K-Pax Omnibus

by Gene Brewer

  By now I was barely able to keep my eyes open. “But don’t you think we’re making a beginning? There’s a lot of concern these days about the environment, for example.”

  “The environment? You mean your environment.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And to make your environment more tolerable for you, you recycle beer cans, plant trees—is that what you mean?”

  “It’s a start, isn’t it?”

  “Recycling is like putting a Band-Aid on a tumor, doc. And where are you going to plant a tree when there’s no place left to plant it?”

  “Is that what you meant when you said in your report that we are yet children?”

  Prot’s gaze shifted to the ceiling, as it often does when he’s trying to find words that I might be capable of understanding. I tried unsuccessfully to stifle another yawn.

  “Let me put it this way: When you stop making killing seem admirable, when motherhood becomes less important than survival—not just your survival, but that of all the other creatures on your PLANET—you’ll be on your way to adulthood.”

  “Lions kill! So do eagles and bears and—”

  “They have no choice. You do.”

  “You kill plants, don’t you?”

  “Plants have no brain or nervous system. They feel no pain or anguish.”

  “Is that your main criterion?”

  “That is the only criterion.”

  “What about insects?”

  “They have nervous systems, don’t they?”

  “And you think they feel pain?”

  “Have you ever been stepped on?”

  “Not literally.”

  “Try to imagine it.”

  “Bacteria? Molds?”

  “Dig right in.”

  “Does this mean you’re opposed to abortion?”

  “I assume you’re talking about the human fetus.”

  “Yes.”

  “If it can feel anxiety or pain, don’t do it.”

  “And does it feel anxiety or pain?”

  “It certainly can the day before birth. The day after conception it is no more sensate than a grain of sand.”

  “Then where do you draw the line?”

  “Now, gene, that’s a nobrainer, wouldn’t you say?”

  I had to end this before I fell asleep. “Prot—when are you leaving?”

  His eyes rolled up for a moment—his version of a smirk. “I still don’t know, daddyo. But I can tell you this: I filed for three windows this time—-just in case.”

  Suddenly I was wide awake. “Windows?”

  “In case things get complicated again.”

  “With Robert?”

  “With everything.”

  “Can you at least tell me now whether you’ll be taking any of our patients with you when you go?”

  “Ad hos forgal! Not this again!”

  “Cassandra?”

  He shrugged.

  “Jackie?”

  “Nah.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s the happiest being in the place!”

  “What about—”

  “Maybe. She’s obviously not happy here. But you have so much to learn from her!”

  “From Frankie? A woman who’s incapable of love?”

  He stared at me disgustedly, almost angrily. “Sometimes I think these visits with you are a complete waste of time. What you call ‘love’ is a big part of your problem. You tend to limit the concept to yourself and your immediate family. Talk to frankie, doc. You might learn something. And that goes for all your other patients, too.”

  I thought: Did Robert’s problem have more to do with love than with sex? Was he somehow betrayed by his wife and daughter? Or someone else he loved? “I’ve got a lot more questions left, my alien friend, but—well, I’ll save them for later.”

  “Fine with me. I’ve got plenty of other things to do.”

  “That reminds me. In case I don’t get another chance— thanks for what you’ve done so far. Not only with Robert but for Rudolph and Michael and for getting through to some of the autists. You’ve accomplished more in the few weeks you’ve been here than the rest of us have in the past five years.”

  “I told you before: You can do it, too. All you have to do is eliminate the crap from your thoughts.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  * * *

  After dinner that evening my wife wouldn’t let me work, not even to browse through a journal. Instead, she put on a videotape of Spellbound, one of my favorite movies, and suggested I contemplate the possibility of finding a home upstate for our eventual retirement. Within minutes, even before Gregory Peck’s first fainting spell, I had fallen asleep.

  I dreamed that prot had become fully integrated into Robert, who was no longer shy and depressed, but confident and outgoing. Although he demonstrated no overt traits of prot (he couldn’t see ultraviolet light, for example), other signs of him were evident in Robert’s personality. His aptitude for math and science increased dramatically and he was making plans to attend college. On the other hand, he had lost none of his (and prot’s) sex hangup.

  Then the dream took a sudden turn. Prot came flying by accompanied by Manuel. Both of them had sprouted wings. Robert, too, had grown wings and all three of them flew around and around, motioning for me to join in. Then Russell, who looked like an angel out of Revelations, halo and all, lifted off. The other patients appeared, flying in perfect formation, and everyone rose higher and higher, prot in the lead, until they were only a dot against the sun. Desperately I flapped and flapped, but I wasn’t able to get off the ground. I tried to call out, but couldn’t even do that. In fact, I could hardly breathe....

  When I woke up I found Karen watching me with a smile, the one that says, “How sweet.” I could tell I had been snoring. The movie was over.

  “Decided on a retirement place?”

  “No, but it’s something I’d definitely like to think about.”

  * * *

  I drove in to work the next day, Saturday, but couldn’t seem to get much done. I felt listless, out of sorts, not myself. On my desk I uncovered the paper I hadn’t yet reviewed, and a couple of tickets I had forgotten about. They were for Carnegie Hall that afternoon. Howie, a fine musician and former patient, had sent them to me. I called Karen, but she had a bowling tournament she wasn’t about to miss.

  For some reason I thought of prot. He wasn’t in the building, so I tried the lawn. I found him examining the sunflowers, which must have looked like a row of burning stars to him. “Love to hear Howie play!” he exclaimed.

  “Hurry up and get ready. We have to leave right away.”

  “I’m ready,” he replied, heading for the gate.

  Prot immediately struck up a conversation with the taxi driver, who had seen a picture of him on television. “Glad you’re back,” he told my alien companion. “I was hopin’ you could do somethin’ wid dis friggin’ heat.”

  “Sorry, pal,” prot replied. “That’s up to you.” The cabbie didn’t say another word.

  Later on, we passed a couple of kids banging away at each other with toy rifles. “I see you’re still teaching your children to kill,” he observed. I thought: I can’t take him anywhere!

  The multitude in the streets seemed to put him into a foul mood. When I asked him what CD he would take with him if he were marooned on a desert island, he snapped, “Where would I get a cd player on a desert island?”

  The concert, however, was a great success. Prot seemed to be able to pick out Howie’s playing from the other violinists in the chamber group. “Nice vibrato,” he reported. “But he’s a hair flat, just like always.”

  As the musicians started on their final work, the Mendelssohn “Octet,” someone in the balcony screamed, “Shut up the goddamn coughing!” The hacking stopped immediately, as did the music. All the players and half the audience gave the man a standing ovation. Prot laughed out loud. Then it became absolutely still. I had never heard the piece pla
yed so beautifully.

  We visited with Howie after the concert. Looking much younger than he did half a decade earlier, he was very happy to see prot, and wondered how long he’d be around. Prot dodged the question. Howie inquired as to Bess’s health, and asked about the patients still with us. “I miss them,” he lamented. “In fact, I miss the whole hospital.”

  “You want to come back?” I joked.

  “I’m thinking about it,” he replied in all seriousness. “Unless there’s room for me on the bus to K-PAX.”

  Prot didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either.

  Session Twenty-six

  Villers was late for the Monday-morning staff meeting, explaining that his wife was sick and he had to take her to the doctor. Then there was a delay on the Long Island Rail Road—some “dummkopf’ had pulled the emergency cord for no apparent reason.

  He was further chagrined by prot’s insistence that we turn down the television-appearance fee, but he soon came up with an alternative plan: an appeal for viewer contributions to the hospital, complete with 800 number. The date had been finalized for Wednesday, the twentieth of September. September 20! The day of prot’s departure! Unless, of course, he had changed his mind and was waiting for the next “window,” whenever that might be....

  Goldfarb brought up a new problem, one that hadn’t occurred to me. Since my efforts at coaxing Robert out of his protective shell were meeting with some success, was it possible that it might be he, and not prot, who showed up for the taped interview? I said I didn’t think that very likely given Robert’s reluctance to make an appearance outside my examining room. Beamish pointed out that with prot, no one could be sure of anything. I had no good response to that.

  Instead, I discussed the new information that I, or rather prot, had obtained from Bert, but this seemed almost inconsequential compared with Menninger’s cheerful report on Charlotte, who had somehow managed to seduce one of the security guards into her cell and nearly bit off his nose and one of his testicles. Our security chief had been apprised of this unfortunate development, of course, and was urged to instruct the guards accordingly.

  Villers, still in a bad mood, brought up the scheduled visits by the cetologist and other scientists. He wanted to know how much we were getting for these “consultations” with prot, and was further annoyed with the answer. Thorstein, looking more and more like Klaus’s second in command, suggested we charge big bucks for subsequent interviews with Robert’s alter ego, particularly if any patents or other useful information were to come of it.

  The only other business was a reminder that one of the world’s foremost psychotherapists was arriving the next morning for an all-day visit (a brief biography was passed around), and that a popular television personality and author of Folk Psychology was coming later in the month.

  The conversation then degenerated, as it often does, to discussions of baseball scores, restaurants, weekend retreats, fabulous golf shots, etc. I mused silently about how long prot might be staying. At least until the TV appearance, I assumed, and perhaps longer. And I thought: If the appeal for funds was successful, and he managed to help us raise enough money to finance the new wing, what on Earth would we call it?

  * * *

  AFTER lunch, prot set up an unannounced treasure hunt without saying what the prize might be. That was all the encouragement the patients needed, and they spent the rest of the hour happily combing the lounge, the exercise room, the dining hall, and the quiet room for “buried” treasure. Even though no one knew what he or she was looking for, the joy and excitement were immense.

  I was a little annoyed. Prot had not warned me he was going to do this, though technically it wasn’t really a “task” for the patients, which he had agreed to tell me about in advance. I watched in both amusement and melancholy as our inmates got into the game with considerable frenzy— everyone searching high and low for something to make their lives more rewarding or, at least, tolerable.

  Even some of the staff were caught up in the excitement, turning over chairs and peering under rugs. To tell the truth, I became a participant myself, hoping to find something, I suppose, that would cheer me up, make my day. Perhaps I was searching for the parallel life I had lost, the one in which my father had not died and I had become an opera singer, the one I dream about from time to time.

  While all this was going on, however, prot was reported missing. No one had seen him leave. The hunt then became one of finding him.

  Though further frustrated by this turn of events, I wasn’t really worried— it had happened once before. I was sure he would be back in time for our next session. Indeed, it wasn’t long after his disappearance that Giselle came running in, shouting that he had shown up again, to loud cheers from his followers. Whatever he had done while he was away, it had taken him no time at all, apparently.

  My dream didn’t come true that day, and I doubt that anyone else’s did either. But each of the patients turned up his very own gossamer thread, invisible to everyone else. Something to give them hope for a better world perhaps, a tenuous new lease on life.

  I wondered whether my frustration showed when prot came in, followed by a cat. He sat down and started on a plum, which he shared with his “friend.” I didn’t even know cats liked fruit.

  “Where’s Robert?”

  “He’ll be along shortly. He’s still pumping himself up. Besides,” he added wistfully, “I hardly ever get any fruit anymore.”

  “You want to tell me where you went this afternoon?”

  “Not really.”

  “You promised to let me know if you were planning any trips, remember?”

  “I didn’t plan it. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I had some invitations to deliver.”

  “Personally?”

  “I’m not a ‘person,’ remember? I’m a being.”

  “Why didn’t you just drop them in the mailbox?”

  “I wanted to be sure they got there.”

  “To people who are going to K-PAX with you?”

  “Some are people, some aren’t.”

  “So how many invitations were there?”

  I didn’t expect an answer to that one either, but he replied, cheerfully, “Only a dozen so far. Still plenty of room.”

  I glared at him. “Next time you plan any ‘spur-of-the-moment things,’ will you let me know, please?”

  “It’s your party.”

  “Thank you. Now—what about Robert?”

  “What about hi—”

  “Dammit, prot, did he tell you what happened to him when he was five?”

  “Yes, and may I say: You human beings are sick!”

  “Not everyone, prot. Just some of us.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you’re all capable of just about anything.”

  We sat staring at each other for a while. Five or six plums later, he spat the last pit into the bowl and placed his hands behind his head, apparently sated. The cat lounged contentedly in his lap. Prot’s eyes drooped shut. Suddenly he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around himself. Robert’s eyes fought to reopen. He seemed weak, shaken, his confidence gone. In short, he looked much as he had in earlier sessions. Instinctively, he began stroking the cat, which purred noisily.

  “Hello, Rob, it’s good to see you again. How are you feeling today?”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Please trust me. No harm will come to you in this room. This is your safe haven, remember? We’re just going to chat about whatever you’d like to tell me. Whatever comes into your mind. We’ll proceed at your own pace.”

  “All right. But I’m still scared.”

  “I understand.”

  He sat looking at me, but said nothing for several precious minutes.

  I took a chance. “Is there anything you want to tell me about the time your father was in the hospital?”

  His gaze dropped to the floor. “Yes.”

  I was elated
. Thanks to prot, Robert had made such excellent progress that hypnosis might not be necessary.

  “You went to live with your Uncle Dave and Aunt Catherine, is that right?”

  “Yes,” he murmured.

  “Are they on your father’s or mother’s side of the family?”

  Rob slowly looked up. “Uncle Dave was Mom’s brother.”

  “And Aunt Catherine was his wife?”

  “No. His sister. Mom’s sister.”

  “And they lived together?”

  “Neither of them ever married.”

  “All right. Can you tell me a little about them?”

  “They were both big. Heavyset. My mother’s a little plump, too.”

  “What else? What were they like?”

  “They were not very nice people.”

  “In what way?”

  “They were mean. Cruel. But nobody knew that when I went to live with them.”

  “What sorts of mean things did they do?”

  “Uncle Dave killed my kitten.” He unconsciously picked up the cat and hugged it.

  “He did? Why?”

  “He wanted to teach me a lesson.”

  “What lesson?”

  Robert turned noticeably paler. His face became contorted by uncontrollable tics. “I...I don’t remember.”

  “Try, Rob. I think you’re ready to talk about this now. What did your uncle do to you? Will you tell me?”

  There was a long pause. I had just about decided to hypnotize him when he said, so weakly that I could barely hear him, “I had to sleep on the livingroom sofa. The first night I was there he came downstairs and woke me up.”

  “Why did he wake you up?”

  “He wanted to lie down with me.”

  “And did he do that?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want him to. There wasn’t room on the sofa for him and me both. But he got in with me anyway.”

  “What happened then?”

  “He put his hand in my pajamas. I kept saying, ‘No!’ But he wouldn’t listen. I was crushed against the back of the sofa and couldn’t move.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He licked my face with his big tongue. Then he felt me for a long time until—”

  “Until what, Rob?”