The Diagnosis

by Alan Lightman

  He ran under a dark overpass. Bits of sandwiches, plastic wrappers, and metallic soda cans crunched painfully under his feet. He could smell the odor of soot and automobile exhaust. Beyond the overpass, on the right, rose a stone office building in ruins, cradled by iron scaffolding and illuminated by the neon sign of a funeral parlor next door. He peered inside the glass windows, searching for a telephone, but all he could see were dark rows of desks and chairs. He must find a telephone, he thought to himself, although he could not remember who he should call. And a reliable wristwatch. Again, his thoughts dwelled on what had happened to him. How had it happened? How had it happened? He must think. He must not panic. Now he needed a telephone. He was wasting time. His cellular phone, where was it?

  An automobile honked at him. Startled, he leaped to the sidewalk, tripping over a bottle. It rolled over the curb and shattered on the street. Disturbed from his thoughts, he now became aware that cars were thundering past on the wide avenue, one after another, their windows rolled down in the heat, their radios forcing loud music into the warm evening air. “Need a do?” someone in a tank top yelled from the window of a passing car. The automobile slowed as it slid past Chalmers and examined him, then accelerated with a blast when another car behind it began honking.

  Smells of urine and stale beer jumped up from the sidewalk. Chalmers swooned. He covered his nose with a shirtsleeve and slumped against a streetlamp, afraid to look down at the filth. Something mushy and foul had started to seep through his thin hospital booties. In the yellow light of the streetlamp he was clearly visible to all passersby. A group of teenagers drove by in a convertible with the top down, gawking at him. “What do we have here?” they yelled out and laughed. “Look at this asshole.”

  Chalmers let go of the streetlamp and ran for the shadows. Continuing along the broad avenue, he came to a curving wall of apartments three stories high, red brick in the lamplight, with stone steps and iron handrails leading up to each doorway. Half-eaten pizzas and beer bottles littered the sidewalks in front. As he passed, fragments of TV commercials and voices escaped through the open windows, drowsy arguments over money, small cries of love and jealousy, magnified by the undulating acoustics of the building and the hot stench of trash in the narrow alleys below. Some of the residents had wandered down from their baking rooms and sprawled on their front steps, half naked in undershirts and nightgowns. They sighed as they rubbed ice cubes on their faces, they scratched their panting dogs and cats, and from time to time they shouted back at their children to shut up and go to bed. Could he possibly borrow a telephone? With amusement they stared at him. “What did you trade for those duds you got on?” someone hollered. “You lost, or what?” When he turned his steps toward one of the doorways, the couple in front began whispering and then fled inside of the building, locking the door behind them.

  Just beyond the row of red brick apartments an illuminated sign revolved on a pole, advertising hats. “Elegance For All Occasions. You Need A Bateson Hat.” Chalmers could see a row of hats, dimly lit, behind glass. Instinctively, he put his hand to his bare head, wondering whether he should buy a hat. The fingers of his left hand tingled and felt slightly numb.

  “There he is. It’s the asshole again,” shouted the carload of teenagers. Apparently with nothing to do on a hot Wednesday night they had returned to taunt Chalmers. They crept beside him in their automobile, ignoring the loud honking of horns. One of the young men pulled his pants down and mooned Chalmers. Roaring with laughter, they sped away. “Punks!” Chalmers shouted at their vanishing car.

  How long had he been walking? A mile, two miles. At the intersection of Mass Ave. and Columbus he spotted Al’s City Diner, gigantically lit up with green blinking lights above its glass entrance. It was locked. Also locked was the beauty supply store next door, with wigs and perfumes in its windows. Two men stood motionless in the asphalt parking lot and stared at Chalmers as he tried the two doors. He turned and walked along Columbus Avenue, almost empty of people and cars but with nicer shops and tall buildings in the distance.

  A name appeared in his mind. George Mitrakis. A bear of a man with a neck reeking of cologne. Bill could see disjointed images of his office: his desk, a computer terminal, a beige carpet. George Mitrakis. With that recollection, he shouted with happiness and began walking more purposefully. His memory was returning, and its return forced a pleasant gush of blood through his veins. Thank God, his memory was coming back. Immediately he heard footsteps and glanced over his shoulder. The two men from the beauty parking lot followed, walking at an easy gait and talking in low voices to each other. Behind them, on Massachusetts Avenue, cars flew by in a thin yellow haze of automobile exhaust and the Al’s City Diner sign rotated red and gold against the dark sky like an airplane about to make a night landing and the glass of shop windows glittered in the neon lights. Chalmers wiped the sweat from his face and walked faster. So did the two men. Were they pursuing him? He broke into a run, bringing agony to his feet, for the hospital shoes had already begun to shred and fall apart. The steps behind him turned into an ugly rhythm of drumbeats, racing to catch up with him, louder. His feet burned and he heard the panting breaths of the men. A sweaty arm threw him down to the ground.

  “We ain’t hurting you,” said one of the men, standing over him and wheezing. “We just want your wallet. Give us your wallet.”

  “I don’t have a wallet,” said Chalmers. He screamed for help.

  “Shut the fuck up,” said the other man, gripping Chalmers around the neck. He roughly went through Chalmers’s pockets, finding a quarter, a button. “What kind of shit is this,” he growled and threw all of it into the darkness. “You some kind of weirdo? You playing with us?” The two men walked away unhurriedly, turned down a side street, and were gone.

  Laughter and music floated in the warm sticky air. How long had he been sitting on the sidewalk? Even without touching his body he knew that he was unhurt, but he could still feel the sweaty clasp of the thief, and he trembled. The music again, something familiar about it, a sweetness and warmth, like small bits of sunlight.

  CHURCH

  Somewhere, a churchbell began chiming. Twelve chimes, midnight. Days, it seemed, since he had escaped from the hospital and the chewy odor of milk of magnesia. He stood up in his sagging pants and walked in the direction of the bells, passing apartments and shops, a brightly lit parking lot with Volkswagens, old Fords, Mercedes sedans, a forest-green Jaguar. Then there appeared the unmistakable towers and arches of a church, its stained-glass windows pulsing in the blinking light of a nail-care salon next door. Voices and laughter grew louder and merrier, and he realized that they poured from the great open doors of the church. Open arms waiting to hold and comfort him. Impulsively, he walked up the stone stairway and entered.

  Inside were hundreds of people, drinking and eating. To Bill’s surprise, they were playing bingo. It was an enormous space, with chandeliers and fans dangling from the vaulted ceiling and massive arched windows on the side walls. At the front of the church, on a raised stage, a young woman picked colored balls from a giant bowl while a sweating man stood at the pulpit and blurted out the numbers into a microphone. His voice could barely be heard over the general commotion and the music from Oklahoma booming out of the balcony.

  Chalmers stood in confusion at the entrance. Within moments, an older woman, heavily rouged and swathed in blue satin from head to toe, approached him and insisted that he be her good luck charm. “You. Sadie wants you.” Other people had brought their own trinkets and charms, rabbit paws and yellowed teeth, foreign coins and curled photographs, all of which they had laid out in the pews and stroked before each pick of a numbered ball.

  Chalmers recoiled at the woman’s alcoholic breath, but she seized his arm with her damp hand and led him to her seat. “I’ve been waiting for you, sweetie,” she said, fanning her face with her bingo card. “Sadie is going to get rich tonight. You’ll see.” She smiled behind a blue veil of cigarette smoke. The room
felt like it was a hundred degrees. “You just sit right here beside me, sweetie. Would you like something to eat?” Chalmers stared at her without being able to talk. Regarding this response as a yes, Sadie stood up and shouted and waved a twenty-dollar bill in the air. A man sprinting up and down the aisles with a food cart brought sandwiches and beer. Although hungry, Chalmers was too dazed to eat. He sat down in the fog of smoke and mindlessly began unwrapping a sandwich. Sadie rattled her bracelets in satisfaction.

  “I 17,” shouted the man at the pulpit. His voice drowned in the hot sea of music and voices. “Louder,” cried someone in the back. There were hollers and laughter. As Chalmers looked about, he was overwhelmed by the squirming mass around him, people in business suits, people in dark service uniforms, in summer sundresses and casual shirts and trousers, attorneys, doctors, bankers, schoolteachers, computer programmers. All were constantly in motion, hopping up and down in their seats, dashing back and forth between the pews, negotiating deals to buy and sell other people’s partly filled cards, then flying back to their own seats before the next number was called. Scattered altercations broke out like small fires in a parched forest. Far in the back, a gallery of children sat glassy-eyed and lethargic in front of a row of television sets.

  “I 17,” the sweating man on the stage screamed again. “Fifty dollars for a card, up to five thousand to win.” “I 17,” someone shouted from the pews. The room boiled and Chalmers was dripping into his uneaten ham sandwich. The whirling fans succeeded only in circulating the hot smoke of a hundred cigarettes, while song flooded out of the choir balcony: I’m jist a girl who cain’t say no, I’m in a turrible fix.

  Chalmers staggered to his feet and looked for the door. Immediately, a well-dressed man began waving to him and smiling from across the smoky room. Chalmers peered at him from behind his napkin. Riley Appleson. Like the name of George Mitrakis, the name came to him in a sudden wave of recognition. Riley Appleson. Where did he know Appleson? He could remember seeing him on an elevator, the smell of wood polish. Appleson clearly recognized him as well, for he had begun to make his way down an aisle, still waving at Bill. Could Appleson be a friend? Or a business associate? He seemed like a business associate, moving forcefully and carrying a briefcase. Chalmers ducked down and into the next pew. What should he do? His head was spinning in confusion, he was not sure where he was, he could be imagining this entire smoke-filled room. Was Appleson real, or a dream? He longed to talk to him, to get help and memory. But he could not bear to let the other man see him at this moment in his absurd hospital booties and oversized pants. Or perhaps he was imagining that as well. What should he do? Keeping low, he looked around and found himself crouching next to a puffy-faced fellow wearing a ragged sweater in spite of the heat, alone and talking to no one. The floor under his feet was covered with cigarette butts. Just then a new number was announced and the puffy-faced man began analyzing his four bingo cards, twirling his fingers over the columns and rows. When he could not make a match, he threw his cigarette to the floor and sank back in his seat as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. Chalmers could see his small, frightened eyes and felt pity. He moved closer and started to speak, but the man glanced suspiciously at Chalmers and slid a few seats away. Now Chalmers poked his head up and saw that Appleson was still advancing in his direction, zigzagging across pews and down aisles, waving all the while. When Appleson got near the stage, however, his attention was diverted by the beautiful brunette at the bowl. Indeed, a half-dozen men lingered there, glancing appreciatively at the young woman as she swayed back and forth in her fringed cowgirl skirt, rhinestone-studded boots, and halter top. Chalmers stared at her in a daze, he could see the white flashing of her body. “Fifty dollars to play, up to five thousand to win,” she murmured to the men at the edge of the stage, while wives and girlfriends angrily waved them back to their seats. More people streamed into the church, clutching cushions and battery-operated fans and wallets of money, and Appleson temporarily disappeared in the crowd.

  Appleson. Appleson. It was possible that Chalmers’s identity, his entire life, was only fifty feet away. What should I do? he thought to himself. Should I go to Appleson? What will he tell me about myself? What kind of man am I? I could be a fraud. Or the president of a bank. I could be a slacker. Could I be a slacker? Who am I? Who am I? Chalmers stared at his hands, pale and porcelain, almost feminine. As he glanced again with uncertainty toward where Appleson had been, he heard an odd chattering behind him. Turning, he saw two middle-aged women with hands clasped as if in prayer. Both wore dull flowered dresses and stunning hats. Although he had no interest in the two women, Chalmers strained to hear what they were saying, for they seemed to be talking to him. After a few moments, one of the women motioned for him to join them. No, he shook his head. Her companion gestured again and smiled, then pointed with much significance at the ceiling. Chalmers craned his neck up but couldn’t see anything unusual overhead, aside from the great painted dome and stone buttresses. “Come here,” she mouthed with her lips, throwing him a look of urgency.

  The two women seemed friendly and harmless; perhaps they could help him. As he made his way to where they were sitting, he could hear their hoarse mutterings:

  Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,

  The Father of mercies and God of all comfort,

  Who comforteth us in all our affliction,

  That we may be able to comfort them that are in any

  affliction,

  Through the comfort wherewith we ourselves are

  comforted of Jesus.

  “It’s comforted of God,” said one of the women to her companion.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said comforted of Jesus.”

  “You say comforted of God, I’ll say comforted of Jesus. I’ve been saying the Corinthians for decades.”

  “You’re losing your mind, Blanche.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m losing my mind. My mind is as sharp as a cat’s claw.”

  The women scowled at each other and resumed their prayer:

  For as the sufferings of Christ abound unto us,

  Even so our comfort also aboundeth through Christ.

  “Gracious, you’ve come to pray with us,” one of the women said to Chalmers. She surveyed his trousers and shoes. “I’m Blanche. This is Marcia.” They moved over in the pews and offered him a seat.

  “I didn’t come to pray with you,” Chalmers said and released a sigh of fatigue.

  “Oh. In that case we apologize for disturbing you,” said Marcia pleasantly. “Please forgive us. Prayer should never be insinuated on people. It’s such a personal thing.” She was interrupted by shouts and cheers as the announcer called out a new number. “We just thought that you wanted to join us, the way you were staring at us.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was staring at you,” replied Chalmers.

  “Yes, you were,” said Blanche, dabbing at her face with a pink handkerchief. “But that’s all right. You don’t have to stay. You can go back to that other woman you were with.” She patted him on the hand. He barely felt her touch and realized that his left hand was numb. His other hand had begun tingling as well.

  “They shouldn’t allow alcohol in here,” said Marcia to Chalmers. “What do you think? I hope they all get sick.”

  “They allow it because the church gets fifteen percent of the pot,” said Blanche. “We should go to Newfaith, I keep telling you. They don’t allow alcohol at Newfaith.”

  “I’m not going to a Presbyterian church,” said Marcia. “I don’t feel comfortable in a Presbyterian church.” She turned again to Chalmers. “What denomination are you?”

  Chalmers shook his shoulders. He couldn’t remember what he was, or whether he was anything at all. “Do you mind if I sit with you for just a minute?” he asked. He was feeling shaky on his feet. “Not to pray, just to sit.” The women nodded and again smiled. Chalmers sank into the pew and slung back his head like a
heavy sack. He closed his eyes. He was struggling for more memory, he needed to remember. George Mitrakis, he mumbled. Riley Appleson. George Mitrakis.

  “You must be wondering why we come here to pray in the middle of the night,” said Marcia. “I think people wonder, but you can never ascertain for sure what’s in other people’s heads. It’s because we’re too busy on Sunday. We both work on Sunday. Blanche works at Bubby’s Delicatessen in Newton, and I work in the office of a certified public accountant. He pays overtime on Sunday.”

  “Oh,” said Chalmers. “I believe that I’m sick.” He opened his eyes and looked at Blanche, whose beautiful maroon hat was cocked back on her head and pinned to her hair. “I think I need a doctor.”

  “Gracious,” said Blanche. For a while, the two women didn’t say anything. They sat and dabbed at their perspiring faces with their handkerchiefs. Marcia adjusted her hat. “Would you excuse us just a moment?” said Blanche. They gathered their purses and moved to the aisle and down several rows, whispering to each other and casting occasional glances back at Chalmers. After a few moments, Marcia walked over and said, “Blanche wanted me to tell you that we are happy to have met you and you should go see a doctor.” With that, the two women hurried away, just as a new number was shouted through the hot, smoky air.

  Suddenly, a great agitation erupted in one part of the room. Chalmers leaned forward to see what was the matter. People were hollering and arguing and herding toward one of the pews. Someone raced down to the stage. At this point, a man whom Chalmers had not seen before appeared with much authority on the stage. He huddled with the announcer, the two of them gesticulating, waving clipboards, and receiving instructions from an invisible third party. “Bingo! Bingo!” screamed a woman. “Bingo!” A number of onlookers leaped to the stage and began shouting. Making his way through the waving arms and legs, the announcer got to his microphone and shouted, “We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner, the second bingo of the night.” Although no one could hear his exact words, their meaning was unmistakable, setting off an immediate frenzy of clapping and more shouting and stampeding toward the front to buy cards for the next round.