Henry of Atlantic City

by Frederick Reuss

  A guard came over and Henry let him pluck the glasses from his face. They were attached to a string so he let them drop and Henry just stood there with the sunglasses hanging around his neck looking straight ahead like the saints looking down from the ceiling of the Hagia Sophia.

  “Please sit down,” the judge said.

  Mr. Downey talked first. He called on Father Crowley. “I’d like you to give us your impression of the O’Brien family,” he said.

  Father Crowley nodded. “The O’Briens are very nice people,” he said. “They seemed genuinely concerned about the boy’s welfare and never interfered in my efforts to get to know him.” Then he talked about their Saturday talks and told the judge about how Henry had run away the first time during school and how he had sneaked out of the rectory the second time.

  Mr. Downey interrupted. “Would you say that the O’Briens provided a stable home environment for the boy?”

  “Yes. I’d say so,” the priest said. “But for various reasons Henry was simply not able to adjust.”

  Mr. Downey looked up at the judge and asked Father Crowley, “Would you say that Henry has adjusted to Saint Jude’s?”

  “He has appeared to.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Mr. Downey said and then called on Father Rogan. “Would you tell us a little about Saint Jude’s?” he asked.

  Father Rogan began to tell the history of Saint Jude’s from the beginning. He described the facilities and the routines and the responsibilities and the educational opportunities each boy was offered. The judge interrupted. “It sounds like an impressive institution, Father,” he said. “But I’m afraid our time is limited.”

  “I understand, your honor,” Father Rogan said. Then he talked about the individual attention that each boy received. He began naming boys who had left Saint Jude’s and become famous, starting with the most famous one, who worked for the president of the United States and got his name in the newspapers almost every day.

  Theodora’s lawyer interrupted. “I object, your honor. I don’t see how the names of alumni are relevant here.”

  The judge let Father Rogan continue.

  Father Rogan talked for a little while about the philosophy of Saint Jude’s.

  The judge interrupted. “Thank you, Father. Briefly, could you state why you think Henry should remain at Saint Jude’s?”

  Father Rogan looked down for a moment and the lights in the ceiling flashed off his bald head. He took out a handkerchief and patted the back of his neck and wiped his brow. “It’s my opinion, your honor, as a priest and an educator, that a hotel casino in Atlantic City is no place for a child to grow up.” He spoke very slowly and deliberately. “Especially since the boy has already lived there and seems to have been exposed to some rather—shall we say unseemly?—things.” He looked at Theodora. “Henry seems to have some rather special gifts. I think it would be appropriate to call them that. At any rate, the nature of his gifts makes it even more imperative that he be placed in an appropriate environment. For the life of me, I can’t imagine how the moral and spiritual aspects of Henry’s education could be advanced in the atmosphere of one of the biggest gambling hotels in the country.” He wiped his head again. “That’s all I have to say, your honor.”

  The judge wrote down some things and everyone in the room was quiet. Then he told Theodora’s lawyer to proceed. The man behind the briefcase stood up and touched his pen to his lips as though he were still thinking about what to say. Then he called on Farley. “As Henry’s probation officer, could you please tell us about your last visit to Saint Jude’s?”

  Farley stood up and explained that she had gone to Saint Jude’s with a representative of the adoption agency and a state social worker.

  “You all saw Henry during the visit?”

  “We did, yes.”

  “Describe the circumstances, please.”

  “Well, we were taken into the director’s office. Henry was brought in by a staff member.”

  “Could you describe Henry’s appearance?”

  “He appeared to have been badly beaten.”

  Father Rogan tried to stand up but Mr. Downey pulled him back into his seat.

  “Describe Henry’s appearance.”

  “He had a large bruise on one side of his face.” She traced a line under her own eye. “His cheek was badly swollen. Also, it looked to me like his nose might have been broken.”

  Father Rogan stood up. “Excuse me, your honor. This is a total exaggeration. Nothing was broken.”

  “Please, Father,” the judge said.

  “Did you ask what happened?”

  “Yes,” Farley said. “May I read from my notes?”

  The judge nodded.

  Farley flipped open a small notebook she was holding. “The answer was, quote, ‘Some of the older boys got rough with him, unquote.”

  “Is that all you were told?”

  “It is,” Farley said.

  “Were you satisfied with the answer?”

  “No, sir. I was not,” Farley said. “I had the feeling that it wasn’t being taken very seriously”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, like we weren’t being told everything.”

  “Are you a mother?” Theodora’s lawyer asked Farley.

  “I have two children.”

  Theodora’s lawyer folded his hands together and held them in front of his mouth like he was about to say something that he really didn’t want to say. Mr. Downey leaned over and whispered to Father Rogan. Dr. Alt took Henry’s hand and held it. Nobody stirred. Even his angel was silent. Henry felt the whole courtroom staring at him.

  Farley went on talking. Henry just sat there between the two priests and played with the sunglasses around his neck. He looked over at Theodora now and then because she was sitting there quietly and not saying anything. He tried to imagine his mother and his angel began to talk again. Its voice was like a whisper because all secrets must be whispered and Henry thought about his visit to prison where all the whispers were drowned out by the shouting and clamoring of the prisoners and he understood that being in prison was like being whispered in a secret. Being in prison meant being in the shadow of the light. It meant coming forth into the air from the invisible mother and hardening through her hardness. As a saint, Henry knew that being in the world meant passing from prison to prison.

  Then the yelling began. Father Rogan and Mr. Downey were yelling at Theodora’s lawyer. The judge was banging his hammer and saying, “Come to order. Come to order.” Father Rogan started telling the judge that Theodora’s lawyer was making outrageous insinuations and his tactics were despicable. Henry didn’t listen to the fighting; he was trying to hear his angel. Then Dr. Alt took him by the hand and led him out of the courtroom.

  “There’s no need for us to sit through all this,” he said.

  Henry put on his sunglasses and they went into a big room that was filled with people watching TV and reading newspapers and magazines. “I’m exhausted,” Dr. Alt said. He sat down and held his cane between his knees and patted Henry’s shoulder. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m just completely exhausted.”

  A little while later they went back into the courtroom because it was Dr. Alt’s turn to talk. While he talked everyone in the room was quiet. Even the lawyers didn’t try to interrupt him. He told the judge about his impression when he first met Henry and then about how it changed after his later talks with him. “I would be glad to explain my opinion. But it’s rather technical.”

  The judge nodded.

  Dr. Alt took off his glasses and cleaned them. “First of all, it must be understood that analytical psychology rests upon the premise that the unconscious is the habitus of ancestral psychic life and that it is made up of several elements, each of which has separate and autonomous functions. These separate elements of the unconscious must maintain a certain relationship to each other to produce what we call normality in the psychological sense.” He stopped to let these comments
sink in, then continued. “Now, in analytical psychology, the ego is defined as the complex of factors made of all conscious contents. It is the center of consciousness and makes up the empirical personality—in the sense that the ego is the subject of all conscious acts. The self is not to be confused with the ego. The self encompasses all aspects of the conscious and unconscious personality, and thus contains and even defines the ego.” He drew a circle in the air with his finger. “This is the self.” He drew a smaller circle inside it. “This is the ego.” He poked his finger into it as though he were popping a balloon. Then he looked around the room as though he wanted someone to ask a question. But nobody did, so he continued. “The more numerous and significant the unconscious contents which are assimilated by the ego, the closer the approximation of the ego to the self.” He let his cane fall against his chair and cupped his hands in the air and spread them apart. “This produces an inflation of the ego—unless a critical line of demarcation is drawn between it and the unconscious figures.”

  The courtroom was still quiet. Everyone was watching the old priest but nobody said anything and nobody asked any questions. Only the judge looked interested. Henry put his sunglasses on but Father Rogan took them off and forced Henry’s hand into his lap and held it there.

  Dr. Alt kept talking. “What I am describing here is nothing less than a psychic catastrophe.” He paused for a few seconds and looked around and still nobody interrupted him. “When the ego is assimilated by the self with no boundaries fixed to it—in other words, when the normal frontier between the conscious and unconscious is erased and the figures of the unconscious migrate into the conscious and remain there—the result could be described as a sort of permanent hallucination of the inner life, a somatic dream state.” He made a balloon in the air with his hands again. “The time-space continuum in which the conscious mind functions is invaded by the archaic elements of the unconscious.” He spread his hands wide as though the balloon he was holding was being inflated. “The absolute time and space which the conscious psyche inhabits is annihilated.” Then he clapped his hands together loudly—POP POP! Everyone in the courtroom jumped.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” the judge said. “Your testimony is extremely interesting. A little technical, but very interesting. In your opinion, is the boy’s condition severe enough to require institutionalization?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Are there any reasons why he should not be able to live in a normal family situation?”

  “There aren’t,” Dr. Alt said. “But the peculiarity of his condition might make it difficult for him.”

  “May I ask what your recommendation would be? As a doctor, I mean.”

  Dr. Alt glanced at the other priests. “Saint Jude’s seems to suit Henry well, from what I have observed. He seems happy there. And, of course, the place is well equipped to meet his special needs.”

  “Thank you, Father,” the judge said and left the room while he made his decision.

  They stood on the steps of the courthouse. Theodora’s lawyer put his briefcase down and loosened his tie. Then a blue Mercedes 500 SEL pulled up. “Here we are,” Theodora said and they went down the steps. Theodora and Henry sat in the back seat together. The lawyer sat up front with the driver. Suddenly the three priests appeared and the driver opened the windows automatically. Father Rogan put his hand in and patted Henry’s cheek. Father Crowley made the sign of the cross over him and said he would remember Henry in his prayers. Dr. Alt leaned on his cane and looked sad and said nothing.

  “Let’s get going,” Theodora said to the driver.

  The three priests waved as they drove away.

  Henry looked out the window for a while as they drove along the highway. Philadelphia was a dirty place when you looked at it from the highway overpasses. Buildings fell down and weeds grew out of them. The ships and storage tanks in the harbor were all rusty and old. It wasn’t like Byzantium at all. Procopius said Byzantium sparkled and so did everyone who lived there. He said when monuments and buildings got old and dirty or if they fell down, the emperor sent people to clean them up. If something burned down or was knocked down by an earthquake, the emperor rebuilt it even better than it was before. If his warships got old or were damaged in battles on the sea, the emperor destroyed them and built new ones. The emperor took care of his city like it was his only child.

  Theodora and the lawyer talked but Henry didn’t listen to what they were saying. He thought about how she smiled when the judge read his decision. It wasn’t happy or mean but something in between, like the smile of someone confident in victory and content with beauty of a lower order. She looked over to where Henry and the priests were sitting. Henry looked back at her but the priests didn’t. He remembered how beautifully she swam in the Olympic pool and how whenever he saw her at the Palace—walking here and there in a hurry to get things done—he wished secretly to be noticed by her and have her love him, and how, when he learned that his father hated her, he began to feel afraid whenever he saw her—not because he hated her but because his father did—and how he then started to hate her too and hid whenever he saw her coming because he was afraid.

  Henry rolled down the window and put his sunglasses on. Theodora reached across the seat and took his hand. He started to pull it back but she held it tightly, so he let her have it and poked his head out of the speeding car. He watched the mile markers flit past on the side of the highway. He listened to the rush of the wind in his ears and the roar of cars and trucks. His angel said everything that is bound together eventually comes unbound, and even a mother and her child are not much different than cars passing each other on a busy highway.

  When they arrived at the Palace Theodora took Henry up to the penthouse and into the kitchen and introduced him to Antonia. Antonia was an old woman. Sy used to call her the oldest whore in Christendom because she sometimes appeared downstairs dressed up with big feathers and gloves that ran all the way up her arms. Sometimes she played blackjack at Sy’s table. He liked to say that the only thing older than Christendom itself was the sight of an old whore playing the tables.

  The kitchen was big and had a balcony with trees in pots and a table and chairs. Antonia was watering.

  “This is Henry, Antonia.”

  Antonia held out a knobby hand. “Pleased to meet you, young man.”

  “Antonia is in charge of everything up here,” Theodora said. “If you ever need anything, just ask her.” Then she told Antonia she was going to show Henry his room and asked her to pour some lemonade for them.

  They went to his room and Theodora opened all the closets and drawers to show him where all his new clothes were. She made him sit down at the desk in the corner. “For doing homework,” she said. She showed him his bathroom. “It’s your responsibility to keep your room clean, Henry. Antonia is too old to be cleaning up after little boys.”

  Henry said he wanted his books.

  “I’ll make sure all your things are sent.” She smiled and looked around the room as if it were the fulfillment of a secret wish. “I hope you’ll like living here,” she said.

  Henry said thank you. The Samaritan gave nothing but wine and oil to the wounded man.

  Theodora looked at Henry for a moment. “There’s lemonade for us in the kitchen,” she said. He followed her out of the room and down the hall that led to the kitchen. “I don’t want you thanking me for anything, Henry,” she said. “Ever.” She didn’t turn around or stop walking when she said it but just kept straight on into the kitchen, where her heels made a sharp clicking noise when she walked.

  From Theodora’s kitchen you could see to the ends of the city and far out to sea. Antonia put two glasses of lemonade on the table and asked Theodora if they wanted anything to eat.

  Theodora shook her head. “Do you still remember your way around?” she asked Henry.

  Henry said some things were different than before.

  “That’s very true,” Theodora said. “There’s a lot
of construction going on. Why don’t you tell me about Saint Jude’s? It sounds to me like a pretty rough place.”

  Henry said nothing.

  “I know about the problems you’ve had. I understand if you don’t want to talk about them.” She took a sip of lemonade and stared at Henry over the rim of the glass. Then she put the glass down. “I want you to feel comfortable and at home here, Henry. I also want you to feel that you can talk to me about anything.”

  Henry took a sip of lemonade and the angel in his ear said if you love it, it will paralyze you. Henry didn’t spit out the lemonade because he knew the angel wasn’t talking about the drink but about Theodora. He looked at her and tried to see himself in her the way he thought he might see himself in his mother. He wondered why she had brought him to live with her.

  Henry thought about his father. Only the father of a saint would know enough to abandon him. When you made something you had to leave it alone when it was finished. That’s what Sy said about God and horse racing and now that’s what Henry remembered whenever he thought about his father. He asked his angel where his father was. The angel said his father had forsaken him but that Henry would be reunited with him the way truth was reunited with ignorance and the soul with the body at the end of the world.

  Theodora looked past Henry out the window. She sat slumped with one elbow on the back of her chair, her other arm on the table and all the secrets of her nature carefully sealed within. Sy told Henry once that keeping secrets made you strong and telling secrets made you weak. He used to say if you want to keep a friend, keep a secret. He said it all the time, which meant Sy probably didn’t have any friends or any secrets. Henry’s father didn’t have any friends either, but he did have many secrets—and now that was all he had. Henry wondered why his father hated Theodora. She had let them stay in the Palace and that’s just what Henry’s father wanted. Was that why he hated her? Because she had let him have just what he wanted? Henry looked at Theodora to see what it was that his father had hated. All he saw was a dark-haired woman with a square jaw and a blue suit and a string of pearls and a gold watch and lines around her mouth and eyes that meant she got angry a lot and probably couldn’t sleep. He wanted to ask her why she had brought him to live with her—but he couldn’t, so he looked out the big glass sliding door and across the blue ocean, where right now whales were swimming beneath the surface. Being high up in the penthouse meant seeing far into the distance. Being high up in the penthouse was like having all of Byzantium laid at your feet.