Love in the Ruins

by Walker Percy

  “I was talking about you.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re abstracting and withholding judgment.”

  “I’m a scientist. We don’t judge behavior, we observe it.”

  “That’s not enough.” I stagger a bit. “Blow hold or cot.”

  “Eh? How’s that?”

  “I mean blow hot or cold but not—” The road map, I notice, is breaking up again. Stretches of highway come loose, float across the sky.

  “Are you all right?” asks Mark, taking my arm.

  “Tom?” Max comes close on the other side, puts his arm around me.

  What good fellows.

  “I’m all right, Max. But it’s happened.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “You know damn well.”

  “I’m not quite sure—”

  “This.” I point to the smoking sand.

  “Colley thinks it’s a fire in the sulfur dome.”

  “It’s a slow sodium reaction and you know it.”

  “Oh.” Max drops his arm.

  “And you know the danger, Max.”

  “What danger?”

  “My God, after what happened in The Pit, how can you ask?”

  At the mention of The Pit, the other three smile at me with the greatest good humor and affection.

  Ken laughs out loud. “That was something—the best of the year! Did you see the Old Man carrying on, ha ha!” They all laugh at the recollection, all but Gottlieb. Colley pays me a rare, for him, compliment. “You something else, Tom.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What you did in The Pit, to old Buddy, to everybody!”

  “And just what do you think I did?” I ask the four of them. “Max?”

  Max’s face is in shadow.

  “Well, Max?”

  “You always did have a gift for hypnotherapy, Tom.”

  “For Christ’s sake, do you think I hypnotized them?”

  “You take four hundred overworked dexed-up strung-out students at the end of the year—” Max breaks off.

  “And what about my invention?”

  “I thought it was an extremely effective objective correlative,” says Ken warmly.

  “Objective correlative my ass.” I turn to Max. “Max, I’m putting it to you. If you don’t help me clear this area immediately, I am holding you responsible.”

  “Tell me first, Tom. Have you reached a decision about coming back to A-4?”

  “As a patient?”

  “Patient-therapist.”

  “We’ll talk about it, Max. But don’t you see what is happening right here?”

  “I see what is happening to you.” Max is looking at my carbine, at my clothes gummed with pine resin, smeared with lipstick.

  “Charley, listen to me. There is something dreadfully wrong.”

  “You’re damn right there’s something wrong. The Pro-Am is screwed up and we’ll probably lose the Camellia Open next year. And the goddamn sand is still on fire.”

  “Moon, maybe you and Dr. Billy Matthews could help me. Unless we act now, the consequences could be nationwide and it will be too late.”

  “The consequences are already nationwide and it is already too late,” says Dr. Matthews, shouldering between us. He is a tall heavy bald youngish man with shoulders and arms grown powerful from manipulating spinal columns in his chiropractic. His thick glasses are fitted with flip-up sun lenses, which are flipped up.

  “What do you mean?” I ask fearfully. Has my lapsometer caused mischief in other places?

  “The country has been taken over by our enemies and there is no respect for God or country,” says Dr. Matthews menacingly. “Last Sunday some niggers tried to come into our church. And now this.”

  “Now what?”

  “Those fellows,” says the chiropractor in a loud voice and directly at the four scientists. “They’re teaching disrespect for both the cross and Old Glory.”

  “Actually they were speaking of an experiment with primates.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about! Monkeys! And that fellow there is a known Communist,” he says in a lower voice, nodding toward Dr. Habeeb.

  “I seriously doubt that,” I say, remembering that Dr. Habeeb recently testified in a trial in which Dr. Billy Matthews had been sued by a woman whose husband had been treated for cancer of the liver by manipulating his spine.

  “Where do you stand in this, Doctor?” asks Dr. Matthews, eyeing me suspiciously.

  Moon shifts around uncomfortably. “Don’t worry about Doc here. He’s a hundred percent with us. Aren’t you, Doc?”

  “With you on what?”

  “On God and country.”

  I am silent.

  “You do believe in God and country, don’t you, Doc?”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember when Doc and I were in high school,” Moon tells the chiropractor. “Doc wrote a prize-winning essay for the Knights of Columbus on how there was no real conflict between science and religion. You remember what you said about transubstantiation, Doc?”

  “Yes.”

  “Transubstantiation is an invention of the Roman popes,” says Dr. Billy Matthews, flipping his flip-ups down for some reason. “It’s a piece of magic to fool the ignorant and has no basis in the Bible.”

  “Whoa, hold on, Billy!” cries Moon. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Christ said ‘This is my body,’ Didn’t he, Doc?”

  “Yes,” I say and utter a groan.

  “That’s the Eyetalian translation,” says Dr. Billy Matthews. With his flip-ups down he looks blind as a bat.

  “No, it isn’t, is it, Doc? Tell him.”

  “Later. Oh Lord. What am I going to do?” I ask them, rending my shirt. “What if the wind springs up?”

  My eyes are swelling again. The world is seen through the slit on a gun turret.

  “Max, something is dreadfully wrong.”

  “You’re damn right there is. We’ve lost our N.I.M.H. funding for next year, thanks to our Ecuadorian venture.”

  “No, I mean something a great deal wronger than that.”

  “You look ill, Tom.”

  “I’m very tired and my eyes are swelling but I feel fine deep down. In fact, I’ve got a heartful of love, Max.”

  “Love?”

  “Max, I’m a lucky man. I’ve got three wonderful girls waiting for me.”

  “Three girls. Look, sit down here on the grass and let me check you out. Just as I thought. You’re going into anaphylaxis again. What have you been eating this time?”

  “Gin fizzes.”

  “Oh no. Not again. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Lola fixed one for me. She’s a lovely girl.” Feeling very tired, I lie down on the velvety Tifton 451 Bermuda at the bunker’s lip. “But that’s not what bothers me.”

  “What bothers you?”

  “You. And them. That is, you four and those two.” I nod toward Moon and Dr. Billy Matthews, who are still arguing about transubstantiation.

  “What about us and them?”

  “You’re both right and wrong.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean that it’s almost hopeless now. One whiff of the vapor and you’ll kill each other.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?” Max asks dryly.

  I open my mouth to say something but can’t utter a word. Max leans over and peers at me through the blue smoke and, suddenly seeing what is wrong, jumps up. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t worry about—” I begin, lifting a feeble hand, and pass out.

  There comes a familiar smell of sweat intricated by deodorant.

  I open my eyes.

  The smell comes from a push of air as Art Immelmann, who is sitting on the lip of the sand trap, leans over me and his bi-swing jacket flaps.

  “I won’t say I told you so, Doc.”

  “Told me what?”

  “That nobody would believe you even if you showed them. Only t
wo people in this world believe in you.”

  “Who?” Did Max give me a shot? My eyes open easily.

  “I and your excellent nurse.”

  “Leave her out of it. She’s no concern of yours.”

  “Then you’d better take care of her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Get back to the motel, Doc.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there is nothing you can do here and a great deal you can do there.”

  “But these people don’t realize what is happening.”

  “And you can’t tell them.”

  “They’ll get hurt.”

  “Therefore you’d better save yourself for the long pull.”

  “I think you are somehow responsible, you and your goddamn foundations.”

  Art winces and shakes his head. “Doc, we operate on a cardinal principle, which we never violate. We never never ‘do’ anything to anybody. We only help people do what they want to do. We facilitate social interaction in order to isolate factors. If people show a tendency to interact in a certain way, we facilitate the interaction in order to accumulate reliable data.”

  “And if people cut each others’ throats meanwhile, it’s not your fault.”

  “Doc, we’re dedicated to the freedom of the individual to choose his own destiny and develop his own potential.”

  “What crap,” I mutter.

  “Crap? Crap.” Art searches his memory. “I’m not sure I understand—but never mind. Aren’t you feeling well enough to go now?”

  “Go where?”

  “Back to the motel and look after the three ladies. Your lapsometer is still there. You can protect the three of them and yourself from any unfortunate little side effects from this.” He glances at the column of smoke, which is thicker than ever. “Stay there three months.”

  “Three months?”

  “It’s your duty. By saving them and yourself, you can save millions later.”

  “What will we do for three months?”

  “You have books, food, drink, music. But most of all you have your obligation.”

  “To whom?”

  “To the three ladies.”

  “And what do you suggest that I do with three women for three months?”

  Again the coat flaps as Art leans close. I’m enveloped by the smell of sebum and Ban.

  “Love them, Doc! Believe me, it lies within your power to make all three of them happy and yourself too. Didn’t God put us here to be happy? Isn’t happiness better than unhappiness? Love them! Work on your invention. Stimulate your musical-erotic! Develop your genius. Aren’t we all obliged to develop our potential? Work! Love! Music! That’s what makes a man happy.”

  “True.”

  “Then you better get going.”

  “In a minute. One little nap,” I say, closing my eyes with a smile as I think of the future.

  Somewhat confused. I examine the contents of my pockets to get a line on the significance of the past and the hope of the future. Contents: 12 Phillips screws and one small dry turd folded in a clean handkerchief. I recall the latter but not the former. 12 Phillips screws …

  A light hand touches my shoulder. It is Ellen. She squats on her heels, tucking her uniform under her knee. “You all right, Chief?”

  “Fine. Just taking a nap.”

  “You’ll be all right. Dr. Gottlieb gave you a shot.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “There was no reason for me to stay over there.”

  “Where are Moira and Ellen?”

  “Your two little popsies have flown the coop.” Popsies. She’s been talking to Max, all right.

  “What happened?”

  “Miss Rhoades went hiking off to Tara with the pistol stuck in her jeans and the cello slung over her shoulder. The last time I saw Miss Schaffner, she was getting in Dr. Brown’s car in the plaza.”

  “Buddy Brown? How did that happen?”

  “The Anser-Phone is working. She had me call him.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, come on. We’re going home.”

  “Home?”

  “Back to your house.”

  “What happened to the Bantus?”

  “They’ve faded away.”

  “I think I’d better stay here a while.”

  “Come on. You’re going to pick up your life where you left it. Dr. Gottlieb is wrong. You don’t need to go to the hospital. All you need is good hard work and a—” she pauses.

  “No. I can’t go now.”

  “Why not?”

  “The danger here is too great. I must do what I can. Did you bring my lapsometer?”

  “Yes, Chief. But the important thing is to get you back in harness.”

  “Do you understand the danger?”

  “Yes. I believe in you completely. That’s why I want you to get out of here.”

  “And do what?”

  “Go home and get some sleep. I’ll meet you at the office tomorrow. We’ll have our work cut out for us.”

  “I’m not going back to that.”

  “Back to what?”

  “Back to my old life.”

  “It’s your duty, Chief,” says Ellen and means it.

  “I still can’t do it.”

  “Why can’t you? You can. I’ll help you. We’ll do it.”

  I am thinking of my old life: waking up Monday Tuesday Wednesday as not myself, breakfast on Tang and terror in the “enclosed patio,” Thursday Friday afternoons a mystery of longing. My old life was a useless longing on weekdays, World War I at night and drunk every weekend.

  “You wait here, Chief. I’ll get my car. Your mother had Eukie bring it to the plaza. She’s safe. The Bantus are under control. There was no real trouble. All the trouble was caused by a few outsiders and some hopped-up swamp rats. Most people here, white and black, like things the way they are.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You will. Wait here. I’m going to get the car.”

  Three pairs of legs dangle over the lip of the bunker, two on one side of me, one on the other. They belong to Chuck Parker with his golden curls, his Jeb Stuart fan of a beard and his clamshell necklace, and Ethel, his little dark Smithie Pocahontas, and Hester on my other side.

  “Are you all right?” asks Hester in her lovely peculiar flatted New England vowels and laterals.

  “I’m fine.” With a bit of effort I hike up on my elbows and sit beside her. I look into her clear hazel eyes in which there is no secret or concealment such as causes one to look away. There is only clarity here and no shadow of the past. It’s all gone, not only the old Priscilla-Puritan beginnings but what came later and opposed it: no Priscilla, no anti-Priscilla; no Puritanism, no transcendentalism, no -ism at all, not even an anti-ism, not even a going back like Ethel to Pocahontasism, no left no right. It’s all gone, she’s wiped the slate clean and now she sits in the wilderness and reads and rereads The Case of the Velvet Claws. She’s waiting for something.

  “What a sight, eh, Doc?” says Chuck, leaning out to see me. “I’m glad to be here, glad to have seen it.”

  “Seen what?”

  “Seen the end. You’re looking at it, Doc. The game is up.” Chuck sweeps his arm past the smoking bunker, his father with the hose, the pros, the ams, the golf carts, the officials, the scientists, the stereo-V tower with its cameras, the sodium arcs. “A fitting end, wouldn’t you say, Doc?”

  “End to what?”

  “Everything! Look at my poor father. His mind is blown, and you know why? Because of a game with a little ball and money. Money, Doc!”

  “Actually it’s not money at all.”

  “Look at him! It’s too much for him. He thinks the sand is burning. But you and I know better, eh, Doc? We know why it’s smoking and what is going to happen, wow! Doc, you are something else, you and your doomsday machine. What a way for them to go, in a golf game with the bunkers on fire, hee hee hee. You set it, didn’t you, Doc? You fixed ’em all, not only Po
p but the others.”

  “What others?”

  “All of them. Look at them, the scientists, the manipulators, the killers of subjectivity, the jig is up with them too and they don’t even know it; and them too, the Christian flag-wavers and hypocrites, and it’s all thanks to you—you may be forty-five but you’re one of us.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “So we’re leaving now and you’re coming with us.”

  “With you?”

  “With Hester.”

  “Hester?”

  “Hester wants you to live with her in her chickee.”

  I look at Hester. She looks back. There is no secrecy in the clear depths, no modesty or boldness. She smiles and nods. She neither blushes nor not blushes. I look at her bare brown legs, unscarred, not fat, not thin, thighs simple and deep in youth. I look at my ghostly moon-pocked shins. It is just possible that—

  “Will you come, Doc?” asks Chuck.

  “I have my profession.” “Practice it. We need you. We’ll start a new life in a new world. We’ll hole up in Confederate number 2 until the fallout settles—your doomsday machine will protect us, wow, whee, you’re our shaman, Doc, then we’ll live on Bayou Pontchatalawa, which means peace, and love one another and watch the seasons come and smoke a little cannab in the evenings, hee hee hee, and live on catfish and Indian maize and wild grape and raise good sweet innocent children.”

  “Well—”

  “Tell me the truth, Doc.”

  “All right.”

  “Have you ever lived your life?”

  “Lived?”

  “Lived completely and in the moment the way a prothonotary warbler lives flashing holy fire?”

  “Not often.”

  Chuck laughs. “Hoowee! You know what I mean, don’t you, Doc?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hester, don’t you want Doc to come live with you in your chickee?”

  For her answer, Hester, who is hugging her legs and has laid her cheek on her knees, facing me, sways to and fro and lightly against me.

  “All right. Here’s the deal, Doc,” says Chuck. “I have to see Uru and get some maize seeds and ammunition to shoot rabbits this winter. You go get your gear, medicine and all, and one book—we each have one book—and meet us in an hour at the landing near the slave quarters. What book will you bring?”

  “Stedmann’s World War I,” I say absently.

  “Oh yeah! Wow! We’ll all read it, all about those bad old days, and lead our new life!”