The Thanatos Syndrome by Walker Percy Read Free Book Online Page A

Who’s been watching Tommy and—ah—”
    â€œMargaret. Well, we still have old Hudeen, you will remember—”
    â€œOh yes. Hudeen. Fine old woman.”
    â€œYes. And a live-in person, Hudeen’s granddaughter, who stays with the kids at night.”
    â€œGood. Very good. Very good,” says Max absently. Max is torn, I notice, torn between his desire to welcome me back and his Jewish-mother disapproval. He worries about me. But as soon as we’re out of the Fedville high-rise and into the parking lot, Max seems to recover his old briskness. He eyes my Caprice with mild interest, takes hold of my arm. “Now, Tom—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI am concerned about—concerned that you get going again with your practice and back with your—ah—family.”
    â€œI know you are, Max.”
    â€œI think we can straighten out this license business. I’ll take care of Comeaux.”
    â€œGood.”
    Max is examining his car keys intently. “You don’t seem much interested.”
    â€œI’m interested.”
    â€œYou’re not depressed, are you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, I do wish you would check in with me. You were, after all, my patient once, and I need all the patients I can get, ha.” This is as close as Max ever comes to making a joke. “Just a little checkup.”
    â€œSure. And I do want to discuss a couple of bizarre cases with you. I wasn’t kidding about some sort of cortical deficit. But it’s more radical than that.”
    â€œMore radical?”
    â€œThere’s not only a loss of cortical inhibitions, superego, anxiety which was once present. There’s something else, a loss of—self—”
    â€œOf self,” Max repeats solemnly, concentrating on his ignition key. He looks worried again. He’s thinking. There are worse things than depression, for example, paranoia, imagining a conspiracy, a stealing of people’s selves, an invasion of body- snatchers.
    â€œSo you give me a call,” says Max, frowning, eyes casting into the future.
    â€œRight, Max.”
    â€œYou need more cases, Tom,” he says carefully.
    â€œI know, Max.”
    â€œTwo cases are not exactly a series.”
    â€œI know, Max.”
    He doesn’t look up from his car keys. “What’s this business about Father Smith?”
    â€œHave you seen him since you got back?”
    â€œFather Smith? No. Only a phone call.”
    â€œWhat did he want?” Max asks quickly.
    I look at him. This quick, direct question is not like him.
    â€œI’m not sure what he wanted. As a matter of fact, it was a very odd conversation.”
    What was odd was that Father Smith sounded as if he was calling from an outside phone, perhaps a booth in a windy place. I remember thinking at the time that he reminded me of those fellows who listen to radio talk shows in a car, decide to call in a nutty idea, stop at the first booth. The priest said he wanted to welcome me home. Thanks, Father. He also wanted to discuss something with me. Okay, Father. Did I know he had been to Germany? No, I didn’t. Recently? No, when I was a boy. I see, Father. So he gets going on the Germans for a good half hour, in a rapid, distant voice blowing in the wind.
    â€œWhat did he talk about?” asks Max, eyeing me curiously.
    â€œThe Germans.”
    â€œThe Germans?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI see. By the way, Tom. Don’t argue with Comeaux. It’s a waste of time. And stop worrying about this. It’s going to work out.”
    â€œI’m not worried.” I’m not. Max is worried.

6. BOB COMEAUX LIKES to argue. I don’t much.
    For two years I was caught between passionate liberals and conservatives among my fellow inmates at Fort Pelham. Most prisoners are ideologues. There is nothing else to do. Both sides had compelling arguments. Each could argue plausibly for and against