The Thanatos Syndrome

says Van Dorn, who is not embarrassed. “What would you say to giving up your sons and daughters to this program for four years? That’s all I ask. And what do I promise in return?” He pauses, looks at the moms and dads, looks at Tommy, speaks in a soft voice. “What I promise is a good shot at the Junior Olympic gold for this team four years from now in Olympia, Greece, where the original Olympics were held.”
    Applause, cheering. From Tommy only relief when Van Dorn lets go of the trophy and he can sit down.
    Ellen, surprisingly, is already drinking a lot. Ordinarily she’d be the proud mom, but she polishes off her third Absolut, smiles and applauds, and goes to the ladies’ room.
    â€œListen, Tom,” says Sheri Comeaux, pulling me close. We’re sitting at a table for four in the rear of the Camellia Room of the Holiday Inn. Bob Comeaux is silent and distant, as if we had had no dealings this morning. Their son Ricky also got a trophy, but a smaller, silver-colored one. “I have to talk fast. Ellen just found out Van’s not going to the North Americans and she’s taking it hard. She had her heart set on it. They’d have won for sure.”
    Sheri’s a good sort. “Welcome home, Tom,” she had said earlier. “You have friends, you know—more than you know.” Sheri was a New Orleans nurse when she married Bob Comeaux. She’s not uptown New Orleans or Garden District, but she’s not Irish Channel or Ninth Ward either. French-Irish-Italian, she’d have gone to school at Sacred Heart, not with the Mesdames of the Sacred Heart Academy on St. Charles Avenue but at Sacred Heart parochial school on Canal Street. She and Ellen both married doctors, both took up duplicate bridge at the same time, neither having to work—Sheri because Bob was a successful doctor, Ellen because she and Marva made a lot of money in real estate. Sheri has the fond, slightly dazed look of many doctors’ wives.
    â€œI better talk fast before she comes back,” says Sheri.
    â€œOkay, talk fast.” Sheri is making me nervous because she’s drinking too, hanging on my arm, talking a lot, mentioning names, and making a point of it as if she knew about Bob and Mickey LaFaye. But she always comes back to Ellen.
    â€œThat girl is loaded! With talent I mean. I mean, she is some kind of genius and doesn’t even know it. Do you know what she did?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWe were playing in this dinky little sectional over at Biloxi—this was before we met Van Dorn. It was good for nothing but black points of course. So there we were, two little bridge ladies with a bunch of other bridge ladies. It’s about four women to one man, and what men. And here he comes—surprise, surprise—God knows what they paid him to make an appearance. We were playing women’s pairs the first day and there he is, strolling around the tables watching the play. We were all nervous and giggling. I know you don’t know anything about the strange world of duplicate bridge, but having John Van Dorn show up at a sectional tournament is like Ivan Lendl turning up at the local tennis club. I mean, we’re talking world-class, Tom.” She finishes her drink. Bob Comeaux, to my relief, has gotten up and is talking to Van Dorn in the aisle. He’s listening intently to Van Dorn, looking down, arms folded, ear cocked. Van Dorn catches my eye, winks, makes a casting motion with his wrist. I nod.
    â€œYes, Sheri?”
    â€œYou got the picture? Us little bridge ladies trying to keep our minds on the game and him walking around, kibitzing. Got it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo next day, it’s mixed pairs. And we’re resigned to anybody we draw. We’re standing at the customers’ desk to get our partners and wondering who we’re going to end up with—you talk about dogs—I mean, you wouldn’t believe who I got. But anyway. There were a few professionals hanging around as usual. You know, you can get a life master or a professional, but you have to pay—personally I think the system stinks—it’s like a bunch of middle-aged ladies looking over the gigolos. But there we were, counting our little money to see if we can afford one of the L.M.s or professionals at least. Actually it’s the best way to learn, but I think it’s degrading. I look up and there he is. Oh, he’s a charmer.