George Mills Part 32

"Yellow," Merchant said, "yellow? Yellow is for fairies. A man like you wants a dark blue bathing costume. Why should I be tired? I'm used to it. Anyway, I pace myself." Yellow is for fairies. A man like you wants a dark blue bathing costume. Why should I be tired? I'm used to it. Anyway, I pace myself."

"He gave you a hundred dollars," Mills said.

"I left it up to him. Usually, when they come down, they come with family. It's rare to see a servant. What could I do? You were already here. I left a lot of it up to you. I let you a.s.sist me. We didn't get in each other's way. It should have been more, I suppose, but he, that Harry, only came down last night. He didn't know what to give. My other clients are more generous, but maybe Harry isn't cheap. Maybe he don't really know."

"How come you didn't tell him?"

The old man shrugged. "A tout's pride," he said.

"Listen," George said, "I'm pretty tired. I'm supposed to be over at their hotel tomorrow morning at seven o'clock to get their bags and check out for them."

"Of course," Merchant said. "I'm gone in a minute. There's some things I want to tell you. Go on, get in bed. I'll let myself out."

"Could you get the light?" George said sleepily.

"Sure," Father Merchant said, and turned off the overhead light. He drew the night curtains and spoke to Mills in the dark.

"Maria is courted by all the eligible ranchers in that country," he said. "But she loves only one, the patrone, patrone, who is her father. She don' know he is her father, but who is her father. She don' know he is her father, but he he knows. He suspects. It makes no difference, by this time he can' help himself. She reminds him of her knows. He suspects. It makes no difference, by this time he can' help himself. She reminds him of her madre. madre. Only this one is even Only this one is even more more beautiful, beautiful, more more desirable. He tries to seduce her but she has too great honor. If he mean to sleep wit' her he mus' marry her. He arrange a fake pries', a young fellow from the south to do it. The real pries' is killed. desirable. He tries to seduce her but she has too great honor. If he mean to sleep wit' her he mus' marry her. He arrange a fake pries', a young fellow from the south to do it. The real pries' is killed. He He does this, the does this, the patrone. patrone. He knows he is d.a.m.n to murder a He knows he is d.a.m.n to murder a padre padre but his pa.s.sion has made him but his pa.s.sion has made him loco. loco. The fake pries' is brought in an' they are married. They go away. He is a wonderful lover. Maria is sick with love, with s.e.x. She has never experience nothin' like this. All he has to do is touch her, she is on fire. She can't get enough. But he's a old man, the The fake pries' is brought in an' they are married. They go away. He is a wonderful lover. Maria is sick with love, with s.e.x. She has never experience nothin' like this. All he has to do is touch her, she is on fire. She can't get enough. But he's a old man, the patrone. patrone. All this love is killin' him, an' now she is pregnan'. She is no longer so beautiful to him. She knows this but makes demands. To stop her he tell her all about the fake pries', about himself. Now she is like her father, insane with pa.s.sion. She don' care she is pregnan', she don' care she's his daughter. Maria is depraved. The old man is fearful about what he have done. He make a confession, first to a pries', then to officials. The pries' tell him G.o.d have forgive him if he is truly peniten'. He go to Maria. He fear for her soul. He tell her to confess. 'Why?' she says. 'I am sorry for nothing. Only that you love G.o.d more than your daughter. That, All this love is killin' him, an' now she is pregnan'. She is no longer so beautiful to him. She knows this but makes demands. To stop her he tell her all about the fake pries', about himself. Now she is like her father, insane with pa.s.sion. She don' care she is pregnan', she don' care she's his daughter. Maria is depraved. The old man is fearful about what he have done. He make a confession, first to a pries', then to officials. The pries' tell him G.o.d have forgive him if he is truly peniten'. He go to Maria. He fear for her soul. He tell her to confess. 'Why?' she says. 'I am sorry for nothing. Only that you love G.o.d more than your daughter. That, that that is the filth.' They come for him, for the is the filth.' They come for him, for the patrone. patrone. They take him away. They don't know she knows, her father don' tell them. He is hanged. For killin' the pries'. No one know. Only the pries' who hear his confession. He They take him away. They don't know she knows, her father don' tell them. He is hanged. For killin' the pries'. No one know. Only the pries' who hear his confession. He can't can't tell. He is waitin' for Maria to seek absolution. That how it end. We wait for the worse woman in the worl' to ask for forgiveness. That how it end. tell. He is waitin' for Maria to seek absolution. That how it end. We wait for the worse woman in the worl' to ask for forgiveness. That how it end.

"You're going back. These programs haven't been broadcast yet. No one knows this in Mexico. Only the planners of the program. Only me. Only you."

"Why are you tell--"

"I told Mrs. Glazer," Father Merchant said. "I whispered in her ear before she died."

"What are you talk--"

"A hundred dollars," Merchant said contemptuously. "I just see see that rich that rich gringo gringo b.a.s.t.a.r.d and b.a.s.t.a.r.d and know know I won't get more." I won't get more."

"What do you--"

"A hundred dollars," Merchant repeated. "I saved him seventy seventy on the rate of exchange, on red tape even more. A hundred dollars!" on the rate of exchange, on red tape even more. A hundred dollars!"

"What do you want?" Mills shouted. "What do you want?" He snapped on the bed lamp.

"How much would you you say?" Father Merchant whispered. "You were here for a mont'. I kep' you say?" Father Merchant whispered. "You were here for a mont'. I kep' you both both alive that first week. I didn't know there'd be a servant. There's not usual a servant." alive that first week. I didn't know there'd be a servant. There's not usual a servant."

"Do you want me to give you money? Is that what you want?"

"You? You? You? A go-between's go-between?" A go-between's go-between?"

"What do you want?"

"How could I know there would be someone to do the errands? Someone so indifferent he could bathe her, wipe her nose, her a.s.s, take her for treatments, out for a ride? Death is what I do, the errands of cancer. The tips, the advice, all that's just sideline."

"What do you want? want?" Mills demanded.

"To give you your your half," Father Merchant said, "these fifty dollars," and threw the money down on the bed. half," Father Merchant said, "these fifty dollars," and threw the money down on the bed.

9.

In St. Louis, Louise still counted her b.r.e.a.s.t.s when she went to bed, taking inventory, too, since her husband's employer had died, of her glands, pressing her stomach and kidneys, examining her cervix and r.e.c.t.u.m, obtaining skintight latex gloves which George frequently found on the rug when he stepped out of bed. She was purchasing as well home urinalysis kits, checking for diabetes, excessive leukocytes, early warning signs of a dozen diseases. She had bought a thermometer which registered temperature electronically, a gadget which noted blood pressure, a full-size doctor's scale.

"Are we refurnis.h.i.+ng?" George asked.

"Do you begrudge me a little security? It didn't cost you a penny. All the money for this stuff came from what was left over from my father's insurance policy. He even paid for the dress I bought for Mrs. Glazer's funeral."

They were going to the funeral, George as one of the pallbearers, Louise because she was a fan and because she had not forgotten the dying woman's condolence phone call on the occasion of her father's death.

Indeed, there was to be a small contingent from South St. Louis. Before she had left for Mexico, Mrs. Glazer had written to invite all the people on her Meals-on-Wheels route and had organized two limousines to pick up all those who were strong enough to attend and take them to the Church of St. Michael and St. George in west county and then on to Bellefontaine Cemetery. The limousines would return them to their homes in the city after a stop for lunch at Stouffer's Riverfront Inn. All this had been detailed in Judith Glazer's letters to the guests themselves, as well as to Crane, the funeral director.

Only George and Louise had not been invited, George learning he had been asked to be a pallbearer when Harry approached from behind the curtains of first cla.s.s on the flight to St. Louis. "My sister," he said, "wanted you to serve as one of the pallbearers. She asked me to give you this." He handed him a sheet of folded hospital stationery. All it said was "Please, Mills," and had been written and signed with great effort. He examined the note closely. The signature would have been illegible had George not recognized it from some of the last traveler's checks she had signed. Mills," and had been written and signed with great effort. He examined the note closely. The signature would have been illegible had George not recognized it from some of the last traveler's checks she had signed.

"Yes, well I know it probably wouldn't stand up in court," the brother said, "but you have my word it's what she wanted. What do you say? They don't like pa.s.sengers to stand in the aisles."

Mills's mood ring blazed.

The funeral had been much on her mind. George himself had written down the names of specific ushers she wanted, nephews and nieces and the children of friends who she had determined would replace the regular lay functionaries of the church. It seemed she wanted as many people involved as possible. Even after she had been taken to the hospital she had had George place a call to the organist at St. Michael and St. George. When he handed her the telephone, she burst into tears.

"Oh, Matthew," she said, "I don't know what's happening to me. I can't remember how Bach's 'St. Anne Fugue' goes. It keeps getting mixed up in my head with Mozart's 'Ave Verum.' " She had him hum them.

"Yes. Oh yes," she said. "I remember." And had gone on to discuss and approve the names of various trumpeters they could get for the Purcell anthem she had decided on only the night before.

"Do you really think so, Matthew? Fred Turner? Do you trust his embouchure? Ask w.i.l.l.y Emerson for me, would you? And call me back. Mills will give you the number."

In the hospital, even in the motel, she barely glanced at the dozens of letters and get well cards sent by her friends, but had Mills read the acceptance letters of her designated pallbearers over and over to her, listening for tone, searching out reluctancies. She would take them from Mills and make him listen as if for sour notes in music. When she was satisfied that they meant what they said she dictated formal acknowledgments of their receipt, as if she had formed some binding legal accommodation with them.

She had spoken to Bishop McKelvey long distance. She knew, she said, there could be no eulogy as such, only the authorized prayers, but since they'd already agreed that certain special friends and relatives would be permitted to read the responses, she thought, wondered wondered really, if she mightn't be granted one teeny dispensation. It was really, if she mightn't be granted one teeny dispensation. It was awfully awfully important to her. Though it was the bishop's decision. important to her. Though it was the bishop's decision. She She would submit no matter would submit no matter what what he decided. Well then, she said, could they set aside some time toward the end of the service, for Breel, her psychiatrist, to address the mourners? No, not a eulogy. Nothing he decided. Well then, she said, could they set aside some time toward the end of the service, for Breel, her psychiatrist, to address the mourners? No, not a eulogy. Nothing like like a a eulogy. eulogy. A clinical report on the state of her head, her symptomatology when she had been mad. A clinical report on the state of her head, her symptomatology when she had been mad.

George had seen RSVP's from all six pallbearers.

One was flying in from Europe, another had postponed his trip till after the funeral. "Friends," she'd told George, "loyal friends."

Had she indicated, Mills had asked the brother, which one was to be b.u.mped? "Come on, Mills, she was dying. These were practically her last words, just before she called that Merchant chap to the bedside. Did you expect her to think of everything? I suppose we can do some things for ourselves."

"She thought of everything," George muttered.

"How's that? Speak up. I can't hear you over the jets."

This was on Tuesday. The funeral was Thursday. It was too late for Mills to shop for a new suit, too late even to get the suit he had cleaned and pressed. But everyone, he thought, no matter his station, had a decent suit. She thought of everything. She even thought of that. She knew me, knew even I'd have one. She probably knew where it would be, antic.i.p.ating the very closet, the yellowing plastic garment bag in which it would hang, protected from dust, moths, the wear and tear of poor men's air. She thought of everything. How could he be her brother and not know that?

So he looked for their white gloves. (Knowing they would not come from the cut-down carton in the church vestibule, just as he knew that the Bibles and hymnals they brought would be their own, as he knew that some of them would somehow have managed beforehand to obtain printed copies of the order of the service-just as he knew they'd be printed rather than mimeographed-as he knew they would have antic.i.p.ated, and in perfect accord with Mrs. Glazer's wishes, the precise order of the seating arrangements, only himself and the contingent from the south side guided by the otherwise strictly ceremonial ushers.

(And how did did he know, this George Mills in rare and tandem connection to privilege, his alliance occasional and metered as astronomy? Where did he even get off knowing? How had he known of the tuxedos and jodhpurs, spats and top hats that would be in their wardrobes? How had he intuited their pallbearer's customized gloves, the mother-of-pearl b.u.t.tons like milk gems? What gave him his outsider's inside information?) he know, this George Mills in rare and tandem connection to privilege, his alliance occasional and metered as astronomy? Where did he even get off knowing? How had he known of the tuxedos and jodhpurs, spats and top hats that would be in their wardrobes? How had he intuited their pallbearer's customized gloves, the mother-of-pearl b.u.t.tons like milk gems? What gave him his outsider's inside information?) So he looked for the white gloves--his own pair taken from the very carton he knew they would neither avoid nor wave off but were simply unaware of.

Then he was helpless. Having turned himself and Louise over to an usher, having followed the young fellow to a pew neither conspicuously close to nor far removed from the princ.i.p.al mourners, he relinquished himself to some principle of sheer minstrelsy, searching the laps of the men for white-gloved hands, looking over his shoulder, rubbernecking occasion and the congregation like some complacent proprietor of wors.h.i.+p. He saw nothing. (Blinders on his intuition here, totally without knowledge of the tailor's contrivances, the special s.p.a.ces that could be built into s.p.a.ce, the secret concealing depths of bespoke pockets, ignorant of the reinforced material that could clothe a wallet or hide car keys without revealing a bulge or wrinkle.) Someone came up. It was Messenger, the Meals-on-Wheels man, and George turned to him. "Excuse me," he said, "do you think you could point out the pallbearers?"

"Nice tan," Messenger said, "ni-ii-ce tan." He was stoned. tan." He was stoned.

"The pallbearers," George said again.

But Messenger was enjoying himself. He indicated women, kids, some of his clients from Meals-on-Wheels, several with canes, walkers. "She loved her mischief," he said.

George mentioned names he recalled from the correspondence he'd seen in Mexico. "My G.o.d, man," Messenger said, "one owns the d.a.m.ned newspaper, and another introduced branch banking into this state. What's.h.i.+sname just bought a franchise in the NFL, though he's probably never been to a game or even watched 'Monday Night Football.' Those other names I I don't even recognize. You're here for the autographs, am I right? You want them to sign the psalms in your program." don't even recognize. You're here for the autographs, am I right? You want them to sign the psalms in your program."

"George is a pallbearer," Louise said.

"We all got our pall to bear," Messenger said.

So he looked for their tans, the special signals they radiated of wealth and leaders.h.i.+p, all the lights of influence and pulled-string, procurate agency. But he had forgotten the decent suit in everyone's closet, appearance got up like a made bed, hospital corners. Why, even the Meals-on-Wheels group looked distinguished, their walking aids and wheelchairs lending them the look of pampered cranks. One old man in a lap robe might have been their line's coddled, consanguinitic first cause.

So he looked for the stalwart, for stamina, recalling the beefy first and second mates and ordinary seamen who had been sent by the Barge and s.h.i.+pper's Union to carry his father-in-law's casket. He looked for the powerhouse honor guard of the rich.

Sam approached him. He leaned across Louise and whispered in his ear. "Professor Messenger said you were uncertain about the other pallbearers, that you weren't sure where to go."

"n.o.body told me. n.o.body told whoever I'm supposed to replace I'm supposed to replace him. I didn't know anything about any of this, Mr. Glazer. Mr. Harry sprung it on me on the plane."

"If you're uncomfortable," Sam said quietly. "If you're the least bit uncomfortable..."

"Well," George said, "Mr. Harry said it was what Mrs. Glazer wanted."

"All right," he said softly, "talk to the gentlemen in this row. This is the pallbearers' bench."

He looked down the aisle. "Gee," he said, "I never even gave my name. I wonder how the ushers knew." (Thinking even as he said it that the nieces and nephews had his number, that Mr. Claunch-Harry-had given it to them. Like a psychological profile of hijackers and bombers which even the girls at the airport metal detectors knew, the maintenance men in the public toilets.) "Well," Sam whispered, "if you're all squared away." He started to leave, looking at the men and women on the aisles as he walked to the front of the church, accepting their handshakes, bending to receive the women's hugs. He was at once solemn and oddly hospitable, a flexibly expansive man.

Mills excused himself to the lady on his right-they were seated boy-girl, boy-girl, as if it were a formal dinner party-and asked if he might say something to the gentleman. The man smiled at him. "Pardon, sir," Mills said, producing his white gloves, "I took care of Mrs. Glazer down there in Mexico for a while and it seems she asked for me to replace one of the real pallbearers, but she didn't specify which real pallbearer I was supposed to stand in for. If you're..."

"Sure," the man said, "Judy was the coach. The coach calls the shots."

My G.o.d, Mills thought, it's what's.h.i.+sname, the guy with the franchise.

(Because he knew nothing about obsequy, understanding well enough from his yokel's back bench condition the ins and outs of grief and loss-hadn't Mr. Mead, his father-in-law, a man he both respected and liked, died within the season? hadn't Mrs. Glazer?-rea.s.sured by the hang of his gut, the small, packed, sorrowful nausea there like a darning egg or some discrete, comfortable orthodoxy which fondled his sentiment and vouchsafed his heart. But nothing at all, not even curiosity, about the stately weights and measures of public ceremony-which may have explained the muddy color of the mood ring plugged to his mild, even-tempered boredom-the organ solos and responsive readings, the bishop's ringing exhortation of Heaven, his official encouragement of the immediate family, and his feeling denial of death, Mills in a way not even present, a time server, a clock watcher, waiting for whatever signal he knew must come when his pallbearing colleagues would rise and arrange themselves at the big, silver-handled box-and in what order? would the funeral director line them up, drill-sergeanting precedence, their disparate seniorities? or had Mrs. Glazer, who, Mills knew, called the shots here, called this one too, ch.o.r.eographing the last detail of all, the procession to and from the back door of her hea.r.s.e, Mills's presence sheer habit by this time, as if the dead woman had become accustomed to his a.s.sisting her in and out of rental cars?-George ready to go it alone if there should be a hitch, prepared to throw his studied leverages into one final, mighty eviction.

(Listening again only when a chubby, acne'd, middle-aged man rose from where he had been sitting behind Sam and the two girls and took a position in the empty pulpit.) The man waited for the anthem that had accompanied him (or that, rather, he had accompanied, his bearing gradually enhanced by the music) to finish. Then, glancing first at McKelvey and then at the Glazers, he started to speak in a voice that was almost conversational, almost offhand.

"Well," he began, "the patient insisted that everything have meaning. That's familiar enough, I guess. Once they're into it I don't suppose there's been a dozen a.n.a.lysands in the history of a.n.a.lysis who haven't brought their dreams and even the least encounters of their day to their a.n.a.lysts for examination. Believe me, I've seen them come like cats with birds in their jaws, like kids with swell report cards. That's not what I'm talking about. Lots of people are like that. You don't have to be neurotic. I guess not.

"I mean the patient demanded that everything everything have meaning. She had no tolerance for things that didn't. 'Tom and Jerry' cartoons drove her up the wall and she couldn't understand why ice cream came in so many flavors. Let's see...Symptoms. She could be phobic about fillers in newspapers. As a matter of fact, during her worst years, she wouldn't even read a paper. She couldn't take in why the stories weren't connected, and it terrified her that an article about a fire could appear next to a piece on the mayor. She was the same about television. She couldn't follow a story once it was interrupted by a commercial. Variety shows, the connection between the acts. So that was one of her symptoms. have meaning. She had no tolerance for things that didn't. 'Tom and Jerry' cartoons drove her up the wall and she couldn't understand why ice cream came in so many flavors. Let's see...Symptoms. She could be phobic about fillers in newspapers. As a matter of fact, during her worst years, she wouldn't even read a paper. She couldn't take in why the stories weren't connected, and it terrified her that an article about a fire could appear next to a piece on the mayor. She was the same about television. She couldn't follow a story once it was interrupted by a commercial. Variety shows, the connection between the acts. So that was one of her symptoms.

"Let's see...

"For a while she was nervous about bedspreads. They gave her the creeps. So did tablecloths, folded napkins. She thought they might be hiding something that wasn't supposed to be there. That whole business about bedspreads and tablecloths, though, that was a new one on me. Of course they're all all new ones. I mean there's really no such thing as a cla.s.sic symptom. If there were, madness would be easier to treat than it is. It's hard to treat. Actually, in a way, the patient's got to get tired of her disease. Well, that's new ones. I mean there's really no such thing as a cla.s.sic symptom. If there were, madness would be easier to treat than it is. It's hard to treat. Actually, in a way, the patient's got to get tired of her disease. Well, that's my my theory anyway. A lot of psychiatrists disagree. theory anyway. A lot of psychiatrists disagree.

"The patient was inst.i.tutionalized eleven years. That's a long time. The saddest thing was this terrible fear. She was very intelligent, but because agoraphobia was another of her symptoms, she refused to go out and never quite grasped what was going on outside her window. She was afraid of weather. Autumn nearly killed her. When the leaves turned color. When they dropped off the trees, that gave her the heebie-jeebies altogether. Snow and rain, lightning and ice. You can imagine what spring did to her with its buds and green shoots and all the furry signals trees put out before they go to leaf.

"She couldn't understand temperature swings, why her windows were open sometimes and shut at others. What am I saying? She couldn't understand nighttime and daytime. So those were other symptoms.

"Look," he said, "this is difficult for me. I'm not sure this is even ethical. Strictly speaking, it's all privileged information. She asked asked me to tell these things. She arranged it with Bishop McKelvey. Well, they're open secrets anyway. Most of you were her loved ones. You know this stuff. But it's cat-out-of-the-bag, and it makes me nervous. Probably I seem ridiculous. Under the circ.u.mstances, even if I'd just been her orthopedist telling you about her broken leg or bad back, I'd still seem silly. It's all time and place. She's put me in a bad situation. I don't know what she thought she was up to. I suppose that sounds dopey too. I mean I was her psychiatrist, I charted her head like the New World. I'm supposed to know. Anyway, I don't. me to tell these things. She arranged it with Bishop McKelvey. Well, they're open secrets anyway. Most of you were her loved ones. You know this stuff. But it's cat-out-of-the-bag, and it makes me nervous. Probably I seem ridiculous. Under the circ.u.mstances, even if I'd just been her orthopedist telling you about her broken leg or bad back, I'd still seem silly. It's all time and place. She's put me in a bad situation. I don't know what she thought she was up to. I suppose that sounds dopey too. I mean I was her psychiatrist, I charted her head like the New World. I'm supposed to know. Anyway, I don't.

"Maybe I shouldn't be so surprised.

"A lot of you know I was retained by the family. That I was her very own bought-and-paid-for personal psychiatrist. Like some high-priced music coach or the princess's astrologer. I lived in.

"I guess you know I wrote a book about her case. Or ma.n.u.script. It was never published. Well, that whole business was the patient's idea. She saw herself as material, subject matter for a book. Maybe you could put that down as another symptom, but if it is, G.o.d knows it's one the patient shared with nine out of ten people alive. I didn't have have to write it, I suppose. I was on retainer and the family paid top dollar. (This was just after I'd completed my residency. I couldn't realistically have expected to make that much money for another five or six years at the inside.) The Claunches made it clear from the outset that I was, well, that I was the doctor. So I didn't to write it, I suppose. I was on retainer and the family paid top dollar. (This was just after I'd completed my residency. I couldn't realistically have expected to make that much money for another five or six years at the inside.) The Claunches made it clear from the outset that I was, well, that I was the doctor. So I didn't have have to write it. I guess I went along because I didn't have much else to do. Madness is a full-time occupation, but only for the madman. (That's really how the cure works. My notion of it anyway, though most don't agree with me. If the patient doesn't do herself an injury and just lives long enough she'll probably wear herself out.) Anyway, the patient was all the data I had. So I started to write her up about the middle of the third year. to write it. I guess I went along because I didn't have much else to do. Madness is a full-time occupation, but only for the madman. (That's really how the cure works. My notion of it anyway, though most don't agree with me. If the patient doesn't do herself an injury and just lives long enough she'll probably wear herself out.) Anyway, the patient was all the data I had. So I started to write her up about the middle of the third year.

"If you're interested, I guess I'd have to say that the transference dates from just about this time frame.

"I had my notes. And all those tape recordings of our sessions that I'd play over and over, wearing them out practically. As if they were favorite tunes, the top of the charts, say. Or like those half-dozen old movies in the s.h.i.+p's library they used to rotate and show us in the Pacific during the war. She really was all the data I had. Never mind my two lousy years' residency at Cook County Hospital. Those folks were in a clinic, mad on the arm. (Which was how the family got me in the first place. Sure, if a psychiatrist already had a practice he couldn't just pick up and leave people who were dependent on him. It had had to be a kid.) to be a kid.) "My notes and hers. The tapes that we made. Her madwoman's homework--the journals she kept, the bad dreams she wrote down.

"And access, too, to those letters she wrote other patients. Witty-wit was a symptom-funny and malicious, reminding people whose own bad dreams had just been burned out of them by shock therapy of everything they had forgotten, rubbing their noses in their past, bringing them down from the thin, comfortable air of their electric amnesia. Not making it up but piling it on, some 'Hasty Pudding' rendition of their loony doings. Which she never showed me, but which their psychiatrists did, outraged as schoolteachers intercepting pa.s.sed notes. Of course I spoke to her about it. I asked why she wrote them. 'Six years,' she said, 'I've been here six years. A bunch of these crazies are my best pals. I've made love to some of the men and a few of the women and spoken with the rest like Francis of a.s.sisi making small talk with birds. What happens if they get well?' 'Don't you want them to get well?' 'No.' 'Do you want to get well?' 'Craziness ain't much of a birthright.' 'I have to give back the letters.' 'Their shrinks will destroy them. Or lock them up in the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds' files.' 'I have to return them.' 'Make copies,' she said. 'They're poison pen letters,' she said, 'as much a record of my nuttiness as theirs. Make copies. Put them in that ma.n.u.script you're writing about me.'

"Because she said 'ma.n.u.script' now, not 'book.' Knowing that if the letters went in, it could never in either of our lifetimes be any published book, that even if I changed their names the facts would be there, that we'd be hung up in lawsuits the rest of our lives.

"But I did what she asked. The letters became part of the record too. I copied them into what only one of us still thought of even as the ma.n.u.script. Though the patient had never even seen it. Now she asked about it every day. 'You're some doctor,' she'd say. 'Eight years in private practice and you've yet to cure anyone. What's with the ma.n.u.script? How's that going at least?' 'There's a lot of material,' I'd tell her, 'I'm up half the night transcribing tapes. Copying those letters you write. I'm losing sleep. When I finally get to bed I toss and turn for an hour.' 'What's with the big deal opus ma.n.u.script? Do I get to see it soon or do you plan to take another seven years?' I think this obsession with the ma.n.u.script was probably one of her last symptoms.

"So I started to show her pieces of it. The character of our sessions changed. Each morning I'd read the patient part of a chapter. She was fascinated. When the hour was up she was reluctant to leave. I would read her the rest of the chapter during our afternoon session. This went on for about a year. She was very calm, calmer than I'd ever seen her. Those earlier symptoms didn't seem to obtain any longer. The fears, I mean. She was reading newspapers now, watching TV and switching from channel to channel in the middle of shows and going on to the next show and following it to the end even if she hadn't seen the beginning. She was getting tolerant about meaninglessness. And put bright bedspreads on her bed, flowery prints, complicated patterns. We'd been taking walks around the grounds together since the middle of winter.

"When spring came she even wanted me to drive her to town. We were with each other constantly now, though the ma.n.u.script, which was finished now, was always along. And though we'd long since finished putting it together, I started to read to her from the worst parts of her life. In canoes I would read to her from her childhood. Her symptoms and traumas. We'd go to the park and while she was setting the tablecloth out on the picnic table I'd have her listen to those cruel letters she had written the other patients.

" 'Hey, come on,' she said one day when we were driving back from a weekend visit to her home. She was driving. I had just taken the ma.n.u.script out of my suitcase. 'Give us a break,' she said. 'I'm getting awfully tired of hearing about that lady. That was some bad news, sad-a.s.s lady. Why don't you do us both a favor and tear the d.a.m.n thing up? Just throw it out the car window or deep-six it in the litter barrel when we stop to pee. I don't want to hear about that c.r.a.ppy lady anymore.'

" 'You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Judith.'

" 'Why not? I was a jerk.'

" 'You were an interesting woman.'