The Thanatos Syndrome

has always been a sitter hereabouts, babysitter, sitter for old people. She is one of those women who have no other qualification than pleasantness and reliability. She used to sit with Meg and Tommy. Her best feature is her skin, which is like satin, smooth and dusky as a gypsy’s. She has gained some weight. Her forearms under her breasts are still firm-fleshed, but there is a groove along the bone separating the swell of pale underflesh pressed against her body from the dark outer arm.
    â€œWell?” says Vergil, still watching me. He is worried about me, my silence. Do I know what I’m doing?
    â€œLet’s go say hello to Mrs. Cheney. Uncle, you’re going to have to leave the shotgun by the door.”
    â€œThere is no way—” he begins.
    â€œPut it behind that sweet olive. You don’t want to frighten Mrs. Cheney.”
    We knock and go in. Mrs. Cheney looks up, smiling. She seems no more than mildly surprised.
    â€œDr. More!”
    â€œHello, Mrs. Cheney. You know my uncle, Hugh Bob Lipscomb, and Vergil Bon, Claude’s father.”
    â€œI surely do, and that’s a fine boy. Hugh, that bluebird never came back. Hugh made me a bluebird box,” she explains to me.
    â€œThat was a while ago,” says the uncle, eyes somewhat rolled back. He’s embarrassed and feels obliged to explain. “She had a bluebird nesting in her paper tube. I gave her the box but told her it would be better not to mess with the bird that season. But something ran it off.”
    â€œIs that right?”
    â€œI first knew Mrs. Cheney when she used to sit with Lucy,” the uncle explains to Vergil.
    â€œThey were all lovely people,” says Mrs. Cheney. “All of y’all.” Mrs. Cheney is nodding and smiling, eyeglasses flashing, as if nothing could be more natural than that the three of us should have appeared at this very moment.
    While we talk, we are gazing down at the child. He is a boy, seven or eight. He looks familiar. He is picking up playing cards which are scattered face down on the floor. He is a very serious little boy, very thin, dressed in khaki pants and matching shirt like a school uniform. His narrow little butt waggles as he crawls around picking up cards. When he picks up four cards, hardly looking at them, he stacks them awkwardly against his chest and makes a separate pile.
    â€œRicky, you speak to these nice gentlemen.”
    â€œAren’t you Ricky Comeaux?” I ask him. Ricky doesn’t speak, but he sits around to see us, large head balanced on the delicate stem of his neck. Finally he nods.
    â€œWhat game are you playing, Ricky?” I ask him.
    Mrs. Cheney answers for him. “Concentration. Y’all remember. I put all the cards on the floor face up. He takes one look. Then I turn them face down. You know. Then you’re supposed to pick them up by pairs. You make mistakes, but you begin to remember where the cards are.”
    â€œI remember that,” says the uncle.
    â€œYou know what Ricky does?” He picks them up by fours and in order, you know, four aces first, deuces, and so forth. And he doesn’t make mistakes.”
    â€œI got to see that,” says the uncle, eyes still somewhat rolled back.
    â€œDo you want to see him do it, Dr. More?” Mrs. Cheney asks me.
    â€œYes.”
    Vergil looks at me: Why are we watching this child play cards?
    Mrs. Cheney shuffles the cards expertly. Now she is on her hands and knees putting the cards down face up. She is agile and quick. A stretch of firm dusky thigh shows above the old- fashioned stockings secured in a tight roll above her knee. Ricky watches her but does not appear to be concentrating on the cards.
    â€œWhere are the others?” I ask Mrs. Cheney.
    â€œWho? Oh, the children. Some are in class, some in rec. They’re all over at Belle Ame.”
    â€œWhat are they doing in rec?”
    â€œOh, some watch the picture show, some play in the attic.”
    â€œWhy isn’t Ricky with them?”
    â€œRicky just came last week. He’s still in our little boot camp, getting strong on vitamins in mind and body so he can join the teams. And he’s doing so well!”
    â€œWe came to pick up Claude Bon. Do you know where he is?”
    â€œPick him up? What a shame! He’s one of our stars. What a fine big boy. He’s probably watching the movies or playing sardines.”
    â€œWhere do they have the