The Thanatos Syndrome

control.”
    â€œNo kidding.”
    â€œYeah. I’ve had a couple of patients who may show an interesting cortical deficit at Brodmann 39 and 40, you know, the Wernicke speech area. They answer questions out of context—and I’m thinking of using it as an informal clinical test. I needed a couple of normal controls. You wouldn’t answer the Hammond question out of context. You’re a control. Max is next.”
    â€œGee thanks.” But Bob Comeaux cocks a shrewd eye at me. “But who—Never mind.”
    â€œMax,” I say, “where is Hammond?”
    â€œI can’t say I care,” says Max. Max looks relieved.
    â€œYou guys get out of here,” says Bob Comeaux. “Jesus, shrinks.”
    We’re in the hall. Max is padding along faster than usual, but in his usual odd, duck-footed walk. Max waits until we hear Bob Comeaux’s door close behind us. He moves nearer and speaks softly.
    â€œYou okay, Tom?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhat was that stuff about Hammond?”
    â€œI wasn’t kidding. I really have picked up a couple of odd things lately, Max. And I wanted to check Comeaux out. Have you noticed anything unusual in your practice lately?” “Unusual?” Max is attentive but still guarded. “Such as?”
    â€œOh, changes in sexual behavior in women patients—”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œOh, loss of inhibition and affect. Downright absence of superego. Loss of anxiety—”
    Max laughs. “Well, don’t forget my practice is not here but in New Orleans, the city that care forgot. It has never been noted for either its anxiety or its sexual inhibitions.” Max is eyeing me. It is not his or my patients he’s thinking about. “Tell me something, Tom.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhat is Comeaux up to?”
    â€œYou noticed. I thought you might tell me.”
    â€œThat business about your license was uncalled for. This so-called probation is pro forma, purely routine and up to us. There is no reason to have any trouble.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear it.”
    â€œDr. Comeaux wants something,” says Max thoughtfully.
    â€œI know. Do you know what it is?”
    â€œNo, but it was interesting that Mrs. LaFaye, your wealthy patient, was mentioned.”
    â€œWhy is that interesting?”
    â€œThe word is, he’s got something going with her.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œMy wife, who knows everything around here because she is a realtor like your wife, says he has been very helpful to Mrs. LaFaye, his neighbor and fellow horseperson, rancher, whatever, and that he or Mrs. LaFaye or both are trying to buy up the adjoining land.”
    â€œThat’s the hospice he was talking about.”
    â€œOh, you mean out at—”
    â€œYes.”
    We’re standing at the elevators. I notice that Max is still preoccupied.
    â€œMax, I’d like to talk to you about a couple of cases.”
    â€œSure. Come on over to my place now. Sophie would be delighted to see you—and Ellen.”
    Max is always embarrassed to mention Ellen. Why? Because my first wife ran off with a fruity Englishman. No, two fruity Englishmen.
    â€œI can’t. I have to get home.”
    â€œI understand. How’s Ellen and the kids?” he asks too casually. We’re standing side by side gazing at the bronze elevator doors.
    â€œThey’re fine.”
    â€œIs Ellen home?”
    â€œWell, you know she went back to Georgia to stay with her mother when I was convicted and sent to—”
    â€œI know, I know. But she’s back now.”
    â€œYes—though I haven’t seen much of her. She just got back from a bridge tournament.”
    â€œYes. I heard from—I heard she was some sort of prodigy at it.”
    â€œShe just got back from Trinidad. The big annual Caribbean tournament. She and her partner, Dr. Van Dorn, won it.”
    â€œI see. Well, I know she’s way out of our class, that is, mine and Sophie’s. But do you think the two of you might come over one evening—”
    â€œSure. I’ll ask her.” We gaze at the bronze door one foot from our noses.
    â€œHow about next week?”
    â€œShe won’t be in town.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œNo. She’s been invited to the North American championships.”
    â€œI see. How long does it last?”
    â€œI think about a week. It is being held at the