by Thomas Cater
“Any progress?” Virgil asked, but his interest was cool and indifferent.
“I think so, but it’s not easy to demonstrate,” I said. “I may be stuck, but I can’t be sure.”
He took a sheet of paper from the phone bench and passed it to me.
“Maybe this will put you back on the scent.”
It was a single phone number and the name ‘Harmon’.
“Someone called and asked for you. Said you were inquiring about Frank Harmon?”
It wasn’t a smoking gun, but it was better than nothing. I borrowed the phone and dialed.
“Charles Case,” I said. “You called about Frank Harmon?”
“Frank Harmon was my uncle,” the voice replied, “my daddy’s older brother. He worked in the Elanville mine in the 20s just before it closed. I got a picture of him if you’d care to see it,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr….”
“Harmon, Louis Harmon. My granddaughter said you called. I’ve been gone most of the day, cuttin’ fire wood, and shopping’ at Wal-Mart. It’s gettin’ close to that time of year, you know. The frost is on the pumpkin.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but suspected it had to do with the fact that fall was in the air and winter weather was threatening.
“Yes, Mr. Harmon, I would like to see the picture. What else can you tell me about your uncle?”
“Very little,” he replied soberly. “He stayed with us for awhile, but moved out and boarded with a family called Hess. Said it was closer to work and right in the center of the Elanville coal camp. I think he had to share a bed with someone who worked the night shift.”
“In one of those board and batten houses along the creek before you get to the Ryder house?” I asked.
“Yes, sir, that’s it exactly,” he said.
“You know which one?”
“’Fraid not. I was just a kid then, but I cannot forget my Uncle Frank. He was a sailor, traveled around the world on a Yankee clipper. Came back to West Virginia when his mother died and went to work in the mines, just long enough to earn enough money to go back to the sea,” he said. “He built us a row boat before he left and helped launch it on the river. I still own it, though its bottom has been replaced several times.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“Nope, don’t know when he left town, either, just vanished one day, left his things with us, but they’re gone too, sold or given away. I kept the scary wooden mask he got in Africa, still got it too. Care to see it?”
If circumstances were different, I would have been thrilled at the prospects. “Not this time.”
“I can remember my daddy askin’ folks in town about him, but no one had seen hide nor hair of him in years. They think he may have run off with a young girl who used to rent bicycles on Meade Street.”
“Where do you live, Mr. Harmon?”
“In town; 34 Orchard Street.”
“May I stop by tomorrow morning?”
“Looking forward to it,” he said.
“One more question,” I asked. “Was your Uncle Frank ever married or engaged?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he said. “He was a lady’s man though, liked ‘em young and pretty, couldn’t seem to get his fill, as you will most likely be able to tell from his picture. He was a real dandy, but he never tied the knot, not formally, if you know what I mean.”
I thanked him for returning the call and hung up. I was hopeful and expectant, and walked back to the table.
“Well, I think I may have found Elinore’s husband.”
“You have, where?” Violet inquired.
“I don’t mean found, literally, I mean found a trace of him. His name is Frank Harmon and his elderly nephew lives on Orchard Street. Tomorrow I’m going to check it out.”
“When did he go?” Virgil asked.
“His nephew doesn’t know, but probably around the time Elinore found out she was pregnant.”
“Just like a man,” Violet said.
“Probably in the mid 20s or 30s,” Virgil said, ignoring her comment. “When the mines shut down, many people left the area to find work. Some walked away from their homes and never came back. They lost everything. They didn’t bother to clear the table, just walked out, left everything the way it was and never came back.”
“That sounds tragic,” I said.
“Those were hard times,” Virgil said, “especially here. No one had a dime to spare. That article you read, the one about fruit and vegetables rotting on the vine, could mean that it was rotting because it never got picked, not because something had turned it bad …”
That was something I had not considered, though it did not seem likely. It also explains why Frank Harmon left without taking his bride. He couldn’t afford her, or she was being held against her wishes.
“I can’t imagine him leaving and not coming back. I suspect she was waiting for him to return,” I said.
“What makes you think so?” Virgil asked.
“A recent encounter,” I replied.
“At the house?” I nodded.
“Tell me about it,” he pleaded.
“I’m worn out and hungry,” I said. “I haven’t eaten in hours and I feel like I’ve been driving all day.”
“We’ve got some left over pot roast if you’re interested.”
“I’m interested,” I added.
He gave Violet a warm and friendly mile “Now, let’s hear it.”
I told them about the séance.
“Jesus,” he said. “You’re lucky those people’s brains weren’t fried.”
“God’s children,” I said thankfully.
I told him about the Alberichs, the trip through the mine and me ending up in the basement of the Ryder house. I told him about my desperate run for the wall and taking a knockout punch from … something.
“You are lucky you’re alive,” he said, but with little conviction.
“I don’t think its luck,” I said. “I think its destiny. It was predestined. While I was wandering around in Cambodia visiting jungle WATS, I knew then that I would end up in this county and spend the rest of my life in that house.”
They were both silent and cautiously avoided eye contact.
The aroma of pot roast permeated the kitchen. We played cribbage for two hours, talked and joked about things that had happened, but in other circumstances would have been impossible to believe.
“What are you going to do if you can’t change things? What if Elinore doesn’t want to leave?” Violet asked.
“I’ve thought about it,” I said, “but it has never occurred to me that she won’t leave, if she gets what she wants. If I find out why Frank left, and why Samuel built the wall and brought in a seeing-eye baboon …”
There was a moment of silence, and then “What?”
“I guess I forgot to tell you about the baboon,” I said.
A few minutes later, they shook their heads in disbelief. “That’s too weird even for me to believe,” Violet said.
“Think about it,” I said. “What other useful purpose could it serve?” Harboring serious doubts of my own, I was hopeful they might be able to see some new wrinkle in the possibility.
“I don’t know,” Violet said, “but I certainly don’t believe in seeing-eye baboons.”
“Why not? They’re very intelligent animals, or so I’ve been told.” I was not trying to convince her, but to advise her of the possibilities.
Virgil grinned and shook his head defiantly. “I think it’s time you headed home. This country air is poisoning your mind.”
That wasn't the kind of advice I wanted to hear. Once upon a time, I was the skeptic, but I listened and learned. Now if he could do the same, we might both be better off.
“I’m not going back to Washington, not as long as spirits are occupying my home.”
Violet, who had been waiting patiently, finally spoke. “I think we should start seeking help from a higher authority,” she said, sounding very much
like her mother.
“That idea sucks,” I growled.
Her eyes widened and nearly protruded from their sockets.
“There is no higher authority,” I said, glaring angrily. “God hasn’t heard a prayer from anyone in this place in years. The churches, the preaching, it’s meaningless. Everyone in this country wears a false mask.”
It was the wrong thing to say and the wrong place to say it. A painful hush fell over the kitchen. The next thing I heard was my own voice humbly trying to apologize for the outburst.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m the wrong one to judge. Believe me, I am the blackest pot in the lot.”
“Don’t apologize,” Violet said calmly. “You’re not the first to see through us. We’ve all been wearing masks too long. We need someone to rip the masks from our faces. What should we do?”
“Stop dodging responsibility and start believing in the life you abandoned. Try to help others. Stop building so damned many churches and start building affordable housing. Pay more attention to those struggling to keep body and soul together, and a little less TV. Stop waiting for heaven to miraculously appear in the sky and start discovering it on the street. Look after your neighbors; it’s the best investment you’ll ever make, better than a condo at some resort.”
I really did not expect to convert anyone with that tacky little sermon.
“I’m really a black-hearted bastard,” I said, “but I don’t like to see folks needlessly damaged.”
“What really hurts is that you’re probably right,” she said.
“I hope not. I hope I’m dead wrong … no, just wrong.”
Chapter Forty-One
After two bowls of hearty pot roast, I was invited to park my van on the street all night. At 9 pm, I turned in, curled up in bed and started reading Grier’s journals. I thumbed through his notes and conclusions to see what he’d learned after months of serious reflection.
“Monkeys with frontal lobe extirpation remember old tricks and often learn new ones.”
So where did he get his monkeys to extirpate, or was he substituting the word monkey for men? I couldn’t recall seeing any invoices or receipts for experimental monkeys, and I had serious questions about the availability of psychotic monkeys, or how he could tell them apart from the relatively normal one. Then again, they might have been circus monkeys.
“They accept frustration with philosophic calm,” he wrote. I imagine that had a great deal to do with their extirpation.
I was not surprised to learn he had conducted a few experiments, but they were not with monkeys; they were on, or about that big baboon.
The notes continued; “used a superior approach and cut four to six cores of white matter from the frontal lobe of 20 psychotic patients.”
The word psychotic I suspect was justification for experiments conducted on humans.
“Using a wire loop, I severed white tissue. There was a definite reduction in tension and decreased psychotic disorientation.”
Anterior to this note, but meant to be included was the following: “I have observed a degeneration of medial, dorsal and anterior thalamic nuclei following operations. Severing the connection between the thalamic and frontal cortex interrupts and reduces the intensity of the emotional charge imported to abnormal ideation.”
His monkeys and patients however were not pelting each other with their own feces.
“Numerous cysts developed in and around the plane of section. Morbidity included hemorrhage and convulsive seizures.”
His interest in patients bordered on primitive indifference. He was in to pure science, while others could barely separate themselves from the pain of their patients. He did however frequently refer to them in his journal by their first or clinical names and initials.
As I thumbed through a record, trying to find notes on Elinore, I stumbled upon a passage that had a discretionary quality about it, as if Grier were trying to conceal some unpleasant information. It was buried in a paragraph I would have only briefly scanned, if it had not been for the use of the words, “weight gain.”
It was the first time in the past pages I had noticed any reference to basic physiology at all. I re-examined the top of the page and discovered that he had again only used the initial of this patient’s name.
“L’s condition continues to deteriorate. The visions she experiences are increasing, and the depth of her despair deepens. Still I find very little physiologically disruptive. The dreams and visions have to do with her state of mind.
“Postponing the inevitable is a cruelty to her, but I am not ready yet. I need more time to prepare. I have noticed a marked weight gain in her slight figure. If I didn’t know better, I might suspect pregnancy. God help us all if that were true. There is no telling what he would do.”
How many times had I seen references to the initial L and ignored them. Now I would have to go through the pages again and review.
L could only stand for Elinore. She was all too often a guest at the hospital and under his care. I consulted my graph. It was a time in which I knew nothing of her activities. She could have been in and out of the hospital a number of times before the actual operation. The journal I was reading now had dates written in it ranging between 1920s and 1925s.
I would have to be more deliberate and exercise more caution. I was in too much of a hurry, and I was going to miss something meaningful if I was not careful.
There were random notes on a multitude of case studies: “Tommy C.: patient’s behavior is unacceptable. Some impairment in the capacity for concept formation and planning, makes impulsive decisions, but deliberates intently over the slightest gestures. Motivational drive is often reduced; laziness or apathy is particularly evident. Ambition and goal-directed activity diminished.” Leucotomy might help was penciled in beside the note.
“Case: Amanda Dew: Patient has become less aware of her environment. Seeks out and enjoys the company of others. I have discerned that intelligence is not a function of the prefrontal regions, nor is it altered by removal. There is something more important in the personality and that something is driven by motivation. Also, meaningful effects on behavior can be achieved by operating on both frontal lobes.”
He likened her to a happy puppet, laughing and swaggering drunkenly, and falling down on her arse.
“Case: Jedidiah Jones: injected alcohol into sub-cortical white matter. Patient’s depression was relieved. While seeming to be emotionally charged, feelings have less depth and emotional equilibrium cannot be sustained. Example: anger may suddenly flare up, but forgotten just as quickly. More operations required on this patient.
“Later: Resected portions of the left hemisphere. Six cores made into each frontal lobe. Patient has recovered equilibrium at the price of intellectual impoverishment.”
There were several addenda to this case, including, “I hope I have done the right thing. I feel it is better for Jed to survive with a simplified intellect capable of elementary deeds than a mind wherein the disorder of psychosis reins. ‘The world can accommodate the most humble laborer, but it distrusts and fears the words and deeds of the convoluted thinker.’” Nice quote, I thought.
Another entry reported, “Convulsions and episodes of violence occurred resulting in death. During autopsy, I removed the thyroid, thymus and pituitary for production of serum. I have completed fifty series of injections on Alberichs to restore the inadequate development of their own thyroids. I have also observed an unusual development to their lower jaw. It seems to be growing out of proportion with the rest of their undeveloped bodies. But in a case like this, who can say what is normal?”
Something was also going on near my own giddy thymus, some joyous apprehension of events about to be revealed. A great pain in the heart for unfinished work accompanied it. I knew, however, what the result was going to be. I was trying to make something happen again, the way it should, but did not.
I wondered about other experiments Grier may have been conducting. There must have
been others. Didn’t the Alberichs say, “They came to us without eyes?” Surely, all of those tests and experiments weren’t performed as a prelude to one operation?
I found another paragraph about L. The date was several months later. “L continues to gain weight. I checked with the kitchen and it cannot be her diet. I suspect she is pregnant. I will have the floor nurse watch to see if there is any sickness. How could this have happened? I hope, god forbid, the child’s father isn’t one of the patients.”
I made a note of the page and the paragraph on my chronological table. There was a good chance that Elinore was three or four months pregnant at that time. I wondered if she was aware of the fact. I began to feel the same trepidation Grier felt when I thought about what Samuel might do when he found out.
I had to keep reminding myself that all of this nasty business happened more than a half century ago, and all the parties to the drama were dead and buried, but unfortunately not gone.
More information about L. “She is most assuredly pregnant,” the note declared, “But what am I to do? If he finds out, I am ruined. He’ll send me to prison. I must find out if she knows what has happened. If she doesn’t … for the time being, I’ll tell her she has a tumor.”
A tumor? Damn, that was a nasty, a butt-saving trick, just when I was getting fond of liking him.
“She knows it’s a child,” notes on the following pages confirmed. “What’s more she has plans to marry her lover and has sworn me to secrecy. Thank God, at least the child wasn’t conceived in the hospital, but in her own home.”
There was another appended note: “Samuel is scheduled to return within the week and with the wild creature. I hope he doesn’t insist upon going through with this insane operation. I should not have confided my studies and research with him.”
The creature? It sounded as if he were finally talking baboon. Yabadabadoo said the monkey to the chimp. I thought I’d give myself some breathing room and take a break. I knew he wasn’t talking lobotomy. It was the cutting and dicing he’d been rehearsing; the eye transplant.
I needed something sweet to enjoy. My urine was once again beginning to smell like hard apple cider. I needed a granulated sugar sandwich or something equally as molecularly devastating, but it was not to be. I spooned Skippy peanut butter from a plastic jar on two slices of bread, cut and chopped onions into thick rings, and filled their centers with chewable bits of banana; a feast fit for a king. It was the kind of pleasure a reasonable man couldn’t live without.
