere.
He was pondering how to begin again when Macroy said, “But you are not a patient, Mr. Zeigler. Did you come especially to see me?”
“Yes, I did,” said Zeigler, becoming bold. “I’m a writer. I was going to write a story about you but I’m not allowed to. Well, I wanted to see you, anyway.”
“A story?”
“A story about all the good you do here.”
“The good I do?” said the man.
“I’ve heard rumors about the good you’ve done some of these—er—patients.”
“That isn’t any story,” Macroy seemed amused.
“So I’m told. And even if it is. I’m not going to be permitted to write it. I’ve given my word. Honestly. I won’t write it.”
Night Call and Other Stories of Suspense Page 27
