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In my gun-metal-blue Buick Reatta, we arrived in the gravel lot of CargoCo Unlimited shortly before eight o'clock. It was dark and cold, with a shrill February wind sweeping down upon and popping the corrugated tin panels of the stingily spotlighted warehouse. Nessa and I ducked into the attached entry shed—Vinny Fall had dropped a key by my office after a direct telephone request of his uncle—and made our way to both the door and the pass-through window to Vyvyan's private room. Rats, or gecko-sized cockroaches, scuttled among the shed's paint-gummed cans and cobwebbed cable spools.
"Vyvyan!" I shouted. "I've come for our session! Let me in!"
Although a little slow to respond, Vyvyan tocked the panel on the pass- through aside. A mottled cheek, and a lavender-gray ear like an al dente leaf of boiled cabbage, appeared there.
"Why do you not respect my incapacity? Why am I not permitted to withdraw recuperatively?"
"Because I care," I said. "Let me in."
To Nessa, I whispered: "Give me a couple of minutes to get him ready. I'll leave the door cracked. Step in when I whistle."
Vyvyan, hobbling on a single crutch, admitted me. The cubicle was dominated by a pond-sized quilt-strewn bed; an entertainment center from whose CD player came the muted strains of a Franz Lizst program symphony, possibly Faust; and wall-to-wall, ceiling-high shelves of paper- bound books. Vyvyan's aluminum crutch, I noticed, was as tall as I am.
"What?" he barked, uncharacteristically brusque. Well, he hadn't lied. He had both an injured foot and a cold. The protective cast confirmed his broken toe bones; the bluish tinge to the puffy planes of his face, his "catarrh."
"Who put your foot in the cast?"
"A physician brought here by Mr. Foxworth. I wore my mask and lay back pacifically on my bed."
I nodded stupidly. What to say? I said, "Hey, I've been trying to think of jobs that would give you the same freedom from rejection as your CargoCo job, but more personal fulfillment."
Vyvyan gestured me to a bench against one wall, a kind of reading ledge, and collapsed like a demolished building onto his bed.
"Listen." I took a list from my pocket: "Computer programmer. Forest- fire spotter. Coyote trapper. Accountant or tax preparer. Voice-over narrator for films, TV documentaries, and product ads. Copy editor. Rural mail carrier. Telephone operator in a backward one-board town. Baseball statistician. A painter of still lifes. A poet. Or maybe an on-site meterologist in, say, the Antarctic, Orkneys, or like that. What do you think?"
Vyvyan grunted skeptically.
"There are options," I said.
But the truth was that his position with CargoCo, in an isolated semirural warehouse, was just about the perfect job for a humanoid being of his sensibilities and threatening looks. Without submitting to painful plastic surgery and height-reduction procedures, he might never find a satisfying level of acceptance in late-twentieth-century America.
"Word processing?" I said. "Radio announcing?"
"Activity is a hollow source of meaning," Vyvyan said, "without a complementary share of a direct affection."
That seemed an appropriate cue. I gave a sharp, mockingbirdlike whistle. Nessa came into Vyvyan's room and sat unflinchingly beside me on the reading ledge.
Vyvyan shot me a fierce look of astonishment and betrayal, then rolled over and covered his head with a feather pillow.
"Please don't hide from me," Nessa said. "This is your place, after all, and you didn't invite me to barge in this way."
He lifted a corner of the pillow. "Nor did i, strictly speaking, Dr. Zylstra." The pillow smothered his head again.
"Dr. Zylstra and I are your support group," Nessa said. "We're here for you, Vyvyan. Completely."
"Mmmmm-mm-mmm."
"With people to talk to, to share your feelings with, your place here at CargoCo might not seem so intolerable," Nessa said. "Better, certainly, than being a lone meteorologist at the South Pole."
Eventually, Vyvyan emerged. He even sat up and faced us.
Nessa was great, a lovely and seductive asset to his treatment. Each potentially dangerous subject that arose, Nessa and he breasted in easy, reciprocally synchronized exchanges. I was hardly there at all. I was a facilitator and observer. That session lasted not just fifty minutes (the traditional therapeutic hour), but closer to three hours. It was the most productive meeting I'd had with Vyvyan since beginning his treatment.
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From that Thursday forward, Nessa attended every session that I had with Vyvyan. It was exactly as Nessa had said: she and I were permanent members of his support group. The love and validation that we jointly afforded him—and that Nessa, in particular, provided by being a strong and accepting female—almost certainly deterred him from risking suicide. It also enabled him to look upon his life at CargoCo as greatly more attractive, comfortable, and, yes, even happy than otherwise.
Vinny Fall reported that we had cured Vyvyan of howling. What's more, Nessa intervened with Mr. Foxworth, via a tactfully written letter, to convince him to increase Vyvyan's salary and benefits and to give him periodic segments of free time in which to rediscover the loveliness and serenity of the natural world. The warehouse was not only socially, but also physically, restrictive, and Vyvyan loved the outdoors—beaches, glaciers, forests, etc.
Cures are always the aim, but not always the outcome, of every tenderly conducted therapeutic process. But with Vyvyan Franklin Goodloss, Nessa and I brought about a cure.
Toward the end of his six-month treatment contract with me, a creature assembled over two centuries ago by a hubristic genius, and heartlessly spurned by that same cruel life-giver, found both his soul and a reliable antidote to the joy-strangling toxin of his existence pain. Nessa and I worked closely and painstakingly with Vyvyan to bring about regeneration and healing. For, if the world will not change, then we must.
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The preceding four paragraphs are a transcription of my notes from our penultimate session with Vyvyan. Two days ago, our last session took place. It was a catastrophe. I record this epilogue, by the way, from the high-security ward of a hospital where I am recovering from a bullet wound to the left shoulder.
Midway through the session, Nessa said, "I have to tell you both that I'm quitting my job here. Jack's proposed. We'll marry in June and move to Seattle."
Against every expectation, Vyvyan flew into what I can only call a jealous frenzy. He behaved as if driven by bitter memories of the abandonment and betrayals of his late father.
"Do you not forsake me, lovely Vanessa!" he cried. "How, after the harrowing trials we have passed together, may you even consider such a selfish course?"
Reverting to the naked animality of his earlier self, he stood up, seized Nessa with one bare hand, and flipped her onto my chaise lounge with a twist so wrenchingly sudden that she could barely even gasp. With one hand, Vyvyan held her to the couch and, grimacing like a Technicolor gargoyle, began to squeeze his eely fingers about her throat. Nessa's eyes bugged out, filling with a crimson the same alarming shade as her reddening skin.
"No!" I shouted. My pistol vaulted into my hand. I aimed it at Vyvyan's great ugly head. I was too close to him. He reached out, applied the vise of his free hand to my gun hand, turned the stubby barrel back at me, and, because I was already tightening my trigger finger, shot me about two inches above the heart. Dripping blood, I blundered over my sculpted chrome chair into the wall. The report so startled Vyvyan that he released Nessa and fled.
Ms. Frye, I'm told, is recovering at home. Although I have been falsely accused of trying to murder her, I'm in a variety of recovery myself. It's slow, however, becaused I'm desolated by both Vyvyan's unexpected reversion and the unmerited hostility of my loved ones and friends.
Every person in this ward looks like a hard-bitten felon, and the only TV set seems to be perpetually tuned to some meaningless Atlanta Hawks basketball game, with the volume up as loud as the ward's guard, a rabid, gum-chewing fan, will p
ermit. A police therapist has come to interview me twice already, but my side of this tragic story seems to annoy him intensely.
The only time Barbara's visited, she was tight-lipped and cold. I tried to get her to talk, but her eyes kept straying to the elevated TV screen—its picture was flipping vertically—and her answers seemed to fall on me from a judgmental height. Each one hurt. After she'd left, I found a familiar desk placard on my bedside tray, the one she gave as an anniversary gift, the one that shouts, PATIENTHOOD IS UBIQUITOUS.
It would be nice if Vyvyan visited, but he's a smart guy, and I'd bet my practice he's gone permanently on the lam.
FORTITUDE
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
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THE TIME: the present, the place: Upstate New York, a large room filled with pulsing, writhing, panting machines that perform the functions of various organs of the human body—heart, lungs, liver, and so on. Color-coded pipes and wires swoop upward from the machines to converge and pass through a hole in the ceiling. To one side is a fantastically complicated master control console.
dr. elbert little, a kindly, attractive young general practitioner, is being shown around by the creator and boss of the operation, dr. norbert Frankenstein. Frankenstein is 65, a crass medical genius. Seated at the console, wearing headphones and watching meters and flashing lights, is dr. tom swift, Frankenstein j enthusiastic, first assistant.
little: Oh, my God—oh, my God—
Frankenstein: Yeah. Those are her kidneys over there. That's her liver, of course. There you got her pancreas. little: Amazing. Dr. Frankenstein, after seeing this, I wonder if I've been practicing medicine, if I've ever even been to medical school. {Pointing) That's her heart?
Frankenstein: That's a Westinghouse heart. They make a damn good heart, if you ever need one. They make a kidney I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole.
little: That heart is probably worth more than the whole township where I practice.
Frankenstein: That pancreas is worth your whole state. little: Vermont.
Frankenstein: What we paid for the pancreas—yeah, we could have bought Vermont for that. Nobody'd ever made a pancreas before, and we had to have one in ten days or lose the patient. So we told all the big organ manufacturers, "OK, you guys got to have a crash program for a pancreas. Put every man you got on the job. We don't care what it costs, as long as we get a pancreas by next Tuesday." little: And they succeeded.
Frankenstein: The patient's still alive, isn't she? Believe me, those are
some expensive sweetbreads. little: But the patient could afford them. Frankenstein: You don't live like this on Blue Cross. little: And how many operations has she had? In how many years? Frankenstein: I gave her her first major operation thirty-six years ago.
She's had seventy-eight operations since then. little: And how old is she? Frankenstein: One hundred. little: What guts that woman must have! Frankenstein: You're looking at 'em. little: I mean—what courage! What fortitude!
Frankenstein: We knock her out, you know. We don't operate without anesthetics. little: Even so . . .
Frankenstein taps swift on the shoulder, swift frees an ear from the headphones, divides his attention between the visitors and the console.
Frankenstein: Dr. Tom Swift, this is Dr. Elbert Little. Tom here is my
first assistant. swift: Howdy-doody.
Frankenstein: Dr. Little has a practice up in Vermont. He happened to be
in the neighborhood. He asked for a tour. little: What do you hear in the headphones?
swift: Anything that's going on in the patient's room. (He offers the headphones) Be my guest. little: (listening to headphones): Nothing.
swift: She's having her hair brushed now. The beautician's up there. She's always quiet when her hair's being brushed. (He takes the headphones back) Frankenstein (to swift): We should congratulate our young visitor here. swift: What for? little: Good question. What for?
Frankenstein: Oh, I know about the great honor that has come your way. little: I'm not sure / do.
Frankenstein: You are the Dr. Little, aren't you, who was named the Family Doctor of the Year by the Ladies' Home Journal last month? little: Yes—that's right. I don't know how in the hell they decided. And I'm even more flabbergasted that a man of your caliber would know about it.
Frankenstein: I read the Ladies' Home Journal from cover to cover every
month. little: You do?
Frankenstein: I only got one patient, Mrs. Lovejoy. And Mrs. Lovejoy reads the Ladies' Home Journal, so I read it, too. That's what we talk about—what's in the Ladies' Home Journal. We read all about you last month. Mrs. Lovejoy kept saying, "Oh, what a nice young man he must be. So understanding." little: Um.
Frankenstein: Now here you are in the flesh. I bet she wrote you a letter. little: Yes—she did.
Frankenstein: She writes thousands of letters a year, gets thousands of
letters back. Some pen pal she is. little: Is she—uh—generally cheerful most of the time? Frankenstein: If she isn't, that's our fault down here. If she gets unhappy, that means something down here isn't working right. She was blue about a month ago. Turned out it was a bum transistor in the console. (He reaches over swift'j shoulder, changes a setting on the console. The machinery subtly adjusts to the new setting.) There—she'll be all depressed for a couple of minutes now. (He changes the setting again) There. Now, pretty quick, she'll be happier than she was before. She'll sing like a bird.
little conceals his horror imperfectly, cut to patient's room, which is full of flowers and candy boxes and books. The patient is sylvia lovejoy, a billionaire's widow, sylvia is no longer anything but a head connected to pipes and wires coming up through the floor, but this is not immediately apparent. The first shot of her is a close-up, with gloria, a gorgeous beautician, standing behind her, sylvia is a heartbreakingly good-looking old lady, once a famous beauty. She is crying now.
sylvia: Gloria— gloria: Ma'am?
sylvia: Wipe these tears away before somebody comes in and sees them. gloria (wanting to cry herself): Yes, ma'am. (She wipes the tears away with
Kleenex studies the results) There. There. sylvia: I don't know what came over me. Suddenly I was so sad I couldn't stand it.
gloria: Everybody has to cry sometimes.
sylvia: It's passing now. Can you tell I've been crying?
gloria: No. No.
She is unable to control her own tears anymore. She goes to a window so sylvia can't see her cry. camera backs away to reveal the tidy, clinical abomination of the head and wires and pipes. The head is on a tripod. There is a black box with winking colored lights hanging under the head, where the chest would normally be. Mechanical arms come out of the box where arms would normally be. There is a table within easy reach of the arms. On it are a pen and paper, a partially solved jigsaw puzzle and a bulky knitting bag. Sticking out of the bag are needles and a sweater in progress. Hanging over sylvia’s head is a microphone on a boom.
sylvia (sighing): Oh, what a foolish old woman you must think I am. (gloria shakes her head in denial, is unable to reply) Gloria? Are you still there? gloria: Yes.
sylvia: Is anything the matter? gloria: No.
sylvia: You're such a good friend, Gloria. I want you to know I feel that with all my heart. gloria: I like you, too.
sylvia: If you ever have any problems I can help you with, I hope you'll ask me. gloria: I will, I will.
Howard derby, the hospital mail clerk, dances in with an armload of letters. He is a merry old fool.
derby: Mailman! Mailman!
sylvia (brightening): Mailman! God bless the mailman! derby: How's the patient today?
sylvia: Very sad a moment ago. But now that I see you, I want to sing like a bird.
derby: Fifty-three letters today. There's even one from Leningrad. sylvia: There's a blind woman in Leningrad. Poor soul, poor soul. derby (making a fan of the mail, reading postmarks): West Virginia, Honolulu, Brisbane, Australia—
&nb
sp; sylvia selects an envelope at random.
sylvia: Wheeling, West Virginia. Now, who do I know in Wheeling? (She opens the envelope expertly with her mechanical hands, reads) "Dear Mrs. Lovejoy: You don't know me, but I just read about you in the Reader's Digest, and I'm sitting here with tears streaming down my cheeks." Reader's Digest? My goodness—that article was printed fourteen years ago! And she just read it? derby: Old Reader's Digests go on and on. I've got one at home I'll bet is
ten years old. I still read it every time I need a little inspiration. sylvia (reading on): "I am never going to complain about anything that ever happens to me ever again. I thought I was as unfortunate as a person can get when my husband shot his girlfriend six months ago and then blew his own brains out. He left me with seven children and with eight payments still to go on a Buick Roadmaster with three flat tires and a busted transmission. After reading about you, though, I sit here and count my blessings." Isn't that a nice letter? derby: Sure is.
sylvia: There's a P.S.: "Get well real soon, you hear?" (She puts the letter on the table) There isn't a letter from Vermont, is there? derby: Vermont?
sylvia: Last month, when I had that low spell, I wrote what I'm afraid was a very stupid, self-centered, self-pitying letter to a young doctor I read about in the Ladies' Home Journal. I'm so ashamed. I live in fear and trembling of what he's going to say back to me—if he answers at all. gloria: What could he say? What could he possibly say? sylvia: He could tell me about the real suffering going on out there in the world, about people who don't know where the next meal is coming from, about people so poor they've never been to a doctor in their whole lives. And to think of all the help I've had—all the tender, loving care, all the latest wonders science has to offer.
The Ultimate Frankenstein Page 7
