“Coach next, after you,” I tell him.
Coach, who has been cracking his knuckles in his lap, looks up.
“Then Mr. and Mrs. Brunette. Then Mrs. Cheney.”
“I see,” says Van Dorn, nodding. “And you’re not going to tell us what the scam is.” He’s nodding now.
“I would like for all of you to drink a cup of this.”
Van Dorn becomes patient. “We hear you, Tom. And I suppose it is a joke of sorts. In any case, we are not going to drink it.”
“I think it would be better if you drank it, Van.”
“Oh my,” says Van Dorn in a soft voice. “Well, that seems to leave us at an impasse, doesn’t it, Tom?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He doesn’t think so, Mr. Bon,” says Van Dorn in the same patient voice, the voice I might use with a young paranoid schizophrenic.
But Vergil doesn’t answer or look up.
I notice Coach, who is observing his knuckles. Looking at his head, which is covered by a thick growth of close-cropped blond hair, is like looking into the pile of a rug. At the proper angle one can see the scalp. His neck is as wide as his head, the sternocleidomastoid muscle so enlarged that it flares out the surprisingly fleshy lobe of his ear.
Mr. Brunette crosses his legs, not with ankle over knee but knee over knee, crossing leg dangling almost to the floor. His suit is not at all a preacher’s suit, I notice, but the new Italian drape style, of charcoal silk, loose in the hips, tight in the cuffs. But he wears the sort of short thin socks with clocks fashionable years ago and loafers with leather tassels.
“Okay, gang!” says Van Dorn briskly, and would have clapped his hands, I think, if he wasn’t holding his pipe. “I don’t know about y’all but I got a school to run. If there’s nothing else, Doctor?”—with a slight formal bow to me, eyes fond but distant.
The others are on their feet instantly, following Van Dorn to the door.
“Only these.” I spread the photos on the plywood table between the sofas.
Van Dorn and the others are looking down at the glossies on their way out, heads politely aslant to see them better, as one might look at the photos of a guest fresh from a trip to Disney World.
I too have the first good look at them.
There are six photographs.
There are details which I missed in my earlier, cursory glance. In the photograph of Mrs. Cheney on all fours, Coach at her from the rear, Mrs. Cheney’s head is partially hidden between the bare legs of a young person who is supine and whose head and chest are not in the picture. It is not clear whether the young person is a boy or a girl.
In the photograph of Mr. Brunette kneeling at a youth, the youth has both hands on Mr. Brunette’s carefully barbered head, as if he were steering it, and is gazing down at him with an expression which is both agreeable and incurious. Mr. Brunette’s bare shoulders are surprisingly frail, the skin untanned.
In the photograph of Van Dorn dandling the child, the child is shown to have been penetrated but only by Van Dorn’s glans and certainly not painfully, because the child, legs kicked up, is looking toward the camera with a demure, even prissy, expression. Her legs are kicking up in pleasure.
The fourth photograph depicts a complex scene: Coach penetrating, anally and evidently completely, a muscular youth, not Claude, upon whom Mrs. Brunette, supine, is also performing fellatio.
The fifth photograph depicts Van Dorn entering an older girl, perhaps eleven or twelve, again by holding her above him, again by no means completely. Again the girl is gazing at the camera, almost dutifully, like a cheerleader in a yearbook photo, as if to signify that all is well.
The sixth photograph, perhaps the oddest, depicts Van Dorn performing, it appears, cunnilingus upon Mrs. Brunette, he seated in a chair, she astraddle and borne high upon his folded arms, but not entirely unclothed, while on the floor behind them, sitting in a small semicircle, clothed, ankles crossed, arms around knees, faces blank—in the archaic pose of old group photographs—are half a dozen junior-high students. Two or three, instead of paying attention to the tableau, are mugging a bit for the camera, as if they were bored, yet withal polite.
6. FOR SOME MOMENTS the Belle Ame staff gaze down with the same polite interest.
Then someone—it is not clear who—says in a muted voice: “Uh oh.”
Someone else utters a low whistle.
The uncle is back. He whispers something to me about Claude and Ricky being in the car, playing cards, and all right.
“Jesus,” says the uncle, who has come all the way around the table, the better to see the photographs of Mrs. Cheney. “I mean what—!” he says, opening both hands, beseeching first me, then the world around.
“What in the world!” exclaims Mrs. Cheney in conventional outrage, touching her tight bun at her neck with one hand. “Who —what is that? Ex-cuse me!”
“That’s not you, Mrs. Cheney?” I ask her.
“Dr. More! You ought to be ashamed!” Her outrage, by no means excessive, seems conventional, almost perfunctory. Then she turns away from me and speaks, for some reason, to Vergil. “I for one do not appreciate being exposed to this material, do you?”
“Why no,” says Vergil politely. He can’t quite bring himself to look directly at the pictures on the table.
Van Dorn is still eyeing the photographs, face aslant one way, then the other, without expression.
Coach, who has been still until now, has put his hands on his hips and is moving lightly from the ball of one foot to the other. “This is a setup, chief,” he says softly to Van Dorn, then, when Van Dorn does not reply, says loudly to one and all, “I can tell you one damn thing,” he says to no one in particular. “I know a setup when I see it. And I for one am not about to stand for it. No way.” He leans over, I think, to pick up one or more photographs, then apparently changing his mind resumes his boxer’s stance. “This is rigged. I don’t know who is doing it or why, but I can tell you one damn thing, I’m not buying in. No way!”
“Let me just say this,” says Mr. Brunette calmly, shaking his head. His hands are in his pockets and he speaks with the assurance of one long used to handling disputes, perhaps a school principal or a minister. Though he is dressed like a TV evangelist and has a north Louisiana haircut, his voice is not countrified. Rather, he sounds like the moderator of an encounter group, reasonable, disinterested, but not uncaring. “I don’t know who is responsible for this foolishness—though I have my suspicions—” Does he look in Van Dorn’s direction? “It would not be the first time that photographs have been cooked for purposes of blackmail. Everyone here knows that photographs are as spliceable as tapes—and therefore signify nothing. In fact, this whole business could be a computer graphic. No, that’s not what interests me. What intrigues me is the motive, the mindset behind this. Frankly I have no idea what or who it is. Is it a joke? Or something more sinister? And who is behind it? One of us? Dr. More? I’ve no idea. But let me say this—and I think I speak for my wife too, don’t I, Henrietta?”
Surprised, Henrietta looks up quickly, nods. Her face is younger, more puddingish, less like a dragon lady than I thought.
“Just let me say 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.
“Did you say tapes, Mr. Brunette?” I ask.
Eyes still closed, he waves me off. “Tapes, photos, Whatever.”
“No 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.
“Cut it out,” I tell him. “Sit down. No, stand by the door.”
“No 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.”
“Yes?”
“Did I ever tell you what I think of your good wife?”
“You spoke of her bridge-playing ability.”
“I know. But I didn’t mention the fact that she is a great lady.”
“Thank 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.”
“Not quite yet, Van.”
He pushes himself up. “What do you mean, Tom?” says Van, smiling.
“I mean you’re not leaving.”
“Ah 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.
“I’m afraid not, Van.”
“Move, old man,” says Van Dorn to the uncle.
“No, 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.
“Sure. Spell it out for me.” For some reason my nose has begun to run. My eyes water. I take out a handkerchief.
“I think you’ve got some sort of systemic reaction, Tom.”
“You’re probably right.”
“You’ve been ill before.”
“I know.”
“You’ve harbored delusions before.”
“I know.”
“You want to know one reason I think you’re ill?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t seem to realize your position. Isn’t that what you shrinks call the breakdown on the Reality Principle?”
“Some of them might. What is my position?”
“Your 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.”
“I thought you said the phones didn’t work.”
“They work now. As for those phony photos—”
“Yes?” I am blowing my nose and wiping my eyes with a soggy handkerchief.
“There are two theoretical possibilities— Let me give you some tissues, Tom.”
“Thanks. 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.
“Consider, 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?”
“Yes.”
“If they are phony, which I’m sure a lab can demonstrate, then forget it. Right?”
“Right.”
“If they are genuine, ditto.”
“Ditto?”
“Sure, 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?”
“Yes.” He gives me another tissue.
“Look at the faces of those children—God knows where they come from—do you see any sign of pain and suffering, cruelty or abuse?”
“No.”
“Do you admit the possibility that those putative children—whether they’re real or cooked up—might be starved for human affection?”
“Yes.”
“Case closed,” says Van Dorn, sweeping up the photographs like a successful salesman. “Tom, we’re talking about caring.”
“I’ll just take those, Van,” I say, taking them.
“Okay, 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.
“What’s this?” asks Van Dorn wearily, not turning around.
“Before 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.
“I don’t mind if I do.”
“Not from the cooler, coach. From the tube,”
“Shit, that’s molar.”
“That’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.
“If 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.
“You 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.
“Oh, 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.
“My 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!”
“Sure, Coach. Don’t worry. Come over and sit right here by me. You’ll be fine.”
“You swear?”
“I swear,” I say. “Mrs. Cheney.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Mrs. Cheney, who has sat down twice and risen twice, rises quickly.
“Please bring us two towels from the bathroom. Don’t worry, Coach. We’re going to fix you up with a pressure bandage.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
“My God, my brain is damaged. He could have killed me.”
“I 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.”
“I will!”
“Don??
?t worry, Dr. More!” cries Mrs. Cheney, taking hold of the towel.
“Meanwhile, drink this, Coach,” I tell him, holding the towel against his head. “Vergil, fix him a glass of additive.”
“Molar strength?” asks Vergil, still looking into his eyebrows.
“Right. Mrs. Cheney, twist the towel as hard as you can and he’ll be fine. The bleeding has about stopped.”
“I will!” cries Mrs. Cheney, twisting.
“Drink this, Coach.” I hand him the glass with my free hand.
“You’re sure?” asks the Coach, pressing the knot while Mrs. Cheney twists the towel. She is also pulling. Now his head is against her breast.
“I’m sure.”
“I’ll drink it if you say so.”
“I say so. Vergil?”
“Yes, Doc?”
“Give a glass to Mr. Brunette.”
“No problem.” He fills a glass and sets it on the table in front of Mr. Brunette.
Mr. Brunette looks at it. “Let me just say this,” he says, pushing up the bridge of his Harold Lloyd specs.
“All right.”
“First, you’re right about these people,” nodding toward Van Dorn. “Accordingly, let me make sure the photos are safe. I’ll just put them back in the file where they belong and where the proper authorities can find them.” He scoops up the photos in a businesslike way and starts for the staircase.
“I think you’d better bring those back, Mr. Brunette. How’re you doing, Coach?”
“I’m going to be fine, Doctor, since you said I would.”
“Keep twisting, Mrs. Cheney.”
“I am, Doctor!”
“There’s a balcony up there and an outside staircase,” says Vergil, taking notice for the first time.
“I really think you’d better come down, Mr. Brunette.” But he’s halfway up and gaining speed. He’s as nimble and youthful in his specs as Harold Lloyd and—do I imagine it?—grinning a wolfish little grin.
The uncle looks at me. I shrug and nod, but do not touch myself. Before I can think what has happened, the uncle has picked up the shotgun and shot him. I find that I am saying it to myself: The uncle has shot Mr. Brunette with a 12-gauge shotgun held at the hip. The room roars and whitens, percussion seeming to pass beyond the bounds of noise into white, the white-out silent and deafening until it comes back not as a loud noise but like thunder racketing around and dying away after a thunderclap.