The Thanatos Syndrome

by Walker Percy

  “The children, Lucy?”

  “Yes, the children. I examined six children.”

  “A perineal examination, Lucy?”

  “Yes, because I was taking smears for salmonella.”

  “I understand. Your findings?”

  “Yes. Two girls, perhaps ten and twelve. One with recent hymeneal rupture, the other with marital introitus. You understand?”

  “Yes. Any histories?”

  “No time for histories.”

  “The boys?”

  “Two had anal lesions. One, a recent laceration; the other, a fissure of some duration.”

  “I see.”

  “History?”

  “No histories there either, but—”

  “Yes?” Lucy’s voice is more focused. She is using her doctoring to catch hold.

  “There were two behavioral items.” She has found her medical voice.

  “Yes?”

  “One of the girls made an oral advance to me.”

  “Oral to oral?”

  “No.”

  “I see.”

  “It was as if she thought it was expected of her—in the bathroom, that is.”

  “I understand. And the other item?”

  “One of the boys gave an unmistakable pelvic response to my digital examination, from the knee-chest position. It was quite startling. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  Lucy looks at me for the first time. “Tom, they were lined up. They wanted to be examined. I could have examined twenty.”

  “I see.”

  “Tom, do you know what they reminded me of ?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember that scene in the Alexandria Quartet where the child prostitutes were all reaching for him, clinging?”

  “Yes.”

  We are silent. The road runs through a loess cut, twilit, worn deep as the Natchez Trace.

  I look down at Margaret and Tommy. They are picking at each other and seem fine, Margaret her prim prissy self, Tommy pesky normal.

  “Lucy, do you have any idea who was—culpable?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Brunette, who just happened to come in, seemed very agitated. They left, and then Coach What’s-his-name came in—”

  “Coach Matthews,” says Margaret.

  “Right,” says Lucy. “I think the Brunettes called Coach Matthews to come over. He too seemed nervous.”

  “How do you like Belle Ame?” I ask the children.

  “It’s all right,” says Tommy. “I like the horses but not treat-a-treat.”

  “Why don’t you like treat-a-treat?”

  “They play too hard.”

  “Who?”

  “Coach. And I don’t like sardines.”

  “What’s wrong with sardines?”

  “They play it wrong.”

  “How do they play it wrong?”

  “When you’re it and then somebody finds you in the attic, they’re not supposed to close off the place with a trunk.”

  “Who closed off the place?”

  “Mrs. Brunette.”

  “Did they do that to you?”

  “No, I wasn’t it. But Claude told me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told Uncle Van.”

  “Uncle Van? What did Uncle Van say?”

  “He said it was okay, that was the rule.”

  “Was Claude it?”

  “Once, but he wouldn’t play anymore.”

  “I see.”

  “What’s treat-a-treat?” asks Lucy.

  “You know,” says Margaret. “First you go treat-a-treat on your knee, then gallop-a-trot, then hobbledehoy. It’s all right for little kids, but later on it’s dumb.”

  Lucy looks at me.

  I explain. “You hold a kid on your knee and say, This is the way the ladies ride, treat-a-treat, starting off easy.”

  “I see,” says Lucy.

  Margaret cranes up to whisper something to me. She whispers the way children whisper, cupping my ear with her hand and not gauging her breath correctly. “They play it wrong. When you come to hobbledehoy you’re not supposed to take off your panties, are you? That’s dumb.”

  “Yes, it is. Did you do that?”

  “No way, José!”

  “Who wanted to play treat-a-treat that way?”

  “Coach, Mr. Brunette, Mrs. Cheney.”

  “I see.” After a moment I ask her, “Meg, where did you get your water when you wanted a drink?”

  “Oh, Belle Ame has a deep well, Tom,” says Lucy, quite herself now.

  “I know that, but I was still wondering.”

  “You just get it out of the faucets, except in the rec room,” says Margaret, losing interest.

  “Where do you get it in the rec room?”

  “They have a big upside-down bottle we have to drink from.”

  “Why do you have to drink from that bottle?”

  “It’s not from the bottle. The bottle is upside down and there is a little faucet.”

  “I understand, but why do you have to drink that water?”

  “To get our Olympic vitamins.”

  “Sure,” says Margaret, little Miss Smart. “The concentrated vitamins are up on the second floor with a little tube coming down. I’ve seen them change the bottles and put in a little from the tube.”

  “I see.” I feel Lucy’s eyes on my face.

  We’re at Popeyes. I back in under the live oak next to my Caprice.

  Lucy and I look at each other. “Well?” says Lucy.

  “Let’s do this,” I tell her. “Would you take the kids in and feed them. They’re hungry. Meanwhile, may I use your cellular phone right here? I want to call Chandra to come pick up Tommy and Margaret.”

  “Yay!” says Margaret.

  “Sure,” says Lucy briskly. “Then we’ve got to get back to Pantherburn, remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think you better get Claude as soon as you can,” says Lucy.

  “I will.”

  “I mean it. It is serious, I think.”

  “I will.”

  13. AFTER MAKING THE phone call, I wait in my car for Chandra. I can see a stretch of highway. It is getting on to early dusk. Lucy and the children take a long time in Popeyes. There are some tiny yellow birds high in the live oak. The last of the sunlight catches them. They blaze like fireflies in the dark rooms of the oak.

  Lucy comes out at the same time Chandra drives up in her WOW-TV car. Tommy and Margaret are glad to see Chandra and like the idea of getting in a TV car.

  Chandra relays my medical calls, briskly, efficiently. I thank her and tell her I will call her later. She looks at me round-eyed and alert. There’s something going on, isn’t there, she seems to say, head cocked, but I’ll go along with it.

  I can count on her.

  Lucy is waiting for me in the Caprice. I get in front at the wheel.

  Lucy looks at her watch. “Let’s get over to Pantherburn right away. I’ll leave the truck.”

  “Why?”

  “I want a word with you on the way.”

  “Maybe you’d better take the truck. I’ll be there later.”

  She sits up and turns around to face me. “What do you mean, later?”

  “I have a call to make. Then I’ll come over.”

  “A call! What do you mean a call?”

  “It’s a medical emergency. There is something wrong with Father Smith. His friend Milton Guidry has been calling me all day. Chandra took the message. He thinks Father Smith is dying. I have no choice.”

  “For God’s sake. I mean, my stars, what can you—Look, Tom, I—I’m afraid. Don’t go. Look, wouldn’t it be better for Father Smith if we called an ambulance and got him to the emergency room?”

  “I’ll be going along.” The shaft of sunlight turns off in the oak like a light in a room. “This won’t take long. I’ll call you in an hour.”

  Lucy peers at me. “What’s the matter with you? Are you sleepy?”

/>   “No.”

  “Don’t you know they can’t afford to have you on the loose?”

  “Who? Oh yes. Don’t worry.”

  Silence. There’s a clatter of pots from Popeyes. Lucy sinks back, hands shoved into the pockets of her lab coat, into the already sunken Chevy seat. It would be difficult for anyone to see us, or even the car, from the highway.

  “What about Belle Ame?” she asks presently.

  “What about it?”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “You’re the public-health officer. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I somehow have the feeling it’s up to you.”

  “First, I’m going to get Claude. Tonight.”

  “I can send Vergil for him,” says Lucy quickly. “There’s no immediate worry.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I learned from Margaret—what a dear!—that he really did go to Baton Rouge for a soccer game. She saw him leave on the bus. He’s okay. We can go get him later tonight.”

  I don’t reply.

  Again she’s up and turned around and looking back at me. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re acting strange.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  She’s nodding. “Yeah. What are we going to do about Belle Ame?”

  “You saw the children.”

  “You want to know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think Van Dorn even knew about it.”

  I am silent.

  “Well?” she says.

  “Well what?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I am gazing at her. “What do you suggest?”

  “I think we’ve got some sickos out there. I think they’re in need of drastic treatment. What do you think?” She shakes me. “Well?”

  “Right. We’ll treat them. Starting tomorrow. We’re going to the sheriff. You’re going to report your findings and we’re going to close them down. To begin with.”

  “Okay, Tom, okay. I’m on your side, remember.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Tom.” She puts a hand on my arm.

  “Yes?”

  If you don’t come back with me now, they’re going to be looking for you on the road.”

  “How do you know?”

  She takes hold of my arm. “I called Carrie while the children were eating. Max and Comeaux are there. Waiting for you.”

  It is dusk-dark. A van passes on the road. Its headlights are on.

  “Tom, listen! I think they know.”

  “I see.”

  “They can’t afford to have you on the loose. Not now. If you don’t come back with me, they’ll be looking for you.”

  “Did you tell them I was here?”

  “No. I told them you were coming from your office.”

  “Good. Don’t worry about it. I know the roads around here and they don’t. And they don’t know where I’m going. Tell them the truth. I’m making a call.”

  “Tom, Max is on your side.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t know about Comeaux.”

  “Maybe you’d better go along now. May I borrow your bag?”

  “What?”

  “Your medical bag.”

  “Oh, sure.” She turns to me, puts both hands on my arm, squeezes hard. “May I say one thing before you leave?”

  “Sure.”

  “Two things. Here they are. First, Max and I agree on this. You ought to take Comeaux up on his job offer. Okay, so he’s an asshole. But your best chance to change the system is to work within the system. Max’s words! You and Max can be very effective. He needs you. And it will free you up for research. And guess what? Max wants you to move your office to his at Northshore Tulane and practice together. You both need each other. You belong in a research-academic setting, not in that jerkwater town. Max is worried about you, Tom.”

  She pauses, eyes on my face. I am watching the highway.

  “Okay, Tom. Number two, and I’m going to tell it like it is. Ellen is in trouble, Tom. You know that. Max took it upon himself to tell me that he’s seeing her professionally. He could not break confidentiality, but I did gather that he thought there was not much future in your and Ellen’s relationship. I’m sorry. Ellen is a remarkable, gifted woman and we’re all devoted to her, but she needs all the help she can get. I’m telling it like it is, whether you like it or not. Max of course thinks you’re some kind of genius and that you’ve done remarkably well, but that you need a little space just now. What do I think? I’ll tell you what I think. I think first of your kids—God, they’re lovely kids, and believe me they’re okay—ain’t nothing wrong with those kids! So Max and I want the best for you and yours, but I’ve got news for you. I want something else. I want you around. I’m a selfish woman and I need—Sh!” She puts a finger to my lips. “All right. You better come on out to Panther- burn tonight.”

  She grabs my arm.

  “What?” I look at her.

  She’s smiling.

  “I think all of you better come on out to Pantherburn tonight.”

  “Well—”

  “It seems natural, Tom.”

  “Well—”

  “Like last night.” She’s smiling but serious.

  “All right.”

  She touches my lips. “Don’t say anything. You’d better get going. Be careful. Just be sure you get back to Pantherburn tonight. Your room is ready. Those guys mean business, Tom—I mean Comeaux and company. They’re vulnerable and they don’t know what you’re going to do. Now get going. It’ll soon be dark.”

  Dark is what I’m waiting for.

  14. I TAKE OLD La. 963 through Slaughter, Olive Branch, through St. Helena Parish, past the Fluker fire tower, over I-55 and into the piney woods, to Waldheim and the old fire-tower road to St. Margaret’s. Not a car in sight until the interstate.

  The shed at the foot of the tower is dark. There is a full moon. I cannot make out if there is a light in the tower.

  Milton Guidry has come up behind me. Now he too gazes up companionably.

  “What’s the matter with him, Milton?” I move around so I can see Milton’s face in the moonlight.

  “He had a spell yesterday and hasn’t moved since.” Milton describes Father Smith’s symptoms in a lively fashion. He is worried, but he is glad to have company and takes pleasure in talking about it. “He is stiff as a board. When I helped him to the commode, his flesh was hard-like. Like that.” He raps the shed. “What is that, Doc?”

  “What happened? What kind of spell?”

  “A spasm-like. He was sitting talking yesterday just as natural as you and me. Then he stopped and his hand went like this.” Milton shows me, flexing his arm and curling his hand inward. “Since then he hasn’t moved or done anything. I mean nothing.” Milton cocks his head and watches me with a pleasant expression.

  “What do you mean he hasn’t moved?”

  “I mean, he hasn’t moved. He doesn’t eat or drink or say a word.”

  “Did he fall down?”

  “No, he just sits and looks at the woods.”

  “You mean he sat there at the table all last night and did not lie down in his bedroll?”

  “You got it, Doc.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I checked him every hour. You know how you can get worried about somebody.”

  “He doesn’t talk to you?”

  “He doesn’t feel like talking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He spots and I report on the phone.”

  “I see.” I don’t see.

  Milton looks down. “I see you brought your little bag.”

  “Yes. I’m going up now. You stick around in case I need you. I’m going to have to take him to the hospital. I’ll need your help to get him down.”

  “I be right here, Doc, don’t you worry! You want me to help you with the trap
door?”

  “No thanks.” I could use some help but don’t want to fool with Milton.

  Father Smith is sitting at the high table, temple propped on three fingers. He seems to be studying the azimuth. On a corner of the table, an old-fashioned kerosene lamp with a glass chimney casts a weak yellow light. Beside the lamp there is an open can of Campbell’s chicken soup and a melted bowl of Jell-O.

  “Hello, Father.”

  He seems to be looking at me, but his eye sockets are in deep shadow.

  “Milton told me you were ill.”

  He is looking at me, I am sure, under his brow.

  I sit on the stool opposite him. We gaze at each other.

  “Milton said you had some kind of attack yesterday.”

  The priest says nothing. His head moves. Is it a nod? I try to make out whether his expression is ironic, but I can’t be sure. I move the lamp beside me so I can see his eyes better. I like to see patients’ eyes, unlike Freud, who looked at the back of their heads.

  “He told me you had not eaten or slept.”

  No answer, but he is attentive. His eyes follow me.

  “You’ve been sitting in that chair since yesterday?”

  No answer, but his gaze is equable.

  “How do you get over there to the toilet? Does Milton help you?”

  A deprecatory pursing of lips, almost a shrug: no big deal.

  “Milton also said you had some sort of spell.”

  Another near-shrug: You know Milton.

  I set Lucy’s medical bag on the table. His eyes follow it.

  “Do you mind if I have a look at you?”

  He doesn’t mind.

  “Give me your right hand. All right, squeeze. Your left. All right.”

  Milton is right. When I move his arm, there is a waxiness in the motion, like a stiff doll. But when I let go of his hand, it doesn’t stay in the air like a catatonic but comes slowly back to the table.

  “Can you stand?” He looks at me but doesn’t move. Am I mistaken or are his eyes slightly rounded, even risible? I give him my hands. He stands. “Right leg. Okay. Left leg. Okay.”

  “I want to have a look.” I open Lucy’s bag, fish around, find her ophthalmoscope and reflex hammer. I look at his eyegrounds, tap a few tendons.