The Thanatos Syndrome

lap.
    â€œCertainly,” I say. “Now let him lie across you, like that.”
    I examine him. The seat of his charcoal silk trousers has been shot away along with the bottom inch or so of his coattail. The exposed sky-blue jockey shorts of a tight-fitting stretch nylon are by and large intact, save for a dozen or so dark striae, as if they had been heavily scored by a Marks-A-Lot. Several of the scorings have ripped nylon and skin, and there is some oozing of blood,
    Mr. Brunette adjusts his glasses, feels behind him, looks at his fingers. “My God,” he says evenly, but not badly frightened.
    â€œDon’t worry. We’ll fix you up.” I turn to Vergil, who is picking up the photographs. “Would you see if you can find a washcloth and dampen it with soap and water. Uncle Hugh, lend me your knife.”
    They do. I cut off the back of Mr. Brunette’s jockey shorts, using the uncle’s Bowie knife, which is honed down to a sliver of steel, clean him up, and instruct Mrs. Brunette to apply pressure to the two lacerations. Mr. Brunette is lying across her lap. She does so but in a curious manner, holding out one hand, face turned away, as if she were controlling a fractious child.
    Van Dorn, I notice, is sitting back on the sofa, drumming his fingers on the cane armrest and by turns nodding and shaking his head. “Oh boy,” he murmurs to no one in particular.
    â€œVergil, give everybody a glass of additive. There’s a stack right there.” The “glasses” are Styrofoam, Big Mac’s jumbo size.
    â€œMolar?” asks Vergil.
    â€œMolar.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œVery good. Drink up, everybody.”
    â€œOh boy,” says Van Dorn, shaking his head and murmuring something.
    â€œWhat was that, Van?”
    â€œI was just saying that I abhor violence of any kind.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œThe whole point of conflict resolution is to accomplish one’s objective without violence. Conflict resolution by means of violence is a contradiction in terms.”
    â€œThat’s true. Drink up, folks.”
    Van Dorn is nodding over his drink. “Tom,” he says in his old, fine-eyed, musing way, “can you assure us that the pharmacological effect of these heavy ions is reversible.”
    â€œI have every reason to believe it is.”
    A final nod, as if the old scientific camaraderie had been reestablished between us.
    â€œThe bottom-line question, Tom.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œKnowing your respect as a physician for the Hippocratic oath, I put you on the spot and ask you if any harmful pharmacological effect can occur?”
    â€œNone that you would not want.”
    â€œDone!” he says in his old “Buck” Van Dorn style, and drains the glass as if he were chugalugging beer back in the fraternity house.
    Mrs. Brunette drinks and helps Mr. Brunette to drink, holding his glass.
    Mrs. Cheney, still twisting the towel on Coach’s head, leans toward me, her pleasant face gone solemn.
    â€œMrs. Cheney, you can let go now,” I tell her. “He won’t bleed.” She accepts the glass from Vergil. Coach keeps his head on her breast.
    â€œDr. More, you and I have been friends for many a year, haven’t we?”
    â€œYes, we have, Mrs. Cheney.”
    â€œYou’re a fine doctor and a fine man.”
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Cheney.”
    â€œI knew your first wife and your second wife, and both of them were just as nice as they could be. Lovely people. Many’s the night when you trusted me with your children of both ladies and yourself.”
    â€œThat’s true.”
    â€œAnd you know I trust you.”
    â€œI’m glad you do, Mrs. Cheney.”
    â€œAll in the world you have to do is tell me that drinking this medicine or vitamin-plus or whatever it is is the thing to do and I’ll do it.”
    â€œIt’s the thing to do, Mrs. Cheney.”
    â€œThat’s good enough for me. Hold the towel, Coach.”
    â€œYou can take the towel off, Coach,” I assure him. Mrs. Cheney raises the glass and, with the other pressed against her chest in a girlish gesture, drinks.
    Van Dorn puts a finger on my knee. “You want to know something, Tom?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œI feel better already.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œListen,” he says, tapping my knee. “Do you mind if I add a footnote to history?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt