The Thanatos Syndrome

become aware of my seedy suit. Ellen is not around much and I pay no attention to what I wear. I haven’t got around to buying clothes since my return. My cousin Lucy calls it my Bruno Hauptmann suit, a ten-year-old double-breasted broad-stripe seersucker, which I wasn’t even aware I was wearing until suddenly it feels dank and heavy.
    â€œLet’s get this over with, guys,” says Bob Comeaux briskly, leaning over his hands and swinging his leg. “So we can have a drink or something. I got to muck out a stall.” This, we understand, is in a manner of speaking.
    â€œRight,” says Max. Max and I are now sitting like patients in two chairs facing Bob Comeaux’s splendid desk.
    â€œOh, say, Tom,” says Bob Comeaux.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThanks for looking in on Mrs. LaFaye this morning. I appreciate it.”
    â€œGlad to. As a matter of fact, I’d like to speak to you, to both of you, about the clinical changes in her. I have an idea that—”
    â€œYeah, sure,” says Bob, looking at his watch. “We’ll do that.”
    â€œI’m also a bit confused about the consultation. It was never made clear to me who requested it.”
    â€œWe’ll get into that too. Right now, what say if we do the boiler plate and get the official crud out of the way.”
    â€œFine,” I say.
    â€œYes,” says Max. “Here’s what I suggest—”
    â€œLet’s do it by the book, guys,” says Bob Comeaux, removing his hands from his pockets and clapping one softly into the other. “What I’m proposing is that, at least for the time being, Tom come aboard here in my division. It’s not just a matter of my making room for him—hell, I’ve been after him for years and he can write his own ticket—and he won’t need a license.”
    â€œWait,” says Max. “Hold it, Doctor.” Max holds up a hand like the Tulane professor that he is, flagging down an errant intern on grand rounds. “Let’s just hold it a second.”
    â€œVery well, Doctor,” says Bob Comeaux gravely. “What’s the problem?”
    â€œNo problem. Possibly a misunderstanding. My understanding is that Dr. More wants to return to private practice. Has, in fact. Isn’t that so, Tom?”
    â€œThat’s so,” I say, thinking for some reason about an expression in Mickey LaFaye’s eyes, in Donna’s eyes. There was something about her, them—There was something like—
    â€œI understand! I read you, Doctor! And believe me, there is nothing I admire more about us old-time clinicians, ha, than our concern for the traditional one-on-one doctor-patient relationship. But we got a little problem here.”
    â€œWhat’s the problem?” says Max in his old ironic style. Max is upset about something. I am noting that for some reason Bob Comeaux is striving for standard medical heartiness and not succeeding; is, in fact, doing very badly.
    â€œThe problem, fellows,” says Bob Comeaux, looking up for the first time and smiling his rueful attractive smile, “is that Tom’s license to practice is in bureaucratic limbo. Theoretically he has a probationary license, but that leaves him open to malpractice suits and any cop who wants to lean on him. What I’m saying is that I can take him aboard here and he can do what he pleases, licensed or not.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” says Max to me. “That’s wrong!”
    â€œWhat’s ridiculous?” asks Bob Comeaux, puzzled.
    â€œThat he has to report to us on his practice.”
    Bob Comeaux leans forward over his pocketed hands, frowning but not unpleasantly. “I’m not clear, Max. Do you mean that we both agree that Tom should be practicing any kind of medicine he pleases? Or do you mean that he was wrongfully deprived of his license?”
    â€œI mean it’s wrong! The whole damn thing.”
    We fall silent. Max’s defense of me is loud and lame.
    I am thinking that I should be experiencing a sinking of heart at Max’s lame defense of me, but that I’m not. Instead, I find myself watching Bob Comeaux curiously. There is a new assurance about him. I observe that when he leans over, and now when he takes his hands out of his pockets and folds them across his chest, grasping his suede-clad arms, at the same time sitting-leaning gracefully, one haunch on the desk, he is