a vengeance.
Estelle's death following so hard upon that brief period of apparent
recovery made Ethan feel as if he had somehow failed his mother. It
was my feeling then, and it is my feeling now, that his obsession is
his way of making amends for letting his mother down. He has
sublimated his own guilt and projected it onto this man, Herbert
Talmadge."
"But why Talmadge?"
"Why not?" Sacks said. "His face may
have frightened Ethan. It stuck in his memory. In his confusion over
the loss of his mother he made it the face of his own guilt."
It was neat and logical. But I wasn't sure I believed
it. In my experience people didn't generally remember anonymous faces
in that kind of detail—not unless there was a strong emotional spur
to prod their imagination. Like a loaded gun, or the threat of one.
I didn't debate it with him. I didn't feel confident
enough to debate. But I did ask him if he could arrange for me to
talk with the staff at Rollman's about Talmadge. And he said that he
would call them immediately.
Before leaving I asked one last question. It had
bothered me since Marnee Thompson had mentioned it, and although
Kirsten was still his patient I asked him anyway.
"Kirsten told a friend of hers that you gave her
some Pentothal this srunmer while she was in therapy. Apparently the
drug made her remember something about Estelle—something that
really shook her up."
"But her memory wasn't about Estelle," the
man said with an open look of fascination. "It was about
Philip."
"I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what it
was?"
The open look vanished like a dent closing in dough.
"I guess not," I said.
"She's my patient, Mr. Stoner," Sacks said.
I nodded. "She may not be anyone's patient much
longer, Dr. Sacks."
But he didn't say anything.
14
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
I gave Sacks about half an hour to make his calls to
Rollman's. At five-forty I walked across Burnett to the Rollman
grounds. Up in one of the barred third-story windows I could see a
bald man in a white hospital gown watching me cross the lawn. His
queer, drugged-looking face was lit strangely by the last of the
sunset. Even at that distance I could see his dead eyes following me
as I walked into the l shadows at the front of the building.
I wondered if I could remember that face in detail, a
few weeks or months from that moment. Maybe if I was an
impressionable ten-year-old kid, I could have. Maybe I could have
anyway.
From the front Rollman's looked like a high
school—red-brick facade, oblong windows with white trim and glass
double-doors. But the windows were barred and meshed, and the doors
had buzzers on them. I pressed one of the buzzers and an orderly
peered out.
"Visiting hours over, mister," he said.
"My name's Harry Stoner," I said. "Your
director should know who I am."
The orderly gave me a suspicious look, as if he
thought I might be an escapee. He closed the door and walked down the
hall. When he reappeared, the suspicion was gone from his face.
"Come on," he said, holding the door open.
"Dr. McCall says you can go up."
I followed him down the tile hall. There were tall
barred windows at the end of it. The last daylight pouring through
them was so bright that both of us had to shield our eyes against the
glare.
"You take this elevator up to three," he
said, pointing to a grey elevator beside the windows. "Nurse
upstairs, show you where to go."
I got in the elevator and pressed three. I hadn't
noticed it in the lobby hall, but the elevator smelled ripely of
disinfectant and stale, recirculated air. The third floor was an
administrative area, judging from the empty typing carrels off the
elevator. I followed an arrow sign around a bend in the hallway to
the Director's Office. An elderly nurse with grey hair and a stern,
wrinkled face was sitting at a desk in front of the office door. A
Norfolk pine decorated with tinsel and greeting cards sat on the
floor beside her.
"You're Mr.
Estelle's death following so hard upon that brief period of apparent
recovery made Ethan feel as if he had somehow failed his mother. It
was my feeling then, and it is my feeling now, that his obsession is
his way of making amends for letting his mother down. He has
sublimated his own guilt and projected it onto this man, Herbert
Talmadge."
"But why Talmadge?"
"Why not?" Sacks said. "His face may
have frightened Ethan. It stuck in his memory. In his confusion over
the loss of his mother he made it the face of his own guilt."
It was neat and logical. But I wasn't sure I believed
it. In my experience people didn't generally remember anonymous faces
in that kind of detail—not unless there was a strong emotional spur
to prod their imagination. Like a loaded gun, or the threat of one.
I didn't debate it with him. I didn't feel confident
enough to debate. But I did ask him if he could arrange for me to
talk with the staff at Rollman's about Talmadge. And he said that he
would call them immediately.
Before leaving I asked one last question. It had
bothered me since Marnee Thompson had mentioned it, and although
Kirsten was still his patient I asked him anyway.
"Kirsten told a friend of hers that you gave her
some Pentothal this srunmer while she was in therapy. Apparently the
drug made her remember something about Estelle—something that
really shook her up."
"But her memory wasn't about Estelle," the
man said with an open look of fascination. "It was about
Philip."
"I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what it
was?"
The open look vanished like a dent closing in dough.
"I guess not," I said.
"She's my patient, Mr. Stoner," Sacks said.
I nodded. "She may not be anyone's patient much
longer, Dr. Sacks."
But he didn't say anything.
14
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
I gave Sacks about half an hour to make his calls to
Rollman's. At five-forty I walked across Burnett to the Rollman
grounds. Up in one of the barred third-story windows I could see a
bald man in a white hospital gown watching me cross the lawn. His
queer, drugged-looking face was lit strangely by the last of the
sunset. Even at that distance I could see his dead eyes following me
as I walked into the l shadows at the front of the building.
I wondered if I could remember that face in detail, a
few weeks or months from that moment. Maybe if I was an
impressionable ten-year-old kid, I could have. Maybe I could have
anyway.
From the front Rollman's looked like a high
school—red-brick facade, oblong windows with white trim and glass
double-doors. But the windows were barred and meshed, and the doors
had buzzers on them. I pressed one of the buzzers and an orderly
peered out.
"Visiting hours over, mister," he said.
"My name's Harry Stoner," I said. "Your
director should know who I am."
The orderly gave me a suspicious look, as if he
thought I might be an escapee. He closed the door and walked down the
hall. When he reappeared, the suspicion was gone from his face.
"Come on," he said, holding the door open.
"Dr. McCall says you can go up."
I followed him down the tile hall. There were tall
barred windows at the end of it. The last daylight pouring through
them was so bright that both of us had to shield our eyes against the
glare.
"You take this elevator up to three," he
said, pointing to a grey elevator beside the windows. "Nurse
upstairs, show you where to go."
I got in the elevator and pressed three. I hadn't
noticed it in the lobby hall, but the elevator smelled ripely of
disinfectant and stale, recirculated air. The third floor was an
administrative area, judging from the empty typing carrels off the
elevator. I followed an arrow sign around a bend in the hallway to
the Director's Office. An elderly nurse with grey hair and a stern,
wrinkled face was sitting at a desk in front of the office door. A
Norfolk pine decorated with tinsel and greeting cards sat on the
floor beside her.
"You're Mr.
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