The Thanatos Syndrome

painfully, because the child, legs kicked up, is looking toward the camera with a demure, even prissy, expression. Her legs are kicking up in pleasure.
    The fourth photograph depicts a complex scene: Coach penetrating, anally and evidently completely, a muscular youth, not Claude, upon whom Mrs. Brunette, supine, is also performing fellatio.
    The fifth photograph depicts Van Dorn entering an older girl, perhaps eleven or twelve, again by holding her above him, again by no means completely. Again the girl is gazing at the camera, almost dutifully, like a cheerleader in a yearbook photo, as if to signify that all is well.
    The sixth photograph, perhaps the oddest, depicts Van Dorn performing, it appears, cunnilingus upon Mrs. Brunette, he seated in a chair, she astraddle and borne high upon his folded arms, but not entirely unclothed, while on the floor behind them, sitting in a small semicircle, clothed, ankles crossed, arms around knees, faces blank—in the archaic pose of old group photographs—are half a dozen junior-high students. Two or three, instead of paying attention to the tableau, are mugging a bit for the camera, as if they were bored, yet withal polite.

6. FOR SOME MOMENTS the Belle Ame staff gaze down with the same polite interest.
    Then someone—it is not clear who—says in a muted voice: “Uh oh.”
    Someone else utters a low whistle.
    The uncle is back. He whispers something to me about Claude and Ricky being in the car, playing cards, and all right.
    â€œJesus,” says the uncle, who has come all the way around the table, the better to see the photographs of Mrs. Cheney. “I mean what—!” he says, opening both hands, beseeching first me, then the world around.
    â€œWhat in the world!” exclaims Mrs. Cheney in conventional outrage, touching her tight bun at her neck with one hand. “Who —what is that? Ex -cuse me!”
    â€œThat’s not you, Mrs. Cheney?” I ask her.
    â€œDr. More! You ought to be ashamed!” Her outrage, by no means excessive, seems conventional, almost perfunctory. Then she turns away from me and speaks, for some reason, to Vergil. “I for one do not appreciate being exposed to this material, do you?”
    â€œWhy no,” says Vergil politely. He can’t quite bring himself to look directly at the pictures on the table.
    Van Dorn is still eyeing the photographs, face aslant one way, then the other, without expression.
    Coach, who has been still until now, has put his hands on his hips and is moving lightly from the ball of one foot to the other. “This is a setup, chief,” he says softly to Van Dorn, then, when Van Dorn does not reply, says loudly to one and all, “I can tell you one damn thing,” he says to no one in particular. “I know a setup when I see it. And I for one am not about to stand for it. No way.” He leans over, I think, to pick up one or more photographs, then apparently changing his mind resumes his boxer’s stance. “This is rigged. I don’t know who is doing it or why, but I can tell you one damn thing, I’m not buying in. No way!”
    â€œLet me just say this,” says Mr. Brunette calmly, shaking his head. His hands are in his pockets and he speaks with the assurance of one long used to handling disputes, perhaps a school principal or a minister. Though he is dressed like a TV evangelist and has a north Louisiana haircut, his voice is not countrified. Rather, he sounds like the moderator of an encounter group, reasonable, disinterested, but not uncaring. “I don’t know who is responsible for this foolishness—though I have my suspicions—” Does he look in Van Dorn’s direction? “It would not be the first time that photographs have been cooked for purposes of blackmail. Everyone here knows that photographs are as spliceable as tapes—and therefore signify nothing. In fact, this whole business could be a computer graphic. No, that’s not what interests me. What intrigues me is the motive, the mindset behind this. Frankly I have no idea what or who it is. Is it a joke? Or something more sinister? And who is behind it? One of us? Dr. More? I’ve no idea. But let me say this—and I think I speak for my wife too, don’t I, Henrietta?”
    Surprised, Henrietta looks up quickly, nods. Her face is younger, more puddingish, less like a dragon lady than I thought.
    â€œJust let me say