The Thanatos Syndrome

Tom,” says Van Dorn gently, even sorrowfully. “It’s a simple either/or. Either the photos are phony—which in fact they are—or they are not. Isn’t that so?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIf they are phony, which I’m sure a lab can demonstrate, then forget it. Right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œIf they are genuine, ditto.”
    â€œDitto?”
    â€œSure, Tom. Once we get past the mental roadblocks of human relationships—namely, two thousand years of repressed sexuality—we see that what counts in the end is affection instead of cruelty, love instead of hate, right?”
    â€œYes.” He gives me another tissue.
    â€œLook at the faces of those children—God knows where they come from—do you see any sign of pain and suffering, cruelty or abuse?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDo you admit the possibility that those putative children—whether they’re real or cooked up—might be starved for human affection?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCase closed,” says Van Dorn, sweeping up the photographs like a successful salesman. “Tom, we’re talking about caring.”
    â€œI’ll just take those, Van,” I say, taking them.
    â€œOkay, gang,” says Van Dorn, putting his pipe in his mouth and clapping his hands. “Let’s go.” He makes a sign to Coach, who has stopped playing Star Wars 4.
    I nod to Vergil. Vergil understands, joins the uncle by the door.
    Coach and Van Dorn face Vergil and the uncle.
    â€œWhat’s this?” asks Van Dorn wearily, not turning around.
    â€œBefore you leave, I suggest that all of you drink a glass of the additive,” I say, blowing my nose. “Starting with Coach. You first, Coach.”
    Coach winks at Van Dorn, steps up to the cooler.
    â€œI don’t mind if I do.”
    â€œNot from the cooler, coach. From the tube,”
    â€œShit, that’s molar.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Coach looks to Van Dorn. “I can take them both.” Smiling, he starts for the uncle. His big hands are fists.
    The uncle looks to me. I make a sign, touch my ear. The uncle understands, nods.
    â€œIf he tries it, shoot him,” I tell the uncle.
    Coach looks quickly back at me, looks at the Purdy propped against the door behind the uncle, shrugs, and starts for the uncle. Meanwhile, the uncle, who has got the Woodsman from his inside coat pocket, shoots him.
    A crack not loud but sharp as a buggy whip lashes the four walls of the room.
    â€œYou meant ear, didn’t you?” says the uncle, putting the Woodsman away.
    I am watching Coach closely. Part of his right ear, the fleshy lobe flared out by the sternocleidomastoid muscle, disappears. There is an appreciable time, perhaps a quarter second, before the blood spurts.
    Coach stops suddenly as if a thought had occurred to him. He holds up an admonishing finger.
    â€œOh, my God!” screams Coach, clapping one hand to his head, stretching out the other to Van Dorn. “I’m shot! Jesus, he’s shot me in the head—didn’t he?”—reaching out to Van Dorn not so much for help as for confirmation. “Didn’t he? Didn’t he?”
    Van Dorn stands transfixed, mouth open.
    â€œMy God, he’s been shot!”
    I look at Coach. There is an astonishing amount of blood coming between his fingers.
    Coach turns to me. “Help me! For God’s sake, Doc, help me!”
    â€œSure, Coach. Don’t worry. Come over and sit right here by me. You’ll be fine.”
    â€œYou swear?”
    â€œI swear,” I say. “Mrs. Cheney.”
    â€œYes, Doctor.” Mrs. Cheney, who has sat down twice and risen twice, rises quickly.
    â€œPlease bring us two towels from the bathroom. Don’t worry, Coach. We’re going to fix you up with a pressure bandage.”
    â€œYou swear?”
    â€œI swear.”
    â€œMy God, my brain is damaged. He could have killed me.”
    â€œI know.”
    He turns to show me. The blood running through his fingers and down his arm drips on me. My nose is also dripping. Every time I fool with surgery, my nose runs. This doesn’t work in surgery. I think I might have chosen psychiatry for this reason.
    I knot one towel, tie the other towel around his head, twist it as hard as I can. “Mrs. Cheney, you hold it here. Coach, you press against the knot as hard as you can.”
    â€œI