“Is he going to be okay?” the stewardess asked as Thomas nodded off into sleep once again.
“Oh, yes; I think so,” said Jane, doing her best to sound optimistic.
The stewardess patted Thomas’s shoulder. “Good.”
Thomas shuddered and huddled back into his seat as if he were aware of the presence of the stewardess and found her frightening.
As Jane settled herself again, she noticed the long, distorted arms of the other stewardess in first-class, and she suppressed a shudder, reminding herself that delusional people could be very persuasive; no doubt Thomas had gotten to her. She closed her eyes, and kept them closed until the plane landed at Montreal. Watching some of the passengers leave the plane, she reminded herself that none of them really had such heads, or such limbs. Frightening as they were, they could not be as hideous as what she saw. It was impossible.
* * *
Thomas’s mother, her carefully maintained appearance less than perfect for once, sat in the living room, her hand to her eyes. “We hoped the year in Florence would do the trick,” she said wearily, turning the last word to a tasteless joke. She collected herself enough to look up at her brother as he came in from seeing Thomas off in the ambulance. “What did they say?” Her spindly arms ended in narrow paws, more like a cat’s than a human hand.
“They’ll call you tonight, when they have completed their evaluation.” He sat down heavily in the recliner that had been Alec’s special chair. He stared at his hands as he spoke to the third person in the room. He seemed wholly unaware that his vest enclosed not ribs but a birdcage in which sat a monstrous crow with a lizard’s tail. “I don’t know what to say. We thought he was doing so well.” The last words were lost in the wail of the ambulance siren as it pulled away from the house.
Jane Wallace could think of nothing to say to either Thomas’s mother or uncle. She decided to try the oblique approach. “You told me he wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary until this morning?”
“No.” Catherine Ashen sighed, glancing uneasily at her brother. “Well, not for Thomas. He kept to himself when he got home. He spent most of yesterday looking out his window, making sketches. He said he was showing the lie.” Her voice grew unsteady but she kept on. “They weren’t of anything specific. Just the street. You know, perspective drawings, sketches of the houses along the block. They’re very good,” she finished desperately.
“Thomas is a talented young man,” Jordon Pace announced as if saying it importantly enough would create a validity through ponderousness.
“No one who has seen his work doubts that.” She tried to think of something more she could say that would help Thomas’s family to deal with his obsessions, but nothing came to mind.
“He says the monsters are self-portraits,” his mother whispered. “He drew a number of them yesterday, every one worse than the last. How can he think that? He’s such a handsome young man. Everyone thinks so.” Her cheeks colored, as if she expected to be contradicted.
Jane sighed. “That has been part of his pattern. That’s what Doctor Chiodo’s evaluation says.”
“And it’s absurd,” Jordon Pace announced firmly. “It’s foolishness.”
“No it isn’t,” said Jane firmly. “It isn’t foolishness.” She studied the man for a long moment, trying to decide how to approach him. “If he believes his work is self-portraiture, then we have to assume that, in some sense, he is telling the truth.” It was as much as she dared to say, and she kept her voice low, not wanting to give herself away to such a creature as his uncle.
Catherine put her hand to her mouth; her fingers were trembling. “I can’t bear to think that,” she confessed, her head lowering and her eyes averted.
“For now, you will help him the most if you do not argue with him, especially about his art.” Jane gave Uncle Jordon a steady look. “This isn’t something he can be coaxed or cajoled out of.”
Jordon Pace pursed his lips. “I should have taken him in hand as soon as Alec became ill,” he said, inclining his head toward his sister. “I should have, Cathy. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
As gently as she could Jane said, “I don’t think it would have made much difference. Thomas’ drawings have been ... unnerving for some time.”
“It was Alec’s illness,” Jordon insisted, needing to fix blame somewhere. “To have to watch his father go through such—” He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away. “It would give anyone nightmares, let alone a boy like Thomas.”
“Don’t speak against him,” said Catherine faintly. “His drawings were strange long before Alec got sick.”
“Of course not; of course not,” Jordon soothed. “But I can’t help but think that those two years took a toll on the boy.” He swung around to Jane, silently challenging her.
“Oh, don’t talk about it,” Catherine pleaded. “Today is bad enough without bringing all that up.”
“They took a toll on everyone,” said Jordon. “We all know how hard it was for you.”
Unlike Jane, Catherine seemed to find his condescending manner comforting. She reached out and patted her brother’s hand. “You were so helpful. I couldn’t have managed without you.” Then she blinked and turned her attention to Jane, chagrin in her expression. “You must think very poorly of us, talking about something that happened so long ago.”
“Not at all,” Jane responded in an even tone. “I’m sure there were many factors leading to your son’s crisis, and no doubt his father’s illness was a contributing factor.”
“Just what I’ve been telling her,” Jordon declared. “It’s not the kind of thing a man puts behind him easily, and a boy ... well.” He shrugged.
Knowing it was a very difficult task, Jane did what she could to turn the subject back to the present. “Has Thomas talked about his father’s death?”
“Not really,” said Catherine, her eyes evading Jane’s gaze. “It was ... so unpleasant.”
Jane wondered if Catherine had encouraged the silence; that was for another time. “Did Thomas see most of the course of the illness?”
“Well, of course he did,” said Jordon, blustering afresh. “Alec was at home for most of its duration.” He indicated the recliner. “He practically lived in that chair—if you call that living.”
“Jordon; please.” Catherine put her hand to her eyes.
There was much more to be found out, Jane told herself, but later. Today she had to follow Thomas to the hospital and try to be sure he was properly admitted. She wanted to see what kind of beings would be caring for Thomas. “I know this has been a very trying time. I won’t distress you any longer,” she said to Catherine. “But in a day or two we must talk. For your son’s sake.”
Catherine nodded numbly, her eyes fixed on a distant place; her brother took it upon himself to escort Jane to the door.
“She is not very strong,” he said in a low voice. “I’m sure you’ll take that into account in your dealing with her. She has had to bear so much already.” He opened his hands to show he had done all that he could.
“I understand,” said Jane numbly, because she did. She turned away and walked down the steps to her car; for an instant she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window-glass. The sight of her long beak no longer distressed her, and she got into the driver’s seat with little more than a flinch; she sat there and kept her full attention on the traffic, watching the cars instead of the drivers as she signaled in preparation for leaving, her mind deliberately focused on the ordinary sights. She refused to acknowledge the monsters around her, for that way was the end of reason, the loss of perspective that she had done so much to maintain. There was nothing to be gained in seeing the hideous apparitions that filled the streets; she glared at the two young men riding skateboards; they had the heads of ibises and the wings of vultures.
“I’m glad Thomas
has someone like you to help him,” Jordon said as he stood back, allowing Jane to depart.
“So am I,” said Jane, driving away from the house into a world of monsters.
About Giotto’s Window
The title refers to the codification of perspective and other “realistic” devices that Giotto and a handful of Florentine artists introduced in the 15th century, bringing “rationality” and the Renaissance vision to the world of art, along with a view of the world as sensible. But not all artists embraced this adherence to realism: Hieronymus Bosch was perhaps the most prominent exponent of irrational art, whose perceptions influenced, but did not dictate, the kind of delusions encountered in this story.
In spite of the rigors of rationality, it seems to me that this world is a very irrational place, but with a thin crust of rationalism floating atop the vast irrationality, rather like the oceans and continents floating atop a vast core of molten rock. An extreme version of this conviction is found in this story.
JUST beyond the Marysville off-ramp, the big Chevy pickup suddenly braked and something came hurtling out of the back of the truck to crash and splatter into Ruth Donahue’s windshield.
As she fought for control of her Volvo station wagon, she watched her hands in horror as red seeped through the splintered glass; the steering wheel was sticky with it. Ruth pulled onto the shoulder as much by feel as anything, since her vision was completely blocked by the ... thing on the hood of the car. She was going little more than fifteen miles per hour then, but it felt to her as if she were racing along at seventy.
There was a whine of tires and her ear rocked as it was struck a glancing blow. Ruth screamed as much from irritation as from fright. It was with difficulty that she forced herself to stay in the car once she had pulled on the brake. “I want out of here,” she said in a soft, tense voice as she stared at the blood on her hands and arms and skirt.
The thing on the hood, she realized with revulsion, was a dog. She remembered seeing it in the back of the pickup. It was—had been—good-sized, faintly spotted, with floppy ears, and Ruth had wondered why the driver had neglected to put the tailgate up with an animal loose in the back. When the Chevy had slowed so suddenly, the dog had been thrown out of the truck bed and—
She lowered her head and vomited.
A sharp rap on the window caught her attention, and she looked up, embarrassed to be seen. A Highway Patrol officer (where had he come from?) indicated that she should roll down the window, and reluctantly she did.
“You all right, ma’am?” the officer asked her, concern on his face.
“I don’t know. I ...” Her words faltered and she began to cry, not soft, gentle tears, but deep sobs that left her trembling and aching.
“Hey, Gary, the lady’s in shock,” the officer called to another, unseen person.
“She hurt?” called the other.
“Scratches and bruises, and she’s a mess, but I don’t think she’s hurt bad. They might want to check her over at the hospital, just in case.”
Ruth tried to get the man to stop talking. She waved a hand at him and saw him wince at the sight. She forgot her gruesome hands until that moment, and now she hid them self-consciously.
“Shit, the sucker really landed hard, didn’t he?” The officer opened the door and peered inside.
“I’m al ... all right, Officer, or I will be, in a moment.” She was finding the air and sunlight heady as wine. “Really.”
“If you’re certain,” he said, with doubt. “But you better let me drive you to the hospital.”
What is he seeing? she asked herself, dreading to inquire for herself. “You don’t have to,” she began, but he interrupted her.
“Look, lady, it’s gonna take a while to get the animal off your car, and your windshield is broken. You can’t drive anywhere in any case. And frankly, you look pretty rocky.” He braced his hands on his hips, determined.
Ruth cleared her throat. “Okay.”
“Is there anyone who can pick you up?” the officer went on.
“I ... I’m from San Luis Obispo. I’m up here for the day.” Who did she know back at home who would drop everything and drive for over five hours to get her?
“Well, look, we’ll take you to the emergency room in Yuba City. You can call from there.” He started to move away from her, as if her shock were contagious.
She could already imagine Randy Jeffers yelling at his secretary when he learned what had happened. Randy’s main response to anything he could not control was to yell about it. He would be outraged at Ruth for her accident, the more so because she was in the Sacramento Valley on business for his company.
“You want to get out of the car, lady?” the officer asked.
“Oh. Yes.” She opened the door, the movement making her dizzy. “And my name is Ms. Donahue. Ruth Donahue.”
“Yeah,” said the officer. Then, grudgingly: “I’m Officer Fairchild. Hal Fairchild.”
Ruth could think of nothing to say. None of the admonitions she had received as a child covered meetings with law officers after accidents. I’m thirty-six years old, she thought, and I don’t know what to say to a cop.
“You want to get in the car, Ms. Donahue?” Officer Fairchild offered. “Hey, Gary, how’s the guy in the pickup?”
“I don’t think the ambulance is gonna get here in time.” The answer was flat, so without inflection that he sounded more like a machine than a man.
“Hey, Gary, get away from there.” It was a friendly suggestion. Fairchild made it while holding the front door of his black-and-white open for Ruth.
“Somebody’s gotta stay with him. Damn-fool bastard!”
“Don’t let Gary bother you,” Fairchild said quietly to Ruth. “It’s his fifth bad accident in four days and it’s getting to him.” He closed the door and walked away.
“And I guess the SPCA’ll have something to say about the way the dog was loose in the back of the truck.”
“I beg your pardon,” Ruth said, startled at finding Officer Fairchild beside her again and the car in motion. When had that happened? “My mind was ... wandering.”
“That’s okay,” said Fairchild. “Shock’ll do that to you.”
“How much longer until we reach the hospital?” She noticed that the farmlands had given way to smaller holdings and the first hint of urban sprawl.
“Ten minutes at the most. You be able to hold out until then?” He glanced at her swiftly. “Your color’s a little off.”
“I’m ... doing fine.” She was alarmed by her wandering thoughts, but she could not tell him so.
“Well, you hold on, Ms. Donahue. We’ll make sure the doctors give you a good going-over before they let you out.”
“Great.” Her eyes felt solid and stiff in her head, like marbles, and she did not want to move them unless she had to. “The man in the pickup?”
“I don’t know. Dispatcher says he was alive when the ambulance got there, but I don’t know if he’ll make it. He was pretty much of a mess.”
“What happened?” Ruth asked. “Why did he stop that way?”
“Hard to tell. There was nothing on the road. We haven’t had time to check the truck out. Maybe a bird came at his window. That happens around here. Ever have that problem down in San Luis Obispo?”
“I guess.” She watched a school bus lumber out of a wide driveway, loaded down with young children. She followed it, thankful that there had only been a pickup in front of her and not one of those buses filled with kids.
“Just a couple more minutes,” said Officer Fairchild.
“Good.”
* * *
The doctor was middle-aged and harried; he ran his hand through his rumpled hair and made some hasty notes. “Well, Ms. Donahue, I don’t know what to tell you. You’re suffering from mild shock and th
at’s not surprising. You could do with some sleep since there’s no sign of a concussion. I’d recommend you get a checkup from your regular doctor.”
“I don’t have one,” Ruth murmured. She had been in the hospital now for more than three hours and was disoriented.
“Then call a clinic or something,” he said with asperity. “You’ve had a rough time of it, and it isn’t good to neglect any symptoms.”
“All right,” she said, staring at the clock. She still had not called Randy; as far as the office knew, she was off checking on the County Planning Commission and the Zoning Commission regarding the possibilities for developing the old Standish Ranch. When he learned that she had lost more than half a day, things would not be pleasant.
“There’s a motel near here. They’re not too unreasonable. They can help you rent a car. But I don’t think you should plan on driving for at least twenty-four hours.” He cleared his throat.
“I’ll have to be on the road tomorrow morning,” she said.
“I’d advise against it,” the doctor said, with a weary sigh. “Look, isn’t there someone we can call for you? You’re not married, I noticed, but there must be—”
“No one,” she said, cutting him off. “I’ll call my boss from the motel.”
“If that’s the way you want it,” the doctor said. “I’m going to give you a prescription for something to help you rest and relax. Don’t mix it with alcohol or dairy products. And wait at least an hour after a meal to take one.”
“I’m not hungry,” Ruth said softly.
“You will be,” the doctor told her. “I’ll call the pharmacy for your prescription. You can pick it up in about forty minutes.”
“Thank you.” Her mind was drifting and she found herself not wanting to resist.
Apprehensions and Other Delusions Page 13