by Daniel Quinn
“Really? Doing what?”
“Directing projects. Sort of a managing editor.”
“What sort of things do they do?”
“Same as Time-Life, basically.”
“Are you interested in a staff job?”
“I’m not sure. Who’s that, by the way?”
“Who?” she asked, looking around.
“The tall, distinguished-looking gent by the window. Gray suit. I know him from somewhere, but I can’t place the face.”
“I don’t see him.”
“He’s talking to one of your clients, the lady in the forties dress.”
“Oh.” She paused, frowning. “Good heavens, it’s Bruce. Bruce Something . . . Eddison, two D’s, no relation to the invent-or. He’s a physician. You remember—we met him at Blinkers.”
“Of course. Did you invite him?”
“No. He must have come with someone else.”
“I’ll go over and say hello.”
As Greg approached, Bruce gave him a smiling glance, which the woman in the forties dress followed to its destination and took as an excuse to drift away. The two men shook hands.
“It’s nice to see you again,” Greg said.
“Nice to see you,” Bruce replied. “I see things have worked out wonderfully for you and Ginny.”
“Yes, they have indeed.”
“Could I possibly have a peek at the cause for celebration?”
Greg shook his head apologetically. “We had to make a policy about that for the party. No visits to the nursery, without exception. Otherwise . . . You understand. Ginny’ll bring her out later, if she’s awake.”
“Of course. By the way,” he added a bit guiltily, “I hope you don’t mind my crashing your party. I came with a designer friend.”
“Not at all. In fact, I’m sure Ginny would love to get together with you some evening—just the three of us, I mean.”
“That’s very kind of you. You’re a lovely pair.”
After a moment of awkward silence, Greg remembered the doctor’s curious collection of family portraits and asked if he’d made any interesting additions to it.
“You remember my strange passion? My friends know better than to ask me about it, lest I pull out my current favorite and start expounding its virtues.”
“You have one with you? Let’s see it.”
“You’re sure? I don’t want to become a bore in the midst of your party.”
Greg laughed and told him to drag it out.
Looking around guardedly, Bruce drew a black-and-white photo from his inside breast pocket and handed it to Greg. “This one’s quite special, as you’ll see,” he said.
Puzzled, Greg studied the picture. Without the visual cues of color, he couldn’t make it out. Its masses of light and shadow seemed to resist forming a recognizable image. With an embarrassed laugh, he held it at arm’s length to see if it would come together, but it didn’t.
Bruce smiled. “The shadows make it a bit of a puzzle. It’s like an optical illusion. You have to sort of twiddle your eyes to get the right of it.”
Greg brought the photo closer, gave it a slight turn, and suddenly a dappled shape at the left became a familiar figure: it was Ginny, leaning forward as if about to take a step. At the right, with his back to Ginny, was Greg himself, bending awkwardly, the gun in his hand inches away from the forehead of Franklin Winters, sitting on the ground, his back against a tree.
Gagging, Greg reeled back and tried to thrust the picture away from him. Conversation in the room died away and fifty pairs of eyes turned to him apprehensively. Still gagging, the photo still in his hand, he felt his back arch convulsively. His eyes rolling up into his head, he toppled backwards into an endless darkness.
And woke up screaming in his room at the Glenhaven Oaks Sanatorium.
PART
FOUR
XXIX
THE MAN IN RICHARD ILES’S ROOM was howling, was bellowing incoherently, and for a few moments the nursing staff was stunned into immobility, then routine and training took over. A nurse was dispatched to summon a couple of male attendants. Another was sent to lock Mr. Iles’s door. Another called Dr. Jakes, who listened, gave instructions for the preparation of an injection, and said she’d be on hand momentarily.
By the time she arrived, the roaring had subsided to a low, rhythmic moan. At a nod from Dr. Jakes, one of the attendants unlocked the door and entered. Greg, shrouded in sheets and blankets, was rolling mechanically from side to side in his bed.
Agnes approached, sat down cautiously on the edge of the bed, and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Greg,” she said gently.
He looked at her, recoiled, and began howling again.
She held out her hand for a syringe and the two attendants immobilized Greg while she administered the injection.
Later that morning, when Greg regained consciousness, a nurse was on hand to ask him if he’d like some breakfast. He stared at her without interest.
“You’ll feel better if you eat something, Mr. Iles. I’m sure of it.” His face registered absolutely nothing.
The nurse stepped to the phone and quietly asked that Dr. Jakes be called. When she turned back to Greg she said, “Oh my.” Her nose told her he had just wet his bed. After a moment of uncertainty, she decided to wait for Dr. Jakes. She arrived a few minutes later, took in the situation, and asked the nurse if she’d called for assistance.
“No, Doctor. I didn’t know how you’d want to handle it.”
“We’ll handle it in the usual way.” She nodded and left, and Agnes spent a moment looking at the man in the bed. “Shall we get you into some dry pajamas, Greg?” she asked.
He looked vaguely out of the window.
“You have another pair, don’t you? Where do you keep them? I’ll get them out for you.” He gave no sign that he’d heard. “Come on, Greg, hop out of bed. We’ll get you a fresh mattress and put some dry clothes on you.”
She threw back the covers, but apart from a brief disinterested glance, he took no notice of her.
“You know, Ginny and I had a long talk yesterday, Greg,” Agnes said half an hour later.
They were sitting in front of the window, Greg in a fresh set of pajamas and a bathrobe. He hadn’t resisted being moved, cleaned up, and dressed, but neither had he helped in any way. He stared at the blue hills outside, his hands folded in his lap.
“She realizes now, of course, that the things she said to you yesterday were very hurtful. . . . You must be very angry with her,” she added, hoping to provoke a denial. She provoked no reaction at all. “I’m sure she’d like to have another chance to talk to you, Greg. Would you like that?”
Nothing.
“Shall I see if I can arrange it?”
As if profoundly bored, he sighed and crossed his legs.
“I know you must be feeling very discouraged at this point, Greg. I certainly would be if I were you. To tell you the truth, I probably wouldn’t be taking it as well as you are.”
But neither self-pity nor flattery seemed to be tempting baits. Agnes sighed and rubbed her eyes. “You know,” she said brightly, “I believe I could do with a bit of lunch. How about you, Greg? I left specific instructions for them to hold your booth for us. You look as if you could do with a drink. I know I could. How about it? Maybe we could ask Mr. Orsini to join us. Yes? No?”
Not a flicker of interest.
“Well, let’s have a tray sent in then. Rumor has it the prime rib is especially luscious today. Very tender, very juicy. I know you like it rare.” The doctor watched carefully for any sign of salivary reaction: swallowing, working of the tongue. There was none.
She sighed, went to the phone, and ordered lunch for two. “And,” she added, “if possible, I’d like Alan to serve it. . . . Yes, I realize he doesn’t come on till five. I said if possible. If he’s on the grounds and is willing, tell him it would be a special favor to Mr. Iles.”
She turned back to Greg and smile
d. “Isn’t that nice? Alan’s going to bring us lunch.” She sat down and put a hand on his knee. “I hope you’ll cheer up a bit for Alan’s sake. You know, he’s had a lot of trouble of his own lately.” Agnes sat back in her chair. “Oh yes, indeed. The girl he was engaged to—a perfectly lovely child—has contracted leukemia. Dreadful. In spite of this, Alan still wants desperately to marry her, but she refuses to put him through the agony to come. Tragic. But you’d certainly never guess it to look at him, would you? He’s so unflaggingly cheerful and supportive of everyone. Still, I worry about him—truly. Behind that happy-go-lucky facade is a young man capable of being deeply hurt, and he’s in a sensitive condition just now, as you can well imagine, I’m sure. He’d be very upset to see you in this state, Greg. Terribly upset. Especially now, you understand?”
She went on to describe the shattered wedding plans, the bridal gown returned, the weeping mothers, and the couple themselves, struck down by grief but doing their best to smile through it bravely, until she heard Alan’s cheerful whistle approaching down the hall.
“Please don’t let Alan down,” she urged. “It would mean so much to him. Just a word, Greg. Even a nod, just to let him know you understand what he’s going through.”
Greg stared blankly out of the window.
Alan sailed through the door, a large tray of dishes poised over his shoulder. “Good morning, folks,” he said, gracefully wheeling the tray down onto the bureau. “Or afternoon, or whatever it is. You’re looking a little down today, Mr. Iles,” he observed as he began setting their places.
“Yes,” she said. “He’s had a bit of a shock. Very like yours.”
Alan paused, blinking. “Very like my what?”
“Shock.”
He stared at her without comprehension.
“How is your lovely fiancée, Elizabeth, Alan?”
His eyes widened.
“The doctors give her no hope, I understand. No hope at all.” She nodded meaningfully in Greg’s direction.
“Oh,” Alan said enthusiastically. “Right. No hope at all!”
“Do you hear that, Greg?” She looked up at Alan. “Greg has just now learned that your fiancée has leukemia.”
“Oh?”
Agnes groped for the next line. “I’m sure Greg’s sorry about it, but . . . he’s not feeling very well himself just now. Are you, Greg?” She reached across the table to put her hand on his. “But you’d like to say something to Alan, wouldn’t you, Greg? I mean, if you weren’t feeling so blue, you’d like to talk to Alan, wouldn’t you? You don’t have to say anything. Just nod, Greg. Please. It really upsets Alan to see you like this.”
She shot the waiter a look.
“It sure does,” Alan said earnestly. “Makes me feel, uh . . .”
“As if you didn’t care about him, Greg. As if he were insignificant to you. As if nothing mattered to you but your own problems and your own feelings.”
Without taking his eyes off the window, Greg yawned.
Agnes sighed and slumped back in her chair.
“Shall I serve now, Doctor?” Alan asked quietly. She nodded. “The prime rib is really super today, Mr. Iles. So they tell me.” He set their plates down before them and looked critically at the low table. “These tables really aren’t much good for dining.”
“It’s all right, Alan. Thanks.”
“Shall I, uh . . .?” The waiter made knife-and-fork motions over Greg’s shoulder.
She shook her head glumly. “Thanks, Alan. It was kind of you to serve us during your off-hours. I appreciate it as a personal matter.”
“Any time, Dr. Jakes.” He paused at the door. “And you get better in a hurry, Mr. Iles. You hear? I’ll save your table for you. You come to dinner tonight and I’ll buy you a bourbon on the rocks. Personally, from me to you.”
The doctor smiled her thanks for the effort. Alan gave her a wink and disappeared into the hallway.
“Did you hear that, Greg?” Agnes asked, cutting into her prime rib. “You’re a popular guy around here. You’re needed. People depend on you.” She stifled a sigh and went on eating in silence. When she was finished, she leaned back in her chair and studied Greg’s impassive face for a few minutes.
“When you woke up this morning,” she said at last, “you were screaming, Greg. Do you remember that?”
He blinked and went on staring into the hills.
“Why were you screaming, Greg?” Agnes waited for a reaction through a full minute. “Did you have a dream?”
Greg sighed.
“Did you have a dream like the other one? Were you back in Chicago?”
His lips parted fractionally, then closed again.
“That was it, wasn’t it, Greg? You dreamed you were back in Chicago.” But whatever reaction she’d provoked had subsided. Greg was once again gazing listlessly out of the window, and she paused to tug thoughtfully at an earlobe. “That was my fault, you know. Entirely my fault. I can see that now. Yesterday I told you you’d be living on Lake Shore Drive again in no time, and you acted on this as a command, Greg. You’re intelligent enough to appreciate this. You were in a state not far different from hypnotic trance, and when I told you you’d soon be back in Chicago, you took this as a command to return to that dream. Do you understand?”
If Greg understood, it was a matter of complete indifference to him.
“What happened in your dream, Greg? Was Ginny in it?” It seemed to her that his eyes closed for a fraction of a second longer than a blink. “Did things . . . turn out well for you and Ginny?” His lips tightened slightly, and she paused to reflect on this. “Was Ginny happy, Greg?”
His jaw muscles tensed and almost imperceptibly his head quivered in a negative gesture.
“You shook your head then, Greg. Does that mean she wasn’t happy or that you don’t want to talk about it?”
Greg closed his eyes, and after a few moments his face relaxed. He opened his eyes and, once again calmly gazed out into the hills.
“You don’t want to talk about it. That’s it, isn’t it? You and Ginny were happy together in Chicago, and you want to cling to your dream. As long as you say nothing here, do nothing here to admit that this is real, you can go on living forever in that dream. Isn’t that it, Greg?”
But Greg had receded to a point beyond reach of words.
“I can understand that very well,” she went on. “All of us are tempted at one time or another to retreat from reality into the security of our dreams. Everything’s perfect there. Nothing can go wrong there, nothing can . . . You shook your head again then, Greg. Why? Did something go wrong in your dream?”
The doctor watched in alarm as Greg’s stare became fixed and his muscles locked into rigidity.
“We won’t talk about it right now, Greg,” she said hastily. “It’s all right. We won’t talk about it anymore. Everything’s all right. Shit.”
She grabbed the phone and ordered a muscle relaxant on the double.
Greg had stopped breathing.
At bedtime she visited him again. Greg was lying on his back staring up at the ceiling, his hands folded across his chest. Earlier, the nurses had managed to pour a couple of glasses of orange juice into him. Agnes judged that a day’s fast would do him no harm. If it came to that, they could begin feeding him intravenously the next day. At all costs, she wanted to avoid stabilizing him in his present condition.
She spent a few minutes chatting about this and that, from time to time asking an innocuous question. Finally she began the routine for putting him into a hypnotic trance, but, locked in his own private reality, he simply continued to stare up at the ceiling. She decided she’d have to rely on suggestion alone; using drugs, she could put him into a sleep too deep for dream-ing, but, since she didn’t know exactly what she was dealing with as yet, she hesitated to use them.
“You’re going to have a good sleep tonight, Greg,” she murmured soothingly. “A very long and restful sleep, and if you have any dreams, they’ll be very h
appy, pleasant dreams. You will not dream about Ginny tonight or about your life in Chicago. If you dream at all, you’ll dream about other things, and these will be pleasant and soothing. And when you wake up in the morning, you’re going to feel cheerful and invigorated. You’ll see. You’re going to wake up and look around and see that you’re young and strong and healthy and attractive, and that the world’s a beautiful place to live in. Do you hear me, Greg? I’m sure you do. You’re listening to everything I have to say, and you know I’m right and that I have your best interests at heart.”
For some twenty minutes, she went on gently repeating her injunctions. Then she wished him a good night, adding that she expected to see him in the dining room the next morning, turned out the light, and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Though there was nothing to see there, Greg continued to stare up at the ceiling until he fell asleep a few minutes later.
XXX
AT TEN THE NEXT MORNING, they were once again seated in their usual places before the window. A front had moved in during the night, and a steady, sluggish rain smeared the glass beside them. It seemed to make no difference to Greg.
“Now, Greg,” she said gently, “we really must talk about the dream you had the night before last. You mustn’t let our talking about it upset you. There’s nothing to be upset about at all. But you mustn’t keep it to yourself. That’s the point, really. You must share it with me, so I can help you with it. You understand that, don’t you?”
Greg, his hands folded in his lap, stared out at the rain.
“You told me yesterday that you were in Chicago again in that dream. You didn’t mean to tell me and probably don’t remember telling me, but you did anyway. In your dream, you were in Chicago. Do you remember?”
She paused, but he gave no sign of having heard her.
“You were in Chicago, Greg, and I’m sure Ginny must have been with you there.”
Greg sighed, but then he sighed frequently; it seemed to have nothing to do with what he’d heard.