The Thanatos Syndrome

by Walker Percy

  “Don’t worry about a damn thing,” says the uncle, not quite sure what is going on but glad to do something.

  “All right, Uncle. Do this. Keep your eye peeled on the big house. When you see anyone come out and head this way, knock twice.”

  “No problem,” says the uncle, glad to get back to his shotgun.

  “Ricky, where is Greenville, Mississippi?”

  “That’s”—Ricky is practicing some trick of ducking his big head rhythmically to make the sofa creak—“one hundred and thirty miles south of Memphis, one hundred miles north of Vicksburg, on the river.”

  “Where’s Wichita, Kansas?”

  He doesn’t stop ducking, but I notice that he closes his eyes and frowns as if he is reading the back of his thin veined eyelids. “About a hundred and twenty-five miles southwest of Kansas City.”

  “Do you know your multiplication tables?”

  He shrugs, goes on ducking.

  “How about your sevens?”

  “You mean going by the tables?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure.” But he strikes out, doesn’t know seven times three.

  “What’s the biggest sunfish you’ve caught?”

  He shows me.

  “What’s eighty-seven times sixty-one?”

  He doesn’t stop ducking but closes his eyes. “Five thousand three hundred and seven.”

  “Do you know how to play War?”

  “Sure. You want to play?”

  “Sure.”

  We play War on the sofa. War is the dumbest of all card games, requiring no skill. High card wins. If there is a tie, it is a war. You put three cards face down and the next high card wins.

  Ricky plays with pleasure, takes a child’s pleasure in taking my cards, takes the greatest pleasure in double war, when there are two ties in a row and he wins nine cards. He evens up the cards against his stomach.

  Vergil interrupts the second game of War. He comes down the stairs slowly. He is holding both rails as if he were unsteady. When he clears the ceiling and his face comes full into the fluorescent light, I notice that his skin is mealy. His eyes do not meet mine.

  Without a word he sits on the sofa on the other side of Ricky and puts his hands carefully and symmetrically on his knees.

  “Your turn,” says Ricky.

  I am looking at Vergil.

  “Come on,” says Ricky.

  “Ricky, I have to talk to Vergil for a minute. Would you like to play that game over there?”

  “Star Wars 4? It costs fifty cents.”

  “Here’s three quarters. Vergil, you got any quarters?”

  Vergil gives a start. “What? Oh, sure.” He digs in his pockets, gives Ricky more quarters. He puts his hands back on his knees. His expression is still thoughtful, but his face is still mealy.

  “Okay,” says Ricky. “But leave the cards right here.”

  “Okay.”

  Presently lasers are lancing out into a three-dimensional cosmos. Satellites explode.

  “Well?” I say to Vergil.

  He opens his hands on his knees, inspecting them carefully, as if he were curious about the sudden change from the liver-colored backs to the creamy palms.

  “Vergil?”

  “They have a rocking horse up there,” says Vergil, bending his fingers and inspecting the large half-moons on his nails. For some reason he is talking like his father.

  “A rocking horse?”

  “A rocking horse with a socket holder for a buggy whip.”

  “I see. What about tapes, cassettes, movies?”

  “All that. There was a 3-D tape all set up. All I had to do was turn it on.” He falls silent.

  “And?” I ask, irritated with him.

  “It was pornography.”

  “Pornography? What do you mean? Commercial? The stuff you can buy? Child pornography? What?”

  “All that. I’m not sure. There wasn’t time. What they had set up to roll was a local tape. It was like home movies. I mean a tape of folks here. But there were commercial cassettes. I brought three.” He taps his jacket pockets.

  “What did you see?”

  The Star Wars 4 game stops. We wait while Ricky feeds new quarters and the laser explosions start up again.

  “Vergil?”

  Vergil hits on a way to tell me. Vergil is probably the most decorous man I know. He tells it as a report, as matter-of-factly as if he were reporting the soybean harvest to Lucy, number of bushels, price.

  “In the home movies, that is, the 3-D videos, they had the children doing it with each other.”

  “You mean boys and girls having intercourse?”

  “Yes.” Vergil clears his throat. “And boys with boys. Going down, you know.”

  “And?”

  “They also have the children with the grown people.”

  “I see. What grown people?”

  “All of them. I didn’t have much time. I fast-forwarded it, you know.” He clears his throat, drums his fingers on his knees, looks around.

  “Okay. What grown people?”

  “Okay. Dr. Van Dorn, the Coach, Mr. and Mrs. Brunette.”

  “Mrs. Cheney?”

  Vergil snaps his fingers softly, as if he had forgotten a soybean sale. “Mrs. Cheney? You’re right. Mrs. Cheney.” He nods in appreciation of the correction.

  “What were they doing?”

  “Let me see.” Vergil is drumming his fingers and frowning in routine concentration. “Mr. Brunette was with Mrs. Brunette, but not in the regular way, and there were two girls with them. And—ah—Dr. Van Dorn was with a little girl—there was a lot more but I was fast-forwarding—there wasn’t time—”

  “I understand. And there’s not time now.”

  “Don’t worry. I have these cassettes. We can look at them later.” He does not know how to tell me.

  “I understand, but I need to know now what you saw. I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell me directly. I know you have a great sense of propriety, but I have to know what you mean when you say that Mr. Brunette was with Mrs. Brunette but not in the regular way and about the two little girls. Ricky cannot hear us.”

  “Right,” says Vergil, appearing to take thought, but falls silent.

  “Goddamn it, tell me, Vergil. This is important.”

  “All right. Mrs. Brunette was sucking off Mr. Brunette with the two little girls placed in such a way that they could watch, don’t you know.”

  “I see. And Dr. Van Dorn?”

  “Oh. Well, he had this child and he was holding her like—Oh. I also picked up these stills.” He is leaning over, fishing in his jacket pocket. “I had to grab what I could.”

  “Stills?”

  In the space on the sofa where Ricky was sitting and out of sight of Ricky, Vergil carefully lines up half a dozen glossy 5x7 photographs, taking care to place them at an angle so I can see them easily and he has to slant his head. Vergil is finding it useful to be overly considerate. There is only time to catch a glimpse of the Coach and Mrs. Cheney, Mrs. Cheney on all fours, naked, the Coach behind her, also naked and kneeling, torso erect above her, and Mr. Brunette kneeling at a young man, not Claude, and Van Dorn lying on his back holding a child aloft as a father might dandle his daughter except that—when there are two knocks at the door, too sharp for knuckles, either boot heel or gun butt.

  I sweep up the photos, slip them under the plastic cushion. Strange to say, what sticks in the mind about the photos is not the impropriety but the propriety: Mr. Brunette’s carefully brushed hair, cut high over the ears and up the neck in 1930s style, the vulnerability, even frailty, of his pale, naked back; the young man’s solemn, smartest-boy-in-the-class expression; the child’s—perhaps a six-year-old girl—demure, even prissy simper directly at the camera.

  “And I got these cassettes here,” says Vergil helpfully.

  “Never mind,” I say quickly. “There isn’t—” I see only the top cassette, Little Red Riding Good, showing Little Red Riding Hood without
her hood astride the wolf in bed, who is dressed like Grandma in a bonnet and is arched up under her, in a cheerful opisthotonos, keeping her in place with his paws. “Just tell me quickly what the setup is with the additive, the source of the tube there.”

  He speaks rapidly, hands on his knees. He could be in his chemistry class at L.S.U. “They have metal canisters lined up. They’re double-walled like a thermos. One was empty, so I could see that. One is upended right there in that corner and connected to that tube, rubber-stoppered, you know, like a chemical reagent. The reagent was stenciled on the side. Sodium 24.

  “Concentration?”

  “Molar.”

  “I see.”

  “They have a little card which gives the amount of additive per bottle down here. One cc. per ten gallons. What they must do is measure out the additive and add it to the Abita Springs water down here before they upend it on the fountain.”

  “I see.”

  After a while Vergil stirs uneasily.

  “I wonder where they are.”

  “What?”

  Vergil leans forward to see me better. “I said I wonder where they are.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll be here.”

  “You all right, Doc?”

  “Sure.”

  After another while Vergil gets up. “Doc, let’s go get Claude and get out of here.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll be here with Claude.”

  “Doc, what you got in mind?”

  “We’ll see. Here they are.” There’s a commotion outside and two more knocks.

  5. IN THEY COME, a good-humored crew: Van Dorn smiling and natty in his new-style long knickers and Norfolk jacket; Mr. and Mrs. Brunette in proper sober suit and dress, but by no means lugubrious; Coach in a clean scarlet warmup suit, heavy-shouldered and big-nosed—he’s chipper, grips my hand warmly, is frank and forthcoming. He’s the sort of rising young coach who would talk optimistically about his “program”—Mrs. Cheney, hugging her arms, giving me a special look, almost a wink: I got them here, didn’t I? Claude is himself and of a piece, I see at once. Quickly he takes his place with Vergil, the two standing quiet and attentive, hands clasped behind them, as if they were attending a PTA meeting. There’s a word and a nod between them. Vergil nods at me. He wants to leave. I shake my head.

  Van Dorn, who has taken my hand in both of his, is shaking his head in mock outrage. “You old scoundrel beast,” he says, and coming close: “I got some great news for you.” He notices the uncle’s shotgun propped by the door. “How do you like these guys?” he says to nobody in particular. “Probably poaching and shooting Belle Ame deer out of season. Mr. Hugh Bob, why don’t you show the folks that Purdy? He’s a hard man, Tom. Did you know I offered him five thousand for it?”

  “I been offered ten thousand,” says the uncle, who, however, is glad to show off his shotgun, walking from one person to another. They look politely.

  “When you going to take me to Lake Arthur, Mr. Hugh Bob?” asks Van Dorn.

  “Like I told you,” says the uncle, “there ain’t no ducks there. We’ll have to go to Tigre au Chenier.”

  “You got a deal.”

  The uncle, pleased, blows a few feeding calls.

  “How about that guy?” Van Dorn is still shaking my hand. “I don’t know how you fellows got in here, but I’m delighted to see you.”

  “We came by the river. The gate is locked. We came to pick up Claude. His father was anxious about him.”

  Van Dorn lets go of my hand, grows instantly sober, paces.

  “I know, I know. Would you believe we’ve had threats from some locals, Kluxers, fundamentalists, fundamentalist Kluxers; I mean, God knows. But we’re not going to let a couple of rednecks scare us, are we, Claude?”

  Claude says nothing, stands at ease, gazing at a middle distance.

  “Mr. Bon,” says Van Dorn to Vergil, “I understand your anxiety, but I can assure you we’re delighted to have him and he’s perfectly safe here.”

  “I think we’ll be on our way,” says Vergil.

  “No problem,” says Van Dorn. “A fine boy,” he adds absently. “Make a world-class goalie.”

  Now we’re sitting on the two bamboo lounges, with a scarred plywood table between marked out as a checkerboard and a Parcheesi game.

  There follows a period of social unease, like a silence at a dinner party. But Van Dorn goes on nodding good-naturedly, as if agreeing with something. Vergil, hands on knees, shoots a glance at me. I am silent. The uncle, restless, stands at Mrs. Cheney’s end of the couch, eyes rolled back.

  Vergil opens his hands to me: What—?

  Van Dorn claps his hands once. “Two pieces of news, Tom,” he says in a crisp voice. “And I see no reason to keep either secret, since we’re all friends here. As a matter of fact, it is serendipitous that you should have dropped by, since I couldn’t call you—it seems the yahoos have cut my line. Number one: I’m going to be moving on. To a little piece of work at M.I.T., Tom,” he says in a sober yet cordial voice. “I’ve paid my dues here. But the time comes—The school will be in good hands—in fact, no doubt better off without me—like my friend Oppie at Los Alamos, I seem to arouse controversy. Number two,” he counts, leaning toward me across the table. “You’re in, Doctor. You’ve got your grant from Ford: $125,000 per. Not great, not adequate compensation for your contribution, but you’ll have time for your practice plus research access to Fedville—you can name it. They just want you aboard.”

  Ricky has left the Star Wars 4 game and is kneeling at the half-finished game of War, evening up the deck against his stomach and eyeing me impatiently.

  I do not reply. As all shrinks know, it is useful sometimes to say nothing if you want to find out something. In the silence that follows, it is Vergil with his sense of social propriety who feels the awkwardness most. His expression as he looks not quite at me is worried and irritable.

  “We’ll finish the game later, Ricky,” I tell him. “I’ll tell you what let’s do.”

  “What?”

  “Uncle Hugh, my car is parked by the front gate. Here are the keys. Why don’t you take these two boys out to the car and wait for us. We’ll be along in a minute.”

  “Is that your car out there?” says Van Dorn, looking up in surprise. “For heaven’s sake.”

  “But why—” Mrs. Cheney begins.

  “But—” says the uncle, next to Mrs. Cheney.

  “He’s the best duck caller in the state,” I tell Ricky. “He’ll show you how to call ducks, won’t you, Uncle Hugh?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Get going.”

  “It’s perfectly all right, boys,” says Van Dorn. “No sense in them sitting around listening to us old folks discussing the state of the world,” he explains to us. “Hold it, fellows. Let me give you a key to the front gate—I’m sure you understand my precautions, Tom.”

  “They’re not going anywhere. Give it to me.”

  “Sure thing!” He hands me a key. He watches fondly as the boys leave with the uncle. “Good boys, both of them. I’ll miss them. I’ll miss them all.”

  After the door closes, Van Dorn claps his hands again. “Tell you what, Tom,” he says, rising. “Why don’t you and I walk over to my study and have a tad of bourbon by way of celebration.”

  “No thanks.”

  There is another silence. “Very well,” says Van Dorn presently, fetching his pipe from a pocket of his Norfolk jacket. “What’s your pleasure, Doctor? What can I do for you?”

  “I’m curious about that water, Van.” I nod toward the cooler. Both Van Dorn and Vergil look relieved. It is, I think, social relief. Not talking makes people uneasy.

  “The water?”

  “Do you drink it, Van?”

  “No, I’m not in training. But it’s no big deal.” With a flourish, Van Dorn takes a Styrofoam cup, fills it from the cooler, drains it off. “Want one, Tom?”

  I rise, go to the cooler, take a cup. Van Dorn watches me with a
lively expression. I unclamp the hemostat, fill the cup not from the fountain but from the tube.

  I hear Van Dorn shuffle his feet, “You’re not going to drink that,” says Van Dorn with genuine alarm.

  “Why not?”

  “Come on, Tom. Knock it off. You know what the additive is—Christ, it’s no secret. And you’ve also seen what it does in minimal dosage—Ricky, for example. And his father does not object. But in micrograms, not molar. And as a matter of fact, I do drink a glass now and then. As a matter of fact, you could use a bit.”

  “Did Ellen drink any?”

  “Not to my knowledge. If she did,” says Van Dorn to Vergil for some reason, knocking out his pipe, “it was her choice. After all she’s one of our best volunteers and she may have seen me toss off a little cocktail.” Now he turns to me. “Ricky was flunking math before he came here. Interesting, don’t you think, Tom?”

  “Then why not drink this?” I offer him the Styrofoam mug.

  Van Dorn is embarrassed for me. He ventures a swift glance at the others. Vergil is embarrassed too, won’t meet his eyes.

  “Tom, that is molar sodium 24.”

  “I know.”

  Now he’s stuffing his pipe from the leather pouch. “Tom, may I be frank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you quite all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You seem—ah—not quite yourself. Mr. Bon, is our good friend here all right?” Pausing in his pipe-stuffing, he eyes Vergil shrewdly.

  “He’s fine,” says Vergil, not looking up. He’s not sure I am all right.

  “Then it must be some kind of joke. Because he knows as well as I do—better!—that that’s molar sodium 24. And he certainly knows what it would do to you.”

  “I wasn’t intending to drink it,” I say.

  “I see.” Van Dorn takes time to light his pipe. “Why don’t I stop this stupid smoking.” He appears to collect himself. “I see. Then who is going to drink it?”

  “You.”

  “Me,” says Van Dorn gravely, exchanging a glance with Vergil. “Anybody else?” No one replies. He shakes his head, rolls his eyes toward Vergil.