room doctor was concerned you might be a danger to others. There will be a commitment hearing next Wednesday, and you will have to convince a judge that you can take care of yourself.”
He had been sitting on the bed, in the pajamas they’d given him after they let him take a supervised shower. He’d been given rather terrible food served on flimsy plastic, to be eaten with a rather flimsy plastic spoon. He hated corn except on the cob, he hated Jell-O, he hated hamburger steak. As the reference to a commitment hearing sunk in, he rose and paced. He paced on the opposite side of the bed from Dr. Crane, not wanting to seem to threaten. He was not a danger to others. At least he never meant to be. He never asked to be provoked.
“Tell me what to say at this hearing in order to get out of here.”
Dr. Crane said, “That’s not my job. My job is to evaluate your mental health.”
“And my job,” said Donald MacDonald, “is to finish a series of a hundred and fifty-three paintings of birds. It’s going to be a monumental undertaking and in the end a monumental—no, a frigging—success.”
“But you have to eat and sleep and wash yourself and get some exercise and lead a halfway healthy life.”
Donald MacDonald folded his arms over his chest. “Why?”
“Otherwise,” said Dr. Crane, understanding at last the question about the origin of his name, “you’re a danger to yourself. You might not live long enough to achieve your goal.”
“Says you. That is a circular argument. You say I'm a danger to myself and you are thinking up reasons why that might be true. I may be a danger to a lot of tubes of paint, but I am not a danger to myself.”
“What do you do besides paint birds? But before you answer that, do you mean that you have wood or plaster of Paris or papier-mâché birds that you paint? I'm curious.”
“Of course not. I paint on canvas.” Donald MacDonald paused and looked sideways at the doctor, arms still folded across his chest. “And besides that, I make pictures on the sidewalk for money. And I do sleep and I do eat—when I have time; like when it’s raining.”
“Good. Good that we have so much rain. And I know about you. The fine people of this city have been worried about you, Donald MacDonald. You disappeared after becoming an institution.”
“I'm not an institution, this is an institution I'm in. I'll give you my first bird picture if you tell them it’s okay for me to go. —Except I can't for some time. I have to finish the series before I think of breaking the set.”
“Why?”
“It’s mystical. One hundred and fifty-three is a mystical number. It’s associated with the vesica piscis, which I could explain if I had a pencil and piece of paper.”
Dr. Crane said, “It sounds as if completing this project is more serious than anything else in your life, more serious than relationships, more serious than your health—“
“—It is the essence of my health,” Donald MacDonald interrupted. “If I don’t finish it I will die, and so will the whole world. The world needs a hundred and fifty-three pictures of birds in order to survive. And, besides, I don’t have relationships.”
“Not any relationships? No friends, no family?”
Donald MacDonald shook his head vigorously and paced faster. “I have to do something. So far all I've done in life is solve frigging mathematical problems, most recently for stupid, frigging programmers who are too lazy to do it themselves, and meanwhile the world is coming apart at the seams, people killing each other all over the place, migrants dying in the desert, migrants dying in the Mediterranean Sea, children, little children.”
Donald MacDonald buried his face in his hands and wept.
“Donald MacDonald, I can tell you’re a passionate and compassionate man. Why don’t you rest and I'll come back and see you tomorrow.”
^^^^^
Rolf Crane was on his second scotch when his wife, Lynnette, came through the front door.
“Bad day at the office?” she asked, eyeing the lowball glass in his hand and his slouchy posture. Lynnette was a school counselor for the local school district. She was as smart as her husband or slightly smarter. Teasing him at times, she claimed to be slightly smarter based on selecting a career not so rough on rats.
“Office was fine. I was the bad one. Bad at the hospital, that is. —Drinkie-pooh?”
“Not scotch. I'll fix it. Talk to me while I mix.”
“You remember that show Jonathan Miller did on BBC about the human body? Do you remember the caricature of a human based on how many nerve endings in each part: huge head, skinny torso, huge genitals, huge hands?”
She said, “I don’t remember, but I get the picture.” She sat at the other end of the couch with a highball glass which contained what looked like a Harvey Wallbanger.
“I met the guy today.”
“Really. Go on.”
“He collapsed on the street a couple of days ago. He evidently had worked at things artistic to the exclusion of the things we take for granted. He doesn’t eat he doesn’t sleep he doesn’t bathe. He works to utter exhaustion. I asked him when he sleeps and he said he sleeps when it rains.”
Mrs. Crane said, “It rains a lot around here.”
Dr. Crane said, “Half of the rain comes at night, which is when he’s doing his bird pictures. The rain only interrupts his daytime activities.”
“Bird pictures?”
“Bird pictures.” He rose and went to the bar and poured himself more scotch.
“Go easy, darling.”
He ignored her, taking a gulp of scotch before he sat down again. “He believes he can save the world—save it from itself—if he paints exactly a hundred and fifty-three pictures of birds.”
“Audubon-style pictures?” she asked.
“I haven’t the foggiest. He doesn’t look like the Audubon type. He’s that guy they featured on the news recently, making huge sidewalk drawings downtown.”
She said, “Oh him. He’s quite good. But I don’t remember there being any bird pictures.”
“No, he does the chalk drawings to make money to eat, which he does very poorly—hamburgers and concentrated soups.”
“What’s to become of him?”
Dr. Crane took another swallow of scotch. “If I let the heartless bastard half of me do the deciding, he’ll be institutionalized, drugged into a zombie-like state and never see the light of day again.”
“What if you let the Marcus Welby side of you do the deciding?”
He said, “I'd sleuth around until I found a loving aunt who’d never had a son, and she would take him in and make sure he ate and changed his undies once in a while. And of course Marcus Welby would find her, but in real life thar ain’t no doting aunt, and he won’t take to regular outpatient care. He’d play havoc in a halfway house. I don’t know what the fuck to do. He wants to save the world, Lynnie, and he only knows he has to finish a course of one hundred and fifty-three paintings in order to do it.”
“I hate to say it, darling, but his destiny is not your problem.”
Dr. Crane finished his drink in one large swallow and stood. “I just made it my problem.”
“What do you mean?” his wife asked, alarmed.
“I'm going to be the doting aunt.”
“You’re not bringing him here” she said, more alarmed.
“Hell no, I want to stay married to you for a while yet.”
She said, “You shouldn’t drive.”
He said, “I've driven on more booze than this and you know it.”
“Oh Rolf, you’re scaring me.”
“I think the world needs saving, and quite frankly I haven’t heard any better plan than Donald MacDonald’s. —Don’t worry. I'll take him to his place, I'll make him promise to do what I tell him to so they don’t throw the key away. Every few days I'll drop in and make a list of things to do: shop for food, bathe, sleep. I think I can do it.”
“You’re sure he isn’t prone to violence.”
He said, “I used to engage in organized viol
ence myself, if you recall. I think I can take him if he jumps me. Relax, Lynnie, I need something to believe in. I deal with so much bullshit day after day.” His face screwed up, looking as if he might cry.
“Shall I come?” she asked. She knew she couldn’t dissuade him, he was an immovable object when he made up his mind.
He said, “No, he’ll freak out if he gets in the car with you.”
Which was exactly what she’d hoped he’d say.
“Oh hell, go save the world. And good luck, darling.”
He shot her a slightly sad smile and reached in the hall closet for his jacket.
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The Birdman Page 3
