Vietnam. She’d said something like: Try to remember him the way he was, try to remember only the good things and the terrific fun we all had; try, and you’ll see that being sad is useless . . . He banged his hands together angrily. She’s gone—and that seemed to him ludicrous somehow; in an age of interplanetary spacecraft, high-intensity lasers, computer chips with the capacity of storing 15,000 bits, requiring a density of 3.3 million bits per square centimeter, in an age like this they hadn’t devised a way of bringing people back from the dead.
He opened his satchel, looked inside, closed it again. Then he sat back with his eyes shut, trying desperately not to think of anything at all, not to remember, dream, fantasize. There was just this enormous space inside himself, like a gash, a terrible wound, one you couldn’t smear with first aid cream and put a plaster over, one that only time and justice could heal.
Justice. Catch a killer. He wondered how long it would take them to do that. Somewhere at the back of his mind he remembered reading about the number of unsolved homicides in the city of New York in a single year, and although he couldn’t recollect it with any exactness, he remembered it was high, too high. And it nagged him to think that maybe his mother would become one of those unsolved cases, another statistic in a ledger of failure.
He gazed back at the fluorescent lights again. An electron in the arc strikes a mercury atom, raising the energy level of another electron in the atom, then you’ve got invisible ultraviolet rays. Invisible, he thought. Death does that too, doesn’t it? It makes people invisible. He wondered remotely if there might be a spiritual life, existence on some other plane, but he wasn’t willing to put any bets on it. Maybe you died and that was the end. Blackness. Nullification. Then life was pointless, wasn’t it?
He wondered what his mother had believed at the very last, if she’d had the time to believe anything at all. He clasped his hands in his lap. He wanted to get up and talk to the young woman and find out what she really saw, whether she was actually a witness. But he felt some terrible lethargy now, a sensation that immobilized him. The stuffy heat of the room had something to do with it, like he was melting inside. He got up and walked to the water fountain, inclined his head, let the jet strike his skin. Then, when he looked across the room, he saw Marino talking with a man in a dark coat, a fair-haired man who had about him a kind of distinguished air, who carried himself as if he were important.
He heard Marino say, “Take a seat over there, Dr. Elliott. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
The fair-haired man moved towards the bench. Elliott, Peter thought. His mother’s shrink. He went back to the bench just before Elliott reached it and he sat down. Elliott pulled up the legs of his pants as he sat. Peter folded his arms and leaned back, closing his eyes. Again, he tried not to think of his mother, but it was even more difficult now with Elliott sitting alongside him, because the man was a direct connection with his mother. He wondered what they’d talked about together during her appointment, what secrets she’d divulged to the psychiatrist, and this made him uncomfortable, imagining that Elliott knew all kinds of things about his mother, things he’d keep locked away, old secrets.
“Are you Kate Myers’s son?”
Peter opened his eyes. He turned to look at the psychiatrist. There was an expression of concern, of pity, in the man’s eyes.
“Are you?” Elliott asked.
“Yeah,” Peter said.
“I think I know what you’re going through . . .” Elliott became silent for a time. Then he said, “I’m your mother’s doctor. Doctor Elliott. If it would help, you can talk to me any time. Any time you like . . .”
Peter stared at the man. “Do you know who killed her?”
“No.”
“Then how can you help?”
Elliott smiled. “Death
He opened his satchel, looked inside, closed it again. Then he sat back with his eyes shut, trying desperately not to think of anything at all, not to remember, dream, fantasize. There was just this enormous space inside himself, like a gash, a terrible wound, one you couldn’t smear with first aid cream and put a plaster over, one that only time and justice could heal.
Justice. Catch a killer. He wondered how long it would take them to do that. Somewhere at the back of his mind he remembered reading about the number of unsolved homicides in the city of New York in a single year, and although he couldn’t recollect it with any exactness, he remembered it was high, too high. And it nagged him to think that maybe his mother would become one of those unsolved cases, another statistic in a ledger of failure.
He gazed back at the fluorescent lights again. An electron in the arc strikes a mercury atom, raising the energy level of another electron in the atom, then you’ve got invisible ultraviolet rays. Invisible, he thought. Death does that too, doesn’t it? It makes people invisible. He wondered remotely if there might be a spiritual life, existence on some other plane, but he wasn’t willing to put any bets on it. Maybe you died and that was the end. Blackness. Nullification. Then life was pointless, wasn’t it?
He wondered what his mother had believed at the very last, if she’d had the time to believe anything at all. He clasped his hands in his lap. He wanted to get up and talk to the young woman and find out what she really saw, whether she was actually a witness. But he felt some terrible lethargy now, a sensation that immobilized him. The stuffy heat of the room had something to do with it, like he was melting inside. He got up and walked to the water fountain, inclined his head, let the jet strike his skin. Then, when he looked across the room, he saw Marino talking with a man in a dark coat, a fair-haired man who had about him a kind of distinguished air, who carried himself as if he were important.
He heard Marino say, “Take a seat over there, Dr. Elliott. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
The fair-haired man moved towards the bench. Elliott, Peter thought. His mother’s shrink. He went back to the bench just before Elliott reached it and he sat down. Elliott pulled up the legs of his pants as he sat. Peter folded his arms and leaned back, closing his eyes. Again, he tried not to think of his mother, but it was even more difficult now with Elliott sitting alongside him, because the man was a direct connection with his mother. He wondered what they’d talked about together during her appointment, what secrets she’d divulged to the psychiatrist, and this made him uncomfortable, imagining that Elliott knew all kinds of things about his mother, things he’d keep locked away, old secrets.
“Are you Kate Myers’s son?”
Peter opened his eyes. He turned to look at the psychiatrist. There was an expression of concern, of pity, in the man’s eyes.
“Are you?” Elliott asked.
“Yeah,” Peter said.
“I think I know what you’re going through . . .” Elliott became silent for a time. Then he said, “I’m your mother’s doctor. Doctor Elliott. If it would help, you can talk to me any time. Any time you like . . .”
Peter stared at the man. “Do you know who killed her?”
“No.”
“Then how can you help?”
Elliott smiled. “Death
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