The Thanatos Syndrome

this,” says Mr. Brunette, taking off his glasses and rubbing his nose bridge wearily with thumb and forefinger. “As the fellow says, Hear this. I am notifying my attorney in short order to do two things: one, to employ a forensic expert who can testify as to the fakery of these phony photos and tapes —and two, to bring charges of libel against anyone who undertakes to use them for malicious purposes. That includes you, Dr. More. Frankly though, I think it is somebody’s idea of a joke—a very bad joke and a very sick somebody.” Wearily he wipes his closed eyes. He puts his hands deep into the loose pockets of his drape trousers, clasps hands to knees, stands up briskly as if to leave.
    â€œDid you say tapes, Mr. Brunette?” I ask.
    Eyes still closed, he waves me off. “Tapes, photos, Whatever.”
    â€œNo one mentioned tapes,” I tell Mr. Brunette.
    Vergil still can’t bring himself to look at the pictures or anybody. He sits perfectly symmetrically, hands planted on knees, eyes focused on a point above the photos, below the people.
    The uncle, still on the prowl, stops behind my chair, gives me a nudge on the shoulder. “She’s still a damn fine-looking woman,” he actually whispers.
    â€œCut it out,” I tell him. “Sit down. No, stand by the door.”
    â€œNo problem,” says the uncle.
    Coach, who can’t decide whether to go or stay, settles for a game of Star Wars 4.
    Van Dorn sits comfortably on the sofa opposite me. He knocks out his pipe on the brick floor, settles back, sighs.
    He makes a rueful face at Coach and the exploding satellites. “I sometimes think we belong to a different age, Tom.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œDid I ever tell you what I think of your good wife?”
    â€œYou spoke of her bridge-playing ability.”
    â€œI know. But I didn’t mention the fact that she is a great lady.”
    â€œThank you, Van.”
    The plantation bell rings. Van Dorn puts his hands on his knees, makes as if to push himself up, yawns. “Well, I’ll be on my way.”
    â€œNot quite yet, Van.”
    He pushes himself up. “What do you mean, Tom?” says Van, smiling.
    â€œI mean you’re not leaving.”
    â€œAh me.” Van Dorn is shaking his head. “I’ll be frank with you, Tom. I don’t know whether you’re ill and, if so, what ails you. At this point I don’t much care. I bid you good day.” He starts for the door.
    â€œI’m afraid not, Van.”
    â€œMove, old man,” says Van Dorn to the uncle.
    â€œNo, Van,” I say.
    Van Dorn turns back to me. Now he’s standing over me. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” he asks, shaking his head in wonderment.
    â€œSure. Spell it out for me.” For some reason my nose has begun to run. My eyes water. I take out a handkerchief.
    â€œI think you’ve got some sort of systemic reaction, Tom.”
    â€œYou’re probably right.”
    â€œYou’ve been ill before.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œYou’ve harbored delusions before.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œYou want to know one reason I think you’re ill?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou don’t seem to realize your position. Isn’t that what you shrinks call the breakdown on the Reality Principle?”
    â€œSome of them might. What is my position?”
    â€œYour position, Tom—which, as you know, is none of my doing—is that you either join the team—and as you yourself have admitted, you approve their goals, you just don’t have any more use for some of those NIH assholes like Comeaux, nor do I—or you go back to Alabama. You’re in violation of your parole. You know that, Tom. Come on! You don’t want that! I don’t want that. All I have to do is pick up that phone.”
    â€œI thought you said the phones didn’t work.”
    â€œThey work now. As for those phony photos—”
    â€œYes?” I am blowing my nose and wiping my eyes with a soggy handkerchief.
    â€œThere are two theoretical possibilities— Let me give you some tissues, Tom.”
    â€œThanks. That’s better. What are the two possibilities?” During the great crises of my life, I am thinking, I, develop hay fever. There is a lack of style here—like John Wayne coming down with the sneezes during the great shootout in Stagecoach. Oh well.
    â€œConsider,