“Yes,” said Alice. “You once told me they were the best of imitators, for their own purposes. You think, then, that Angelo won’t try anything violent again?”
The doctor looked at her hopeful face, and hesitated. “I don’t know, Alice. You see, he knows he can’t deceive you, and that’s why he hates you. His parents are safe—unless,” and his voice dropped, “one or both of them catch on to him. And even then, and don’t look so frightened, he won’t use violence against them because he needs them to support and protect and cherish him. His father means money for his comfort; his mother means adoration and service. And within a little while he’ll realize that it will be for his good not to show hostility or hatred or violence even toward those who susnect him. He will begin to learn about law, which could threaten, imorison and destroy him. And, to live, the psychopath needs the affection, assistance and loyalty of others, whom he can exploit.”
“What’s bred in the spirit is born in the flesh,” murmured Alice.’
“Yes. We don’t know whether the psychopath is developed by way of a sudden mutation of genes in the embrvo, or whether he is a true throwback.”
“Would you say the Russian people are atavists, throwbacks?” asked Alice.
The doctor smiled, and shook his head. “No. Otherwise the Soviet concentration camps would not exist; they’d all be psychopaths, and serve what would advance them through conformity. But secret observations, and reports, have shown that conscience is as inbred just as much among the Russian people as it is among any other people. However, their leaders are true psychopaths. Hitler was one; Stalin and Lenin and Khrushchev were others. You will notice that these men hated goodness and virtue and kindness and religion. Above all, religion, which is the nurturer and guardian of man’s inborn conscience, which the psychopaths despise; they think those who are restrained by conscience are fools. They honestly believe that.”
Alice sighed. “Now that I’ve introduced you to Mark and Kathy, and Mark is already very fond of you, you’ll keep track of things for me, and let me know, Jack?”
“Yes, dear. I’ve met the boy, too. After I talked with him a few minutes I saw that he is the very prototype of the psychopath. And I wouldn’t be the least surprised if he grew up to be a very successful and very loved man, active in community causes, even a pillar of the church. The only ones who will really know about him will be the unfortunate woman he will marry, and perhaps his children. By that time, he wouldn’t try to destroy them for knowing, as he tried to do to you. That would injure him, you see. By the way, psychopaths, unless they are restrained by the moral disapproval of the community, which could ruin them, are chronic divorcers, or the chronic divorced. You’ll notice that each of their subsequent marriages leads to more money or a better position.”
Alice was silent, and her friend knew she was thinking with aching yearning of Mark Saint. He said humorously, “Now, if you married me, Alice, we could adopt Kennie Richards, and give him a real home.”
Alice laughed faintly. “That’s a real inducement! No, Jack. I’m awfully fond of you, and if I didn’t love Mark I’d love you. But it wouldn’t be fair to marry you under the circumstances. Besides”—and she faltered—“perhaps we’d give birth to a psychopath as Kathy did.”
“The chance of that is two million to one,” said the doctor. “It’s not an inherited trait; it’s a sport. It could happen to any parents. It doesn’t ‘happen in families,’ as the homely term is. It’s true that when a psychopath is in a family the other members frequently become neurotic because of strain and suffering and anxiety. But removed from the presence of the psychopath, they regain their mental health and become normal again. When we find a neurotic, in our profession, who is in a state of awful anxiety and who is suffering a psychosomatic illness, we look discreetly to see if he is living with a psychopath, or working for one. Unfortunately, it very often happens that a normal and healthy child is born to a psychopath, and is so injured in his mind and spirit and emotions in consequence that he never recovers his full health and zest in life. I’ve investigated a few neurotic suicides, and I differ with my colleagues about the causes of many. I’ve found that in quite a number of cases the neurotic has been driven, in despair, to killing himself because he could not free himself from a psychopath, either because he loved him or was responsible for him, or couldn’t escape from him, or the memory of him or her.”
“We couldn’t round them up, even while they’re still children?”
“No. And that would be dangerous; too many neurotic children, suffering from a psychopathic father or mother at home, would superficially show traits of psychopaths and would be branded by people who were not fully capable of finding out the truth. The only thing we can do, if cursed with them, is to get away from them as fast as possible, if adults. If children, we can teach them early to conform to civilized mores, for their own good. And they’re so lovingly self-protective that they understand!”
“Would you say that all the inmates in prisons were psychopaths?”
“On the contrary! I’d say very few were. They know how to disguise themselves; they never impulsively put themselves in danger, even the dullest of them. The crimes they commit, when they do commit crimes, are secret, and well thought out. The great crime they commit against others is spiritual. Except when they’re children, as in the case of your nephew. The value in detecting them early is to show them that open violence will destory them themselves, and that to profit they must imitate virtue. And you can never restrain them through religion, or change them through religion, for what religion could work on is absent in them. But they are frequently supporters of churches; that’s part of their disguise.”
“Poor Kathy. Poor Mark,” sighed Alice, almost crying.
“Oh, don’t say that. Your sister will probably never find out about her son, unless, if she ever becomes a widow, she lets him take away her money from her. He’ll probably even make her very proud, as a man—if she’s discreet about her money and keeps it. He’ll be the most affectionate of sons to his mother. As for Mark,” and the doctor brooded, “I’m afraid he’s already found out to some extent. But there’s nothing we can do about it. There’s not a mental hospital anywhere who’d take Angelo in. All the tests would show he was eminently sane. And he is. Much more sane than the neurotics he’ll create later when he has a family of his own.”
Alice gathered up her gloves; her face was pale and strained. She could not forget the terror of that day in the summer when she had almost been murdered. At night her wrist frequently woke her with pain; quite often she had nightmares when the scene was reproduced in a monstrous light.
“I just hope,” she said, “that there won’t be any psychopaths among the children I’ll be teaching in that private school!” She tried to laugh.
“If there are, you probably won’t recognize them. But if you find a chronic liar, who has no reason to lie out of fear of a parent, or any other severe person, or an unusually cruel and smiling child, and one who has coaxing and charming ways with adults, who usually adore him or her for his or her brightness or beauty or charm, then you can have your suspicions, but only your suspicions. You can’t really be sure.”
Alice looked down at her gloved hands. “Do you think, Jack, that Kathy is partly at fault? Do you think if Angelo had a less adoring mother it might have been better for him?”
“Well. Worshiping parents are a danger, for they sharpen the dangerous traits of born psychopaths. However, strong discipline wouldn’t help, either; it only makes the psychopath more vengeful, more sly, more secret. Heigh-ho! And who could be so heartless as to tell a fond mother that her son was a curse to humanity? And that she could not appeal to conscience to restrain him, but only to his self-interest?”
Alice colored a little, for religion was too sacred to her to talk too freely of it. “Do you think, perhaps, Jack, that psychopaths are born without souls?”
He was silent for several moments, and then he said frankly, �
��I know this is unorthodox, and would be laughed at by other psychiatrists, but I honestly think that is it. Or, as I am a Catholic, I would say that from the moment of their conception they were possessed by evil.”
Before they left the Tavern, Alice said, “You’ll take care of Kennie Richards, Jack? You’ll watch him for me?”
“Of course, dear. I love the boy, too. And beginning next Sunday I’ll take him to Sunday school. And take him on excursions as you did.”
They went out into the warm early September night, full of spicy odors which could lift the spirit. But Alice was beyond stimulation and joy now. Mark Saint stood in her mind even when she was not actively thinking of him. Perhaps she would never see him again. She hoped she would not, for now she knew that he loved her as she loved him, and there was Kathy whose wifehood must not be endangered, whose marriage must not be destroyed.
CHAPTER NINE
Mark Saint was helping his wife to decorate what she coyly called, “Angel’s own special little tree!” It was not enough that the family had a large Christmas tree in the living room; Angelo must have a small one in his bedroom so he would not get his feet chilled in the early morning when he left his bed to examine his lavish gifts. The boy stood off at a little distance, critically examining his parents’ efforts. Sometimes he shouted angrily, and relocated a globe or an ornament. He was nine years old, but it was not expected of him (and he did not desire it anyway) to lend any assistance. “It is our joy!” Kathy would carol. She listened meekly and with a fatuous smile to her son’s criticisms.
“Oh, you don’t like that little sled there, darling?”
“No! It should be right there, on that branch. And I hate that silly angel on the top of the tree. Why can’t you put a star there, instead?”
“That’s my angel, son,” said Mark, remembering that his boy was “only a child,” and trying not to be offended. “My parents bought it for our trees at home when I was younger than you. I think it’s very decorative, and, after all, we must remember that Christmas is not only for gifts and pleasure in fact, it isn’t for that at all. It is celebrated in honor of God’s birthday.”
“Yes, Daddy,” said Angelo at once, and with seriousness. “I know that. It’s only that the angel looks moth-eaten. And people use stars, too, you know. And a big star represents Our Lord’s birth, just as much as an angel does.”
“Oh, isn’t he the brightest!” sang Kathy, and ran to hug her son in an ecstasy of delight. “He understands everything! Oh, my darling, my darling Angel! We’ll take the angel off, of course. You are so right, my dearest. A nice big glittering star. I have one right here, in the box.”
So the angel was replaced by a tinsel star. Kathy peeped at Mark, and said indulgently, “Oh, you can put it on the big tree, Mark, in the living room. Don’t be such a baby and look so depressed.” It was beyond her to understand Mark’s hurt, his feeling that his son had delicately rejected him. Then he returned his wife’s smile; Angelo had just turned nine; he was seeing shadows again and he had determined not to watch for them a long time ago. And over a year ago he had given up calling his son Bruce. The pressure had been too strong from both Kathy and the boy. Besides, the children at the private school he attended did not jeer at the “Angel Saint.”
Mark, holding the repudiated angel in his hand, looked up at the star and felt some contentment. He did not love Kathy, but what he had had for her had been replaced by tolerant affection, for he now concentrated on her many considerable virtues which, though petty, were comfortable in many ways. And now that Alice was no longer in the City, Kathy had also changed toward him. It was as if some burr had ceased to irritate her flesh, though her affection for her sister was real if shallow. There were moments when she enjoyed her husband’s company even without Angelo’s presence; there were even moments when she did not speak of her son at all. In the evenings, when the boy was in bed, there were sometimes actually two hours together when she could discuss brightly things that interested Mark. In some subtle and self-protecting way, and through some female instinct, she had come to realize, without putting it in words even to herself, that she had been on the verge of losing her husband entirely. She made many efforts to be to Mark what she had been to him before Angelo’s birth, and often succeeded.
Mark said, “What did you send Alice for Christmas, Kathy?”
“Oh, my dear! I told you! You know how old-fashioned Alicia is sometimes; a real old maid, unfortunately. These masculine young girls often turn out that way. Well. She wanted a muff—a muff—to go with that ancient muskrat coat of hers, which we bought her for Christmas five years ago. You remember it?”
“It looked as pretty on Alice as mink,” said Mark.
Kathy was not certain she cared for this remark. Angelo slid his eyes to his father and watched him from under his thick lashes. The corners of his cherubic mouth deepened as if with a suppressed and malicious inner smile.
“I thought she would be coming home this Christmas,” said Mark, hanging some tinsel on a branch. “Do you realize we haven’t seen her since last summer, when Angelo was at camp, and it was almost a year before that that we saw her?”
“She always has excuses,” said Kathy. “Frankly, I don’t think family bonds and closeness and togetherness mean much to Alicia. I wonder why she never married Dr. McDowell; she hinted once that he was interested in her, but I don’t know.”
“It wasn’t Alice who hinted,” said Mark, with obscure annoyance. “It was Jack McDowell who told us himself, a year or less ago.”
“Really?” said Kathy vaguely. “I wonder what he saw in her. Oh, she’s my sister and I love her, but she certainly isn’t very feminine. I tried and tried to get her to overcome her brusque ways and the manly way she has of blurting out disagreeable truths. And how she dresses! Nothing soft and sweet and pretty; everything severe and simple.”
Mark thought of Alice; he always wondered why the deep pain in him never diminished but grew stronger with time. Kathy continued, smiling: “I wonder if she knows that her dear Jack is engaged to Mary Whiteside?”
“Mary was her friend; she introduced them! Have you honestly forgotten, Kathy? Don’t you remember that it was only last July that Alice wrote to you about the engagement and how happy she was about it?”
“Um,” murmured Kathy. She glanced at her son with a gay laugh. “Now we’re almost finished! And then we’ll go have our nice cup of hot chocolate in the kitchen, and some of that wonderful cake Betty made today! Just think! Day after tomorrow’s Christmas, and all the lovely, lovely gifts! Aren’t you happy, Angel?”
Then Angelo did something which he knew enraged his father though Mark had never mentioned it. He jumped high in the air like a very little child and clapped his hands and squealed. Kathy stood back, adoring him. Can’t she see that he’s deliberately mocking her, making fun of her? Mark said to himself. He always does that when she’s particularly precious and speaks in that simpering tone of voice. Why can’t she realize he’s nine years old and isn’t an infant any longer? Then Mark saw that Angelo was watching him after that childish outburst and enjoying his shame and anger.
Mark smiled at his son painfully, and Angelo smiled back and winked just a little. Mark did not know whether to be more angry, or to be amused. It was certainly wrong of him to feel a sudden close warmth because his son had drawn him into a masculine amusement against feminine foolishness. But then Mark decided it was not; men often exchanged winks at the expense of their wives, and Mark did not doubt that women had their own secret exchanges at the expense of their husbands.
He decided not to be too introspective, as he often so decided. Let’s keep everything simple, he thought. I have a kid who looks three years older than he is, and who is a perfect physical specimen and getting handsomer by the day, and two years ahead of the other kids his age. He eats up the most difficult school material like a wolf. The kids no longer avoid him; the house teems with his friends, and he fascinates them. His teachers respect, admire
and love him. Everything’s turning out all right! It was just a matter of time, after all. Me and my nightmares! Even Sally and Bobbie run around him at the cabin like two worshiping dogs now. He’s a natural leader. It was just a matter of him getting adjusted and out in the world, away from Kathy. Though she screamed and cried for hours about him going to camp, he went with pleasure and came back covered with adulation. And he’s slowly growing to be quite a pal of mine, too. He’s as sham as a knife.
“What are you standing there for, in a dream?” asked Kathy. “We’re finished; it’s almost time for Angel to go to bed and be tucked in and read to for a while. Let’s go into the kitchen. I do hope Betty didn’t leave the pan on the fire; it gives the chocolate such an ugly skin on top and Angel hates it that way. Oh, dear. Help grows worse by the day.”
“Betty?” said Mark. “Hell. They come and go as through a revolving door. I hardly get to know their names before they’ve whisked themselves off. I thought her name was Anna.”
“And you hinted I was forgetful! Why, Betty’s been with us five days! But she’s already begun to sulk and mutter under her breath. I kept the last replies to my ad, though, and I can always get another.”
“The turnover around here!” said Mark. “Your ad? I thought you got all your help from the agencies.”
“They’re as bad as the girls! They listen to all the lies their applicants tell them about employers. I never told you, but none of the agencies will send us anyone again. What a world we have now! Besides, the agencies want employers to pay the most enormous wages, and Social Security—”
“I believe Social Security is just a matter of a little law,” said Mark dryly.
“It’s an outrage,” said Kathy, brushing off some shreds of tinsel from her billowing, dark-blue skirts. “And really, the kind of women who answer your ads! You remember Bertie, the one we had in October? She left without even giving notice, just stealing away in the night like an Arab, as that poem or something says. And do you know what she told that agency? You wouldn’t believe it!” And Kathy burst into a peal of girlish laughter.
Wicked Angel Page 10
