The Cold Smell of Sacred Stone

by George C. Chesbro

  “She left,” the boy said in a tone of hurt and disbelief.

  “It certainly looks that way,” I said with a sigh. Despite myself, I was beginning to feel just a bit guilty. Dane Potter had indeed come at me with a knife—but then, Dane Potter was a certified loony; I’d beat on him badly, and scared him probably more than I had to. The boy had done some bad things to a few people, but his file also indicated that a few people had done some very bad things to him. “I’m taking you back to the hospital now, Dane,” I continued as I steered him around and headed back the way we had come. “You’re going to tell the staff there exactly what happened here tonight; whether or not you want to tell them about Marilyn is up to you. Then we’ll see if we can’t find a dentist on call who’ll be able to put your teeth back in your head.”

  “Frederickson?”

  “What?” I answered curtly. Suddenly I felt so tired, emotionally and physically drained, that I could hardly keep my eyes open. Having a crazy teenager jump me with a knife had been an aggravation I hadn’t needed.

  “Do you really think that business with the woman was all in my mind?”

  “You tell me, Dane.”

  “I thought it happened.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now maybe I’m not so sure.”

  “Talk it over with your therapist, Dane. He or she will help you try to sort it out.”

  “What will happen to me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t want to go back to DFY.”

  “If people thought you were responsible for your actions, you wouldn’t have been sent to the hospital in the first place. It’s your job to become responsible—listen to the doctors, study hard in school, and try hard to keep your head together. They just want you to get well. Me too.”

  “Frederickson?”

  “What?”

  “I hope you believe me when I say I’m sorry I … did what I did. I really am.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Dane. That’s really sweet of you. If I think about it long enough, I’ll probably be sorry I kicked you in the mouth.”

  10.

  The next day, a Wednesday, I wasn’t called to teach; I was called to answer a lot of questions from hospital officials and the police in connection with the attack on me by Dane Potter. I was asked if I wanted to prefer charges. I did not.

  Continuing anxiety concerning Garth’s bizarre behavior combined with my tussle with Dane Potter the night before had left me feeling out of sorts, and I decided to give myself a break from tension for the rest of the morning. I read the Times over brunch, took a long walk, and then a nap. In the late afternoon I went to see Garth.

  My brother wasn’t in his room. I waited around for a half hour, and when he didn’t show up I went looking for him. I was on my way to the nurses’ station to ask if he’d been taken for more tests when I passed the Day Room and saw Garth inside sitting at a card table and talking with three other patients. There was a deck of cards in the center of the table, but the men seemed more interested in their conversation than their game. Garth was dressed in new clothes; jeans, a wool plaid shirt, and moccasins. He had his Walkman clipped to his belt, but the earphones were hanging around his neck. I watched them for a little while, and saw that it was Garth who was doing most of the talking; the others were leaning forward over the table, apparently listening intently to whatever it was he was saying. All four men looked over at me as I came into the Day Room and walked up to them, and I had the distinct feeling that I had interrupted some personal, intense, private conversation.

  “Hi, Garth,” I said brightly, feeling very much like an intruder.

  “Hello, Mongo,” Garth replied easily. “How’s your head?”

  “It’s okay,” I said, resisting the impulse to tell him that it was his head I was worried about. “How are you feeling?”

  My brother put the earphones back on his head, turned on the Walkman, and adjusted it to low volume. “Garth is feeling fine. Thank you.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence, during which Garth and the other men simply stared at me. “I’m Bob Frederickson,” I said at last to Garth’s audience, smiling and extending my hand.

  One by one the men introduced themselves, shook my hand—and then turned their heads toward Garth, as if looking for direction. I expected Garth to excuse himself from the group and come back with me to his room to talk. Instead, he simply sat and stared at me, a curious half smile on his face. I tried a few conversational gambits, none of which produced anything more than perfunctory responses. I was growing increasingly uncomfortable.

  “I’ve interrupted your card game,” I said as I rose to my feet. “You guys go ahead and play.”

  And they did; whatever it was they had been discussing before I’d come in, they weren’t going to resume the conversation while I was there. Garth turned up the volume on his Walkman slightly, then shuffled the deck of cards and started dealing. I turned and left.

  After kicking Dane Potter’s teeth out of his head, I thought the children’s hospital wouldn’t be too anxious to use me again. I was wrong. I got a call early the next morning asking me to come in and substitute for the English teacher. Dane Potter, his teeth surgically reimplanted and wired in place, was in one of my classes; he was properly subdued and respectful, and even joked with me a couple of times. Word of the incident had gotten around, and I got a lot of attention from all the kids in the hospital. I responded as best I could, but I was still feeling distinctly out of sorts.

  I felt as if a crucial decision I had never expected to have to make was being forced on me, and my dilemma was generating a good deal of internal pressure.

  After school I traipsed across the field at the back of the children’s hospital toward the main complex—and was startled to see Garth, earphones on his head, walking down the hillside toward me, holding the hands of an old man and old woman who were determinedly, eagerly, shuffling alongside him. Garth was smiling; the old man and woman were smiling. Tommy Carling, a bemused expression on his face and looking like nothing so much as a chaperone or mother hen, was walking down the hillside about twenty yards behind the trio.

  Garth merely nodded to me as we came abreast, and then continued on with his two elderly charges, speaking to one and then the other. Both the old man and the old woman had rapt expressions on their faces.

  I waited for Tommy Carling, then fell into step beside the ponytailed male nurse. “I’m surprised to see Garth outside,” I said.

  Carling shrugged his broad shoulders. “Why shouldn’t he be? He’s not violent, and he’s given no indication that he’s a threat to himself or others; if gentleness was radioactive, Garth would glow in the dark. Patients who aren’t violent or too unpredictable are given outside privileges to walk around the grounds as long as they have a nurse, aide, or male relative with them.”

  “If Garth is functioning so well,” I said carefully, “maybe it’s time I took him home.”

  Carling looked at me, raised his eyebrows. “Just because he’s functioning doesn’t mean he’s healthy—or that he might not suffer a relapse and go catatonic on us again.”

  “Granted.”

  “With Garth, you can never be quite sure where he’s going to be from one day to the next.”

  “Granted; but maybe he can heal just as well—or better—at home. If he has a relapse, I can always bring him back here.”

  “Where would you take him?”

  “Back to his own apartment; I’d stay with him. I moved in with him after I got burned out of my own apartment. I’ve been looking for a new apartment, but I’ll just put that off until everyone agrees that Garth is well—or as well as he’s likely to get.”

  “Mongo,” Tommy Carling said in a low voice, “Garth’s only been conscious and out of bed for a couple of days. Why are you in such a hurry to get him out of here?”

  I looked down at the grass, debating how much of the basis for my concern I could—should—share with Tommy Carling. Despite
his disarming, often foppish, manner, and despite his healing skills and his obvious concern for Garth, Tommy Carling was, above all else, a Defense Intelligence Agency employee with a high security clearance, and the D.I.A., was not the Little Sisters of Mercy; in a crunch, there was no doubt—or little doubt—in my mind where Carling’s loyalties would lie. The first horn of my dilemma, made even sharper by the fact that the K.G.B. wasn’t the Little Sisters of Mercy, either. The second horn was the fact that, despite the first horn, the D.I.A. clinic, with its decidedly mixed bag of what could be conflicting interests, not to mention the possibility of Russian infiltration, might still be the best place for Garth. I didn’t even want to think about how I would feel if Garth suffered any more damage because of a wrong move I might make, or a right move I might not make, so I decided to dance around the subject a little while longer, and see where the conversation might lead.

  “I’m just not sure he wouldn’t be more comfortable in his own place, in familiar surroundings,” I said.

  Carling was silent for some time. Finally, he said quietly: “I think it’s you who’s not comfortable here, Mongo. And it’s Garth who’s making you uncomfortable. Am I right?”

  “There’s some truth in what you say.”

  “But you’re not the patient, Mongo. Garth has given no indication that he wants to leave. I’m sorry if I sound rude, but I have to ask if you’re certain that you have Garth’s best interests in mind when you talk about taking him out of here.”

  “He’s up and about, and it occurs to me that he might begin to act more normal if he were placed back in normal surroundings.”

  Garth had sat the old couple down on swings outside one of the children’s cottages and was gently pushing them. All three mental patients looked perfectly content, and no staff from the children’s hospital had come out to complain of their presence. Carling sat down on the grass, and I sat beside him. I declined his offer of a cigarette, and he lit one for himself.

  “Garth has a great gift,” the male nurse said, picking a speck of tobacco off his lower lip as he exhaled.

  “For what?” I asked in a tone that was more curt than I’d meant it to be. “As a companion for old people, or as a budding music critic specializing in Wagner?”

  Carling, resting on his elbow, turned his head and looked at me. “You’re upset because I suggested that you might be more worried, even if unconsciously, about your own feelings than you are about your brother’s welfare.”

  “No, Tommy, I’m not upset,” I said evenly. “It shows me that you’re thinking about Garth, and I like that. You continue to worry about Garth, and I’ll worry about my feelings.”

  Carling dragged deeply on his cigarette, pointed down the hillside at the trio on the swings. “Look at him down there. Those two old people listening so intently to whatever it is your brother is saying to them are considered hopelessly senile, with virtually no attention span for anything. I was told when I signed them out from the geriatric section that they didn’t respond to anybody. Obviously, the staff who told me that were wrong.”

  “Are they from the clinic?”

  “No; they’re just regular patients at the hospital. But you see how they respond to Garth; a lot of very sick people respond remarkably well to Garth. He seems able to relate to them in a way no one else can.”

  “He just doesn’t relate to normal people.”

  “That seems to be true, unfortunately, at this point. That doesn’t diminish his gift, or the power of that gift. I’ve spent a lot of years trying to do what little I can to alleviate the suffering of others, and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “How did those two end up with my brother?”

  “Garth asked if he might be allowed to volunteer to work with other patients in the hospital. Geriatrics is always looking for volunteer companions two or three hours a day. I got Dr. Slycke’s permission to take him out, and here we are. I think it’s remarkable the way Garth is able to calm and communicate with them. This gift he has even works with the men in the secure unit.”

  “What was Garth doing in the secure unit?” I asked, feeling a sudden sense of alarm. I was not sure Garth would—or could—defend himself anymore.

  “He walked in; voluntarily. I explained to you that the other patients can go in there and use the facilities, as long as things are quiet there.”

  “What did he do in there?”

  “Talk—for hours. And the others just sat and listened.”

  “What was he talking about?”

  “Who knows? I didn’t stay in there with him, but the other nurses tell me he always spoke in a low voice, and tended to clam up whenever one of them got too close. He wasn’t causing a disturbance, or stressing the men—quite the opposite—so nobody objected. Hell, even Mama Baker sat and listened to him, and for Mama Baker to sit still for fifteen minutes without cursing somebody out is quite an accomplishment.” Carling paused, smiled thinly. “Still, I wouldn’t advise you to visit there again. Mama still hears voices commanding him to kill dwarfs. Incidentally, I’m really sorry about what happened that day.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yes, it was; it’s my responsibility to be aware of any situation that can unduly stress a patient. At the time I wasn’t aware of Mama’s obsession with killing dwarfs, and I should have been. Anyway, it seems that Garth has developed a marked talent for communicating with the sick and the hopeless. He’s able to break through all sorts of psychic walls, and he gives them comfort.”

  “Dr. Slycke told me about his empathy.”

  “I don’t think ‘empathy’ is a strong enough word to describe it; I’m not sure there is a word. The other patients seem to believe that Garth knows exactly how they feel, and that gives them comfort. We’re both watching him right now bring a senile old man and woman out of their shells, but I’ve also watched him calm violent patients. He not only cries when he listens to that music; I’ve seen him cry when other patients talk to him about their troubles. But, like you said, he doesn’t relate to normal people. He’ll talk or really listen to you only if he perceives you to be suffering. It’s almost as if the rest of us aren’t really there. Or we don’t matter to him. It’s not only you he treats that way, Mongo. His attitude toward Dr. Slycke, the other staff, and me is one of benign neglect. He functions, will do what he’s asked to do without question, and will listen to you politely; but you can tell that he’s not actually relating. You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean. I also know that Garth and I have gone through a hell of a lot of good and bad times together. I’m not just anybody; I’m his brother.”

  “Yes,” Tommy Carling said quietly as he blew a smoke ring, then butted out his cigarette in the grass. “But, again at the risk of being rude, I might suggest that an outside observer could conclude that you’re envious of all the attention Garth is lavishing elsewhere.”

  “I won’t deny that I’m hurt by Garth’s reaction—or lack of it to me, Tommy. I also won’t deny that I’m more than just a bit egocentric, but I’m not so self-centered that I can’t separate my interests and needs from Garth’s.” I paused, trying to decide where I wanted to go next. I sensed that the conversation had reached a critical juncture, and I would either have to back off or go ahead. I went ahead. “After a certain point, which I think may have been reached, I have some doubts about the staff of this clinic being able—or even wanting—to make the same distinctions.”

  The male nurse slowly removed another cigarette from his pack, lit it with a butane lighter. When he spoke, his tone was flat. “You question the quality of the care Garth’s been receiving, Mongo?”

  “I’m not talking about you, Tommy. You have quite a gift yourself for working with the sick and helpless; I believe that you truly care for Garth, and have only his interests in mind. You’re a good man and a good nurse, but you don’t do the strategic thinking or make the final decisions around here.”

  “I have a lot of input, Mongo.”


  “I’m not talking about strictly medical decisions.”

  “Then I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t know what’s going on in the minds of Dr. Slycke and the other psychiatrists here, or what their long-range concerns may be. I’m suggesting that Garth’s best interests and the interests of the Defense Intelligence Agency may begin to diverge, if they haven’t already. After all, what’s Garth doing in this secret clinic in the first place?”

  Carling tugged absently at his ponytail, then nodded. “Now I see what you’re getting at. But the doctors here are good, Mongo.”

  “I’m not questioning their medical skills, Tommy; just their loyalties. Their paychecks come from the D.I.A.”

  “Like me,” Carling said with a thin smile.

  “Like you.”

  “Yet, you’re willing to have this conversation with me?”

  “Obviously. Can you see me trying to have it with Slycke?”

  “I thought this Mr. Lippitt, the big poohbah who authorized Garth’s admittance here and gave you the Z-13 pass, was a personal friend of yours and your brother’s.”

  “He is, and I’m not questioning his motives in placing Garth here; indeed, I’m grateful to him. But we were all dealing with an emergency then; now, things are different.”

  “How are things different?”

  “For one thing, obviously, Garth isn’t catatonic any longer. Now, Garth has gone through any number of changes as a result of being poisoned with that shit; what worries me is that certain D.I.A. personnel might consider it imperative, for security reasons, to keep Garth here for close observation, even if it might be better, for medical reasons, to send him home. Those same personnel would consider it more important to observe the long-range effects of NPPD poisoning than to get Garth’s head working right; they’re going to be thinking about national security implications, and how they can use what they’re learning from Garth.”