by Walker Percy
“Yes sir.” Still not quite able to rouse himself, he allowed Sutter to lead him to the wagonwheel chair. But before he could sit down, Sutter turned him into the light from the window.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I feel all right now. I was quite nervous a few minutes ago. I’ve had a nervous condition for some time.” He told Sutter about his amnesia.
“I know. Jimmy told me. Are you going into a fugue now?”
“I don’t know. I thought perhaps that you—”
“Me? Oh no. I haven’t practiced medicine for years. I’m a pathologist I study the lesions of the dead.”
“I know that,” said the engineer, sitting down wearily. “But I have reason to believe you can help me.”
“What reason?”
“I can tell when somebody knows something I don’t know.”
“You think I know something?”
“Yes.”
“How can you tell?”
“I don’t know how but I can. I had an analyst for five years and he was very good, but he didn’t know anything I didn’t know.”
Sutter laughed. “Did you tell him that?”
“No.”
“You should have. He could have done a better job.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I can’t practice. I’m not insured.”
“Insured?”
"The insurance company cancelled my liability. You can’t practice without it.”
“I’m not asking you to practice. I only want to know what you know.”
But Sutter only shrugged and turned back to the Colt.
“Why did they cancel your insurance?” the engineer asked desperately. There was something he wanted to ask but he couldn’t hit on the right question.
“I got the idea of putting well people in the hospital and sending the truly sick home.”
“Why did you do that?” asked the engineer, smiling slightly. He was not yet certain when the other was joking.
Again Sutter shrugged.
The engineer was silent.
Sutter rammed a wad through the barrel. “I had a patient once who lived under the necessity of being happy. He almost succeeded but did not quite. Since he did not, he became depressed. He became very unhappy that he was not happy. I put him in the terminal ward of the hospital, where he was surrounded by the dying. There he soon recovered his wits and became quite cheerful. Unfortunately—and by the purest bad luck—he happened to suffer a serious coronary before I sent him home. As soon as it became apparent that he was going to die, I took it upon myself to remove him from his oxygen tent and send him home to his family and garden. There he died. The hospital didn’t like it much. His wife sued me for a half a million dollars. The insurance company had to pay.”
The engineer, still smiling faintly, was watching the other like a hawk. “Dr. Vaught, do you know what causes amnesia?”
“Causes it? Like a virus causes chicken pox?”
“Have you seen many cases?”
“Do you regard yourself as a case?”
“I would like to know.”
“You are a very persistent young man. You ask a great many questions.”
“And I notice you don’t answer them.”
The pistol was assembled. Sutter sat down, shoved in the clip, pulled back the breach and rang up a bullet. He clicked the safety and took aim at the Arab physician. The engineer screwed up one eye against the shot, but Sutter sighed and set the pistol down.
“All right, Barrett, what’s wrong?”
“Sir?”
“I’m listening. What’s wrong?”
Now, strangely, the engineer fell silent for a good twenty seconds.
Sutter sighed. “Very well. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
Sutter was like an unwilling craftsman, the engineer perceived, a woodworker who has put on his coat and closed up shop. Now a last customer shows up. Very well, if you insist. He takes the wood from the customer, gives it a knock with his knuckles, runs a thumb along the grain.
“Are you a homosexual?”
“No.”
“Do you like girls much?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Very much.”
“Do you have intercourse with girls?”
The engineer fell silent.
“You don’t like to speak of that?”
He shook his head.
“Did you speak of it with your psychiatrist?”
“No.”
“Do you mean that for five years you never told him whether you had intercourse with girls?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It was none of his business.”
Sutter laughed. “And none of mine. Did you tell him that?”
“No.”
“You were not very generous with him.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
“Do you believe in God?”
The engineer frowned. “I suppose so. Why do you ask?”
“My sister was just here. She said God loves us. Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know.” He stirred impatiently.
“Do you believe that God entered history?”
“I haven’t really thought about it.”
Sutter looked at him curiously. “Where are you from?”
“The Delta.”
“What sort of man was your father?”
“Sir? Well, he was a defender of the Negroes and—”
“I know that I mean what sort of man was he? Was he a gentleman?”
“Yes.”
“Did he live in hope or despair?”
“That is hard to say.”
“What is the date of the month?”
“The nineteenth.”
“What month is it?”
The engineer hesitated.
“What is the meaning of this proverb: a stitch in time saves nine?”
“I would have to think about it and tell you later,” said the engineer, a queer light in his eye.
“You can’t take time off to tell me now?”
“No.”
“You really can’t tell me, can you?”
“No.”
“Why can’t you?”
“You know why.”
“You mean it is like asking a man hanging from a cliff to conjugate an irregular verb?”
“No. I’m not hanging from a cliff. It’s not that bad. It’s not that I’m afraid.”
“What is it then?”
The engineer was silent
“Is it rather that answering riddles does not seem important to you? Not as important as—” Sutter paused.
“As what?” asked the engineer, smiling.
“Isn’t that for you to tell me?”
The engineer shook his head.
“Do you mean you don’t know or you won’t tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“All right. Come here.”
Sutter took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and for the second time turned the other into the light. “You won’t feel this.” He twisted a corner of the handkerchief and touched the other’s cornea. “O.K.,” said Sutter and sitting down fell silent for a minute or two.
Presently the engineer spoke. “You seem to have satisfied yourself of something.”
Sutter rose abruptly and went into the kitchenette. He returned with half a glass of the dark brown bourbon the engineer had noticed earlier.
“What is it?” the latter asked him.
“What is what?”
“What did you satisfy yourself about?”
“Only that you were telling the truth.”
“About what?”
“About when you believe someone has something to tell you, you will then believe what he tells you. I told you you would not feel the handkerchief, so you didn’t. You inhibited your corneal reflex.”
“Do you mean that if you tell me to do something I will do it?”
>
“Yes.”
The engineer told him briefly of his déjà vus and of his theory about bad environments. The other listened with a lively expression, nodding occasionally. His lack of surprise and secret merriment irritated the engineer. He was even more irritated when, as he finished his account, the other gave a final nod as much as to say: well, that’s an old story between us—and spoke, not of him, the engineer, but of Val. Evidently her visit had made a strong impression on him. It was like going to a doctor, hurting, and getting harangued about politics. Sutter was more of a doctor than he knew.
“Do you know why Val came up here? This concerns you because it concerns Jimmy.”
“No, I don’t,” said the engineer gloomily. Damnation, if I am such an old story to him, why doesn’t he tell me how the story comes out?
“She wanted me to promise her something,” said Sutter, keeping a bright non-medical eye on the other. “Namely, that if she were not present I would see to it that Jimmy is baptized before he dies. What do you think of that?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“It happened in this fashion,” said Sutter, more lively than ever. “My father was a Baptist and my mother an Episcopalian. My father prevailed when Jamie was born and he wasn’t baptized. You know of course that Baptist children are not baptized until they are old enough to ask for it—usually around twelve or thirteen. Later my father became an Episcopalian and so by the time Jamie came of age there was no one to put the question to him—or he didn’t want it. To be honest, I think everybody was embarrassed. It is an embarrassing subject nowadays, even slightly ludicrous. Anyhow Jamie’s baptism got lost in the shuffle. You might say he is a casualty of my father’s ascent in status.”
“Is that right,” said the engineer, drumming his fingers on his knees. He was scandalized by Sutter’s perky, almost gossipy interest in such matters. It reminded him of something his father said on one of his nocturnal strolls. “Son,” he said through the thick autumnal web of Brahms and the heavy ham-rich smell of the cottonseed-oil mill. “Don’t ever be frightened by priests.” “No sir,” said the startled youth, shocked that his father might suppose that he could be frightened by priests.
“Well,” he said at last and arose to leave. Though he could not think what he wanted to ask, he was afraid now of overstaying his welcome. But when he reached the door it came to him. “Wait,” he said, as though it was Sutter and not he who might leave. “I know what I want to ask.”
“All right.” Sutter drained off the whiskey and looked out the window.
The engineer closed the door and, crossing the room, stood behind Sutter. “I want to know whether a nervous condition could be caused by not having sexual intercourse.”
“I see,” said the other and did not laugh as the engineer feared he might “What did your analyst say?” he asked, without turning around.
“I didn’t ask him. But he wrote in his book that one’s needs arise from a hunger for stroking and that the supreme experience is sexual intimacy.”
“Sexual intimacy,” said Sutter thoughtfully. He turned around suddenly. “Excuse me, but I still don’t quite see why you single me out. Why not ask Rita or Val, for example?”
“I’m asking you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why, but I know that if you tell me I will believe you. And I think you know that.”
“Well, I will not tell you,” said Sutter after a moment
“Why not?”
Sutter flushed angrily. “Because for one thing I think you’ve come to me because you’ve heard something about me and you already know what I will say—or you think you know. And I think I know who told you.”
“No sir, that’s not true,” said the engineer calmly.
“I’ll be goddamned if I’ll be a party to any such humbug.”
“This is not humbug.”
“I will not tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Who do you think I am, for Christ’s sake? I am no guru and I want no disciples. You’ve come to the wrong man. Or did you expect that?” Sutter looked at him keenly. “I suspect you are a virtuoso at this game.”
“I was, but this time it is not a game.”
Sutter turned away. “I can’t help you. Fornicate if you want to and enjoy yourself but don’t come looking to me for a merit badge certifying you as a Christian or a gentleman or whatever it is you cleave by.”
“That’s not why I came to you.”
“Why then?”
“As a matter of fact, to ask what it is you cleave by.”
“Dear Jesus, Barrett, have a drink.”
“Yes sir,” said the engineer thoughtfully, and he went into the kitchenette. Perhaps Kitty and Rita were right, he was thinking as he poured the horrendous bourbon. Perhaps Sutter is immature. He was still blushing from the word “fornicate.” In Sutter’s mouth it seemed somehow more shameful than the four-letter word.
7.
“I’ve got to go,” said Jamie.
“O.K. When?”
After leaving Sutter, the engineer had read a chapter of Freeman’s R. E. Lee and was still moving his shoulders in the old body-English of correcting the horrific Confederate foul-ups, in this case the foul-up before Sharpsburg when Lee’s battle orders had been found by a Union sergeant, the paper wrapped around three cigars and lying in a ditch in Maryland. I’ll pick it up before he gets there, thought the engineer and stooped slightly.
“I mean leave town,” said Jamie.
“Very well. When?”
“Right now.”
“O.K. Where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you later. Let’s go.”
From the pantry he could look into the kitchen, which was filled with a thick ticking silence; it was the silence which comes late in the evening after the cook leaves.
But at that moment David came over for the usual game of hearts. Rita had taken David aside for an earnest talk. In the last few days David had decided he wanted to be a sportscaster. The engineer groaned aloud. Sportscaster for Christ’s sake; six feet six, black as pitch, speech like molasses in the mouth, and he wanted to be a sportscaster.
“No,” he told David when he heard it. “Not a sportscaster.”
“What I’m going to do!” cried David.
“Do like me,” said the engineer seriously. “Watch and wait. Keep your eyes open. Meanwhile study how to make enough money so you don’t have to worry about it. In your case, for example, I think I’d consider being a mortician.”
“I don’t want to be no mortician.”
He was David sure enough, of royal lineage and spoiled rotten. He wouldn’t listen to you. Be a sportscaster then.
Now he couldn’t help overhearing Rita, who was telling David earnestly about so-and-so she knew at CBS, a sweet wonderful guy who might be able to help him, at least suggest a good sportscasting school. Strangest of all, the sentient engineer could actually see how David saw himself as a sportscaster: as a rangy chap (he admired Frank Gifford) covering the Augusta Masters (he had taken to wearing a little yellow Augusta golf cap Son Junior gave him).
Jamie wore his old string robe which made him look like a patient in the Veterans Hospital. While Rita spoke to David, Son Junior told the engineer and Kitty about rumors of a Negro student coming on campus next week. It was part of the peculiar dispensation of the pantry that Son Junior could speak about this “nigger” without intending an offense to David. Rita looked sternly at Son—who was in fact dull enough to tell David about the “nigger.”
Sutter sat alone at the blue bar. The engineer had come in late and missed whatever confrontation had occurred between Sutter and Rita. Now at any rate they sat thirty feet apart, and Rita’s back was turned. Sutter appeared to take no notice and sat propped back in a kitchen chair, whiskey in hand and face livid in the buzzing blue light. The family did not so much avoid Sutter as sequester him in an enclave of neutral space such as might be assigned an afflicted member. One stepped
around him, though one might still be amiable. “What you say, Sutter,” said Lamar Thigpen as he stepped up to the bar to fix a drink.
Kitty got Son off the subject by asking him what band would play for the Pan-Hellenic dance. Later Kitty whispered to the engineer, “Are you going to take me?”
“Take you to what?”
“The Pan-Hellenic.”
“When is it?”
“Saturday night after the Tennessee game.”
“What day is this?”
“Thursday, stupid.”
“Jamie wants to go somewhere.” He was thinking gloomily of standing around at a dance for seven hours drinking himself cross-eyed while Kitty danced the night away. “Where do you want to go, Jamie?”
But Jamie wouldn’t tell Kitty.
“Son asked me to go with him,” said Kitty.
“Isn’t he your nephew?”
“Not really. Myra is no kin. She is Poppy’s stepdaughter by another marriage.”
“You still can’t go with Son.”
“Why not!” she cried, widening her eyes. Since she had become a coed, Kitty had given up her actress’s lilt for a little trite sorority cry which was made with her eyes going away. She wore a cashmere sweater with a tiny gold sorority dagger pinned over her breast.
“I’m telling you, you can’t.” It actually made him faint to think of Kitty going anywhere with Son Junior, who was a pale glum fornicator, the type who hangs around the men’s room at a dance, patting himself and talking about poontang.
“Why not?”—eyes going away again but not before peeping down for a glimpse of her pin.
“He’s a bastard.”
“Shh! He likes you.”
He did. Son had discovered through intricate Hellenistic channels that the engineer had been a collegiate middleweight and had not lost a fight. “We’re strong in everything but boxing,” he had told the engineer, speaking of the Phi Nu’s campus reputation. The engineer agreed to go out for boxing and golf. And during some hazing horseplay Son had told one of the brothers to take it easy with this one—“he can put your ass right on the Deke front porch with a six-inch punch.” And so he had attached himself to the engineer with a great glum Greek-letter friendship.
Now once again Son came close, sidling up and speaking at length while he twirled his Thunderbird keys. It was the engineer’s bad ear, but as best he could tell, Son was inviting him to represent the pledge class at a leadership conference next summer at the fraternity headquarters in Columbus, Ohio. “They always have outstanding speakers,” Son told him. “This year the theme is Christian Hellenism.”
