by M. J. Cates
“See there,” Nurse Jenkins said. “Exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.”
At the time, he had wanted to hit her but now, in the late summer of 1924, in the sad tranquility of Rochester, New York, he wondered if Nurse Jenkins had not been right: that ignorance, the simple purity of ignorance, was the only sure defence against sorrow.
* * *
—
There came the day of his departure on RMS Ascania, the relatively calm crossing, a few days in Montreal where he was officially demobilized, and then the train to Rochester. His fears that he and his father would find themselves at odds soon proved groundless.
Dr. Goodchild, now retired, was changed by the reappearance of his damaged son. Perhaps it was mere gratitude that his flesh and blood had survived, but there was a tenderness in his attitude toward Quentin that was new. Where before he had been gruff, he was now solicitous and kind. He took to referring to Quentin as “boy,” or “my boy.” Shall we go for a stroll, boy? Sleep well, my boy? Fancy a porterhouse for dinner, boy?
Dr. Goodchild spent much of the day reading the papers and writing letters to the editor, to the mayor, and the White House, for he was still waspish where others were concerned. Quentin put in his hours at a desk in the spare bedroom. For lunch they walked to Woolworth’s and sat at the lunch counter, sharing a crossword puzzle. His father was good at these, if a little competitive. As weeks and then months went by, he never once asked Quentin what he planned to do with his life, or if he had thought about getting a job. Quentin found it a surprising, but welcome, change in a man who had never been averse to cracking the whip.
For the first time in their lives, in other words, he and his father became friends. In the warmth of this shared domesticity, Quentin felt his war anguish slowly beginning to recede. The bouts of tears, the nightmares and the fits of shaking became less frequent. He no longer woke in the morning wondering which hospital he was in, or what surgery awaited him. After a mostly silent but agreeable breakfast the two men would retire to their separate chairs and not talk again until it was time for lunch.
But the writing went badly. Quentin would get a few pages in, and he would be overwhelmed with sorrow—sorrow that rapidly turned into an anger so white-hot he could not be coherent in his thoughts, let alone on the page. He felt peculiar, and useless, and out of place. One day, out of desperation, he decided to invent a fictional author, one who felt no need to write about the war.
This little mental trick changed his life. In the guise of this invented author, he began writing vignettes about a peculiar stranger who shows up in a very proper, conservative town and causes havoc with his penchant for blurting out passionate statements in settings where they are most unwelcome. Although he had started with no plan for a novel, slowly the vignettes accumulated, and other characters came alive. With these in hand, he worked out a general storyline with a few peaks and valleys. He wrote and rewrote and gradually, reluctantly, began to admit that he might indeed be a novelist.
As soon as he completed the first manuscript he put it away in a drawer and started another. Like the first, it was short, uncluttered, and focused around an odd, passionate protagonist who alienates almost everyone he meets—except other misfits. He made lists of possible pseudonyms. A year later, with two complete novels in hand, he began contacting publishers. It took a few months, but eventually he was taken on by an editor named Griffin Burke at Essex Taylor Bradkin.
He felt the possibility of happiness beginning to blossom within him. His father noticed, and was heartened by it. “I begin to see my old Quentin,” he said one day. “You’ll never know what joy it brings me.”
Their shared contentment was not to last long, however. The old man had never mentioned it to Quentin, but he had been diagnosed with metastatic cancer and had elected to forgo any surgery. The end came in the form of a spinal tumour. He began to complain increasingly often of his aching back and eventually had to be taken to the emergency room in agony. Ten days later he was dead.
15
“Why on earth would Bingham do that?” Carl wanted to know.
“Why would he stick you in a broom closet in the criminal wing? Surely it’s not in his interest to antagonize you. He’s hoping for a favourable report, right?”
They were lying in bed, speaking softly. Imogen’s train had got in at nine-thirty, when the twins were already asleep. She had had to suppress an urge to wake them up and hug them.
“Bingham is a strange man—he’s cold and clammy. He looks at you but doesn’t see you. Very flat affect, except when he talks about his surgical procedures. He doesn’t seem worried about a favourable report—he’s too certain he’ll get one.”
“Those asylum directors are an eccentric bunch. A Harvard friend of mine has worked with three of them and says not one of them would be employable in a regular hospital.”
“It’s the isolation. Bingham’s been in place at Trenton since 1916. He still calls X-rays roentgenograms.”
She told him about the statistics Bingham had provided.
Carl, a man who knew the value of good statistics, shook his head and said, “Again—why would he do that? Why give you bad numbers?”
“It’s possible he’s never looked at them. Either that or he didn’t notice. He just sees what he wants to see. If Mrs. Boxer tells him the numbers are good, he assumes they are—which means I’m going to have to dig up all my own numbers. Or at least keep a close eye on Mrs. Boxer. Oh, and did I tell you about the social workers? Bingham assigned me two social workers to do the follow-up visits on discharged patients. These two ladies waltz in and they’re just like Mrs. Boxer—mouths chock full of brand new false teeth.”
“Former patients.”
“And supremely grateful ones. They talk, seriously, about what a miracle-worker Bingham is. They think he’s a saint and a genius.”
“Well, who’s going to do the follow-ups then?”
“I’ll have to.”
Carl looked at her. “Imogen, for God’s sake—you’ll be away months!”
“I know.”
“I thought you were just going to be checking files and putting numbers together.”
“So did I.” She rested a hand on his shoulder but he pulled away.
“God damn it, Imogen.”
“Please don’t be angry. This has to be done right, and I’m not going to have any help from Trenton. If anything, they’ll be in the way.”
Carl turned away from her, and switched out the light.
Imogen woke early to the sounds of the twins chattering in the kitchen.
“Mumma!” they both cried, when she appeared in the doorway. Hot little hands clutched at her fingers. “Mumma, where were you?”
Imogen dispensed what they ultimately conceded was a satisfactory number of hugs and kisses. Pure joy to ruffle their hair, to inhale their warm, biscuity smell. How is it possible, she wondered, that I ever manage to forget I have this happy life? Even if nothing else should ever go right, I have this home, this joy.
“Where’s Trenton?” Charlotte demanded. “Why did you go to there?”
“You remember, darling—I have work to do.”
“Are there children there?” Aubrey asked with a worried look.
“I’m sure there are,” Imogen said, “but I didn’t see any. I’m working at the hospital—remember I told you about that?”
“I remember,” Charlotte said.
Imogen made oatmeal and placed a bowl before each of them. The twins talked excitedly about Cynthia Bee. Cynthia had taught them new games and taken them to the park and horse riding and on the carousel and all kinds of things.
“Cynthia says on Monday or Tuesday she’ll take us to the dinosaur museum. She says they have tiny horses there. Horses this big.” She indicated six inches or so off the table. “Will you come with us?”
“I won’t be able to, dear. I’ll be going back to Trenton Sunday night.”
“Why?” Charlotte said.
&n
bsp; “Why?” Aubrey echoed.
“Because I have more work to do. I’ll be going there every week.”
“When is Sunday?” Aubrey asked in a small voice.
“Three days from now.”
“Three more sleeps?”
“No, two sleeps, love. Three days. Come on, now, eat up. We’ve got to get you to school.”
“Good morning,” Carl said, taking coffee beans from the cupboard and measuring them into his grinder. “How are the two terrors of Dukeland Street? Are they behaving?”
“They’re positively angelic,” Imogen said. “I should go away more often.”
“No.” Aubrey slammed his spoon on the table. “You stay home.”
“I feel the same way,” Carl said mildly, “but Mumma has to work, and that’s that.”
After Carl headed off to the Phipps, Imogen walked the twins to school; Myra would pick them up at noon.
She had anticipated great pleasure at being back in her laboratory, but found that the work did not engage her. Lately her results on blood chemistry and psychosis were merely supportive of work that had gone before. And since there was no telling when, if ever, Ganz would allow her to publish, it all seemed pointless. She still had only a single publication to her credit.
She did enjoy lunch in the third-floor dining room. A couple of her former patients greeted her warmly. It was one of the sadder realities of her Trenton mission that it had meant transferring her patients to other psychiatrists. After the abject souls adrift in Trenton, the Phipps patients seemed only mildly eccentric. They also looked supremely healthy, but that may have been because they still had teeth. After lunch, she met with Ganz in his office. He was in an uncharacteristically jolly mood, holding forth on the pleasures of train travel.
“I find there is a certain tranquility to long-distance train travel, don’t you? One has no telephone, and I have only once received a telegram en route. One’s existence takes on a parenthetical character. One is freed from the usual responsibilities, and the narrative of one’s life is suspended. All in all, an experience that encourages reflection.”
The word reminded Imogen of her “conversations” with Laura.
Dr. Ganz tapped the ash from his cigar and examined the tip. “Of course, the trip to and from Trenton—it’s not going to be the same thing, I expect.”
“No, but I enjoy it—it’s very good for reading.”
“And what are you reading these days? Other than the collected works of Rupert Bingham.”
“I’ve become rather fond of Jeremy West. I’ve read two of his books now. They’re quite unique—in atmosphere, anyway. They manage to be both dreamlike and highly realistic at the same time, if that’s possible.”
“Jeremy West. I’ve not heard of him.”
“I think you’d like him. Donna would too.” She immediately regretted mentioning Donna, but Dr. Ganz would not be nudged from his cheerful mood.
“The elusive Dr. Artemis. You still see her, do you?”
“We have tea now and again.”
“I miss her,” Ganz allowed. “She was a lively presence.”
“Yes.”
“But we must talk of other things. Tell me about Trenton.”
She told him everything she had told Carl, in more detail. She struggled to maintain an even tone; she wanted to appear, and to be, fair-minded. Ganz listened in silence, gazing up at the ceiling as she spoke. When she was finished, he stubbed out his cigar and said, “Well. A less than auspicious beginning.”
“To be fair, I suppose shoddy statistics don’t necessarily indicate a bad intention.”
“No. Nor do they imply unacceptable outcomes.”
“Clearly I’m going to be away longer than we expected.”
“Without question. You’ll have to do your own follow-ups with the patients—and some of them may be quite far-flung.”
“I found Bingham himself a little odd. You worked with him at Worcester, didn’t you?”
Ganz gave a curt nod. “I found him able enough…”
He let the phrase hang in the air.
“But?”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything more—I don’t want to sway your judgment one way or the other.”
The afternoon seemed long and empty. Instead of pressing ahead with her write-ups, Imogen spent an hour or more staring out the lab’s bay window at the falling leaves, and at the cars that came and went in the circular drive. Precisely at five o’clock she put on her coat and stopped off in Carl’s lab down the hall.
“I’m heading home now. What time will I see you?”
“I won’t be late. Six-thirty or seven?”
Cynthia Bee emerged from one of the research rooms, carrying an empty cage, and they greeted each other.
“I hear you’ve been enormous help with the twins,” Imogen said. “We’re very grateful, both of us.”
“Oh, I love to see them,” Cynthia said. “They’re such delightful little darlings.”
“Well, they’re quite mad for you,” Imogen said.
She stopped off at the butcher’s on the way home and bought two pounds of pork tenderloin. As she waited for him to wrap it up, a sadness rolled into her spirit. She began to count the ways in which she was not good: I am not a good wife; a good wife does not abandon her husband and children for three days out of the week and expect to do so for the next six months. I am not a good mother, because I let other people—Myra, Cynthia, and Carl—take up my responsibilities. I am not a good sister, in that I don’t keep in touch with my siblings; I am frankly not even sure if I love them. I am not a good daughter because I’ve upset my parents by becoming a working mother, and in a field—psychiatry—that garners scant respect in the civilized world. I can’t even call myself a good psychiatrist at the moment, having handed off my patients for the duration, all so I can pursue this dubious mission in Trenton, New Jersey.
I am a good researcher, she allowed herself. I know how to isolate a theory and test it and collate results in a logical, convincing manner. Not that anyone else sees it, thanks to the vague obstructionism of Jonas Ganz.
Good God, she thought, taking the package of pork from the butcher and putting it in her string bag, I’m not even a good Jew.
The tenderloin was to be her effort to be a good wife at least for the short time she would be home. Carl, she knew, would be living on cheap steak and cheese sandwiches while she was gone.
The children brightened her mood by greeting her deliriously. After Myra had departed, she sat on the couch and watched them playing with Charlotte’s dollhouse, an ingenious three-storey affair that Carl had spent many weeks building. Highly detailed—it even had tiny electric lights, something many real houses did not yet have—and beautifully proportioned, it threw open a door into the children’s imaginations. She loved to watch them making up dialogue, two tiny dramatists moving their miniature characters from room to room. Carl had even managed to find a Negro maid figure that Charlotte in particular liked to voice.
“Did you put your toys away?” she would say to Aubrey, mimicking Myra.
“No, I’m the father.”
“No, you’re the boy. Did you put your toys away? Do I have to go check?”
“I put them away.”
“You a good boy. Lemme give you a big ole kiss.”
“No! Ugh!” Aubrey trotting his tiny figure into another room and hiding under a bed. “You can’t find me!”
“Where could that bad little boy be?”
“You said I was good!”
“That was before.”
“Oh.”
“Now you’re bad.”
“Why?”
“Because you just are.”
“I don’t want to be.”
“But you are, okay?”
“No. Why don’t you be bad?”
“Because I’m Myra!”
It was fascinating to Imogen how they slipped in and out of the two realities, and in and out of character as necessary
to impose desired destinies. And it was hard to miss their moral certainties and hesitations, the embryonic superegos struggling with conflicting desires to boss or submit, to take or to give. But she did not want to be too much the psychiatrist with her own children. She left them to play and went into the kitchen to start dinner.
* * *
—
The weekend unfolded much as she’d hoped. Carl came home and happily devoured his dinner. She read to the children, and the feel of them lying against her, enthralled by a story and falling asleep against their will, restored something deep inside her that had been in danger of breaking.
Saturday was given over to their morning routine of marketing, and then in the afternoon she and Carl took the twins to the zoo. The day was unseasonably warm, and a tiger cub, much to the chagrin, even outrage, of his elders, jumped into the moat that separated them from the gawping humans. The senior tigers growled at him, and finally one of them hauled him out by the scruff and lectured him in deep-throated Tigerese. Aubrey cackled with delight, and Carl was amused as well.
And yet when they turned out the light, Carl did not reach for her and Imogen knew that he had not forgiven her.
On Sunday he stayed home to do some reading in much-deserved peace, while Imogen took the twins to the park to play on the swings and teeter-totters. It had turned cold overnight, and windy, and their matching scarves flew out behind them. Imogen felt like the children with the dollhouse, directing a tiny distant avatar of herself into first one role, then another. Now I am a psychiatrist, now I am a researcher; now I am a wife, now I am a mother. Now I am good, now I am…not.
She had just enough time, when she got home, to make lunch and then catch her train. Carl was on his knees in the dining area, attempting to fix a radiator.