The Thanatos Syndrome

“I would think you of all people, Tom, would be glad of that.”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œTell me one thing, Tom.” Bob Comeaux puts a hand on my shoulder.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWere your kids molested in any way?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œO—kay.” He stands up briskly. “Look. I think I see a simple way out of this silly business.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œJust to show you what we think of you, you old turkey, we’re going to convene a little ad hoc meeting of the med-ethics parole board right here, today, in this room, and get this dumb-ass business squared away for once and all.”
    â€œWhere is Gottlieb?”
    â€œHe’ll be here. Two o’clock. Okay?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWe’re going to make you a proposition you can’t refuse, ha ha.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou know, I think. We want you aboard. We’re losing Van Dorn, but if we can sign you on as senior consultant in cortex pharmacology, we’ll be ahead of the game.”
    â€œAnd if I don’t?”
    Bob is holding the panama at arm’s length, eyeing it, evening up the brim. “That would be your choice. It would be out of our hands.”
    â€œBack to Fort Pelham.”
    â€œLook, Tom. Tom, please turn around and look at me.”
    I turn my chair around and look at him. He has put his hat on and is standing, feet wide apart, hands clasped behind his back.
    â€œHear this, Tom. I’ll make it short and sweet. We’re not talking about some bush-league medical project—fluoridating water to cure tooth decay. We’re not even talking about curing AIDS. We’re not even talking medicine, Tom. We’re talking about the decay of the social fabric. The American social fabric. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know—all the way from the destruction of the cities, crime in the streets, demoralization of the underclass, to the collapse of the family. I don’t have to tell you this, because you already know. What I’m telling you is that we’ll be here at two o’clock and that we need you.”
    â€œAll right. I’ll be here.”
    He gazes at me, eyes going fine, then laughs. “Well, I’ll be damned. Gottlieb said you’d give me static.”
    â€œNo static. I’ll be here.”
    He looks at me curiously. “Are you all right?”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œYou seem—”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œTerrific!” He actually claps his hands. “I’ll be on my way. A wedding of the daughter of an old friend right down the road. At Kenilworth. Tom, I got news for you. There is still grace, style, beauty, manners, civility left in the world. It’s not all gone with the wind. You know who’s coming up for the reception? Pete Fountain and his Half Fast Band. And Al Hirt. Both are personal friends of mine. I wish you could join me.”
    â€œSo do I.”
    He taps on the door for the guard. When the door opens, he steps out, but then, bethinking himself, steps back and waves me toward him.
    â€œTom, I want you to see something. Okay, Officer? It’s okay, Tom. Just step out here for a second.”
    Standing on the top deck of the stranded crewboat, we look out over the vast prison farm. Rows of cotton, mostly picked, stretch away into the bright morning sunlight. Hundreds of black men and women, the men bare-chested, the women kerchiefed, bend over the rows, dragging their long sacks collapsed like parachutes. Armed horsemen patrol the levee.
    â€œListen, Tom,” says Bob Comeaux softly.
    From all around, as murmurous as the morning breeze, comes the singing.
    Swing low, sweet chariot, Coming for to carry me home,
    â€œIsn’t that something?” Bob Comeaux almost whispers.
    â€œYes, it is.”
    â€œIt beats Attica and Sing Sing, doesn’t it?”
    â€œYes, it does.”
    â€œWhy do you think they’re so content with their lot?”
    â€œI couldn’t say.”
    â€œYes, you could, if you thought of it—you of all people, with your knowledge.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œThey’re not only making restitution for their crimes, paying their victims, they’re enjoying it. Can you force anyone to sing like that?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI’ll tell you another little secret of our success.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œWe allow—ahem—conjugal