Cartilage and Skin (26 page)

“Dr. Parker.”

“Yes,” I said, rising out of my chair to greet the social worker with a handshake.

“Thank you so much for coming.”

“It's no problem,” I said. “I'd like to help wherever I can.” Even though I sensed the words flowing easily out of my mouth, I felt somewhat displaced because despite the woman's polished presence, equanimity, and professional manner, I knew that all this was just a veneer. It was the part of herself that she presented to me, and it was through me that this burnished part found its definition and shine. I left my jacket on the chair, and she led me past the counter and held the door open for me. Walking beside her, I could smell her scent of baby powder, which faintly hinted at something more intimate. Of course, she had her own cleft peach and balloon knot, and perhaps she even played with small birds, and all her human connections were through some medium just as artificial and tenuous as a computer screen and a telephone line. She was talking to me, taking me toward an open door at the end of the hallway. I wanted to get this appointment over with as quickly as possible.

“What happened to the clinic?” I asked, referring to the place where we used to meet, back when the problem of the boy had been brand new.

“It's still there,” she said.

Stepping into the room, I had a strong inclination that I wasn't going to see a white curtain, a bed, or even the boy. A desk was off in the corner, with a chair beside it and a small couch in front of it. The walls were lined with gray filing cabinets, which might have concealed a window or two, though I doubted the room had any windows at all. Two men were sitting on the small couch, and they both stood up at my entrance. The social worker directed me toward the seat beside her desk.

Both of the men greeted me, but neither extended his hand.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Oh, fine, fine,” one of the men said, while the other one gave me a quick nod and sat back down.

“You know Dr. Ferguson, right?” the social worker asked as she moved behind the desk.

“No,” I answered, looking at the man who was still standing. He was dressed in a dark suit but without a tie.

“I'm Bruce Ferguson,” he said, as if this was supposed to clarify who he was and why he wished to meet me.

The other man wasn't introduced. As the rest of us took our seats, I could sense this man's eyes sizing me up. He had dark, almost purple skin and bloated cheeks, as if the turtleneck sweater he wore was choking him.

The only things on the desk were a letter tray and a laptop computer, which the social worker folded and moved to the other side of the desk, away from me. Through previous sessions with her, I was already accustomed to her style of having a clear, unobstructed view of me.

“So how have things been?” she asked.

“Good.”

“And your work. No writer's block?”

“No, my book is coming along on schedule.”

“Well, that's good,” she said. She laced her fingers together and rested her forearms on the desk. Her usual mug of coffee was missing from the scene. “I see you've got a bruise.”

“I fell down outside, hit my head on the sidewalk.”

She winced for a second, as if her head were the one that had been wounded.

I wished I had something in front of me, such as a desk or a table, because I felt on display for the two men seated across from me. I became conscious of my arms lying along the armrests and of the balls of my thumbs gently tapping on the wood. I moved my hands to my lap and, like the social worker, laced my fingers together.

“Must have been quite a spill,” Dr. Bruce Ferguson said, pointing cursorily at my head with his pinky finger.

“It hurt,” I said, smiling.

“How's it now?” the social worker asked.

“It still hurts.”

I felt myself smiling stupidly, which was my instinctive defense. When I used to be alone with the social worker, I hadn't minded her constant, warm gaze, but now in the company of these men, I had no hiding place. I was the object of observation; all I could do was smile.

“You've been apprised of the case,” the nameless black man said. “You know the situation.”

I couldn't tell if this was a question or an accusation.

“Yes,” I said. “I hear the boy is not doing well.” I turned toward the social worker. “You said so over the phone.”

“It's very sad.”

“Horrible,” the black man added.

“Will he get better?” I asked.

“He's shutting down,” the social worker said. “But I'm not his doctor.”

“Is it psychosomatic?” I turned toward Bruce Ferguson, who raised his chin slightly when my eyes lighted upon him. I assumed he was the one caring for the boy's health.

“At this point, it doesn't seem to matter whether or not it's in his head. For him, it's still very real.”

I nodded.

“Horrible,” the black man repeated.

“Yes,” I said, still keeping my eyes on Ferguson, who had a pleasant, amiable face.

“Is there anything that can be done for him?” I asked.

“We can set things right,” the black man said.

“Hopefully.” Ferguson turned toward the man. “I really hope so.” He then returned his attention to me. “But as for the boy, I can't imagine anybody recovering fully from such an ordeal. Such trauma is overwhelming.”

“He actually got worse under our treatment,” the social worker said. “At one point, just before he stopped talking, he would merely grunt and breathe in quick, short breaths, almost like a panting dog. He would yell, ‘The man,' over and over again, and when the doctor asked him, ‘What man?' the boy pointed his finger at him and said, ‘You are the man.' Of course, we thought we were close to something because the boy never mentioned his abuser unless we questioned him.” The social worker unlaced her fingers and placed her fingertips on her chest. “‘I'm not the man,'” she said, imitating the doctor. “But the boy insisted that he was. Later, when I was by myself with him, he did the same thing; he kept shouting, ‘The man.' I remember taking his hand and asking, ‘Who are you talking about, sweetheart?' The boy was delusional. Genuinely terrified. He pulled his hand away and pointed at me. ‘You are the man.' It breaks my heart. He was actually scared of me.”

I kept nodding my head. All this talk was building to something.

“And now he doesn't speak?” I asked.

“Not a word,” the social worker said. Telling me this story seemed to have moved her; she no longer looked at me with peaceful eyes, but rather she bit her bottom lip and stared vaguely down at the desk, as if she were distracted and had forgotten that other people were in the room.

“I've only met the boy once,” the black man said. His head, if not his entire body, appeared ready to pop, like a bloated tick.

“This is a different boy,” I said.

“What's that?” the black man asked.

I looked around for an instant, wondering what I'd just said.

“How so?” the black man asked.

“Different,” I said.

They were all looking at me, waiting for me to continue.

“The few times I met the boy, he was very alert,” I explained. In fact, I always thought he was secretive and cunning, very distinct from the portrait they now painted for me.

“He was never healthy,” the social worker said, pulling her chair closer to me. “Even when you were friendly with him, he was never a normal boy.”

“I didn't—” I started to say, wanting not only to clarify my comment but also to qualify, if not defuse, her use of the word “friendly.”

But the black man cut me off.

“Now, what do you mean by different?” he asked, and I felt myself losing to him, cowering a little because I couldn't look him in the eye.

“When I knew him, he was very alert.”

“I don't know what you mean?” The black man, seemingly flabbergasted and confused, then looked at Dr. Ferguson, as if he could explain.

I thought that my comment was neither vague nor particularly relevant.

“When I knew him, he might have stolen cigarettes from—” I began.

“No,” the social worker said. “He was outside your home, killing cats with a brick.”

“I didn't know that.”

“He was.”

“That's horrible,” I said.

“Yes,” the black man said.

I still had no idea why they wanted to talk with me. Besides giving the boy a few dollars, I had done nothing more for him than call an ambulance. I imagined myself playing the older, charitable man to the poor, homeless Ragged Dick, but unlike that popular, dime-novel hero, the boy apparently didn't shine shoes or rescue drowning victims; he smashed small animals in a dirty alley.

“He was never right,” the social worker said. “How could he be?”

I didn't say anything. I was curious about the boy's parents or guardians, where he'd slept at night, whether he'd been a bona fide prostitute with his own street corner and pimp or if he'd been held captive by some other method. It seemed impossible that he could have been entirely alone in the city. Nevertheless, caution prevented me from asking any question that could have been turned around on me. I was especially curious about the cats, but I checked my desire for the details.

Dr. Bruce Ferguson stuck his hand inside his jacket, paused for an instant, and asked, “I suppose you may be able to help us?”

“If I can.”

He pulled out a few pictures and handed them to me.

“Who are these men?” he asked.

There were various photographs of two middle-age men, though none of them together. Both of the men looked caucasion, and both had a mop of hair that needed a more modern style. They mainly wore pocket-tees and tank-tops. One of the men had perpetual bags under his sleepy eyes and a stubby pug nose. The other man appeared as though he were always intentionally sucking in his cheeks. Not only their attire but also the sordid backgrounds in the pictures suggested that these men were poor and unkempt. Several shots featured the pug-nosed man astraddle a refrigerator that was lying on its side by a curb. The man seemed thrilled and boastful that he had just hunted and killed the appliance.

“I have no idea,” I said, handing back the pictures.

“Coincidently, they both took a flight to London several days ago,” the nameless man said, and I nodded, although I didn't quite understand the coincidence. “From there, we strongly surmise, they are headed to one of several locations in eastern Asia. You don't know these men.”

Although the man's words sounded like an assertion, I answered, “No.”

“You have any idea why they are traveling together and where they're headed.”

“No,” I said, and I used the brief, succeeding pause to turn away from the black man. As I watched Dr. Bruce Ferguson slip the photographs back into his pocket, I realized that he probably wasn't a medical or mental doctor.

Seeing me look at him, he asked, “Do you mind us asking you these questions?”

“No. I'd like to help where I can. Are these the men?”

“We can't say,” the other man answered. He sat solidly in his seat, as heavy and immovable as a large black rock.

The social worker made some kind of movement at her desk, but I didn't turn to look at her. Just a few hours earlier, she had led me to believe that she needed my assistance with the boy, but now the obvious fact was that I was sitting in an airless office, across from two strange men. Although her deception was a simple move, it seemed unnecessary to me; perhaps the phone call had been impromptu, but most likely not.

“Tell me about Regina Ehman.” The black man's eyes were unblinking; only his mouth appeared to move.

“I don't know anything. Is that a woman?”

“How about Kirk Shannon or Shannon Kirk?”

“I don't know.”

“You never heard these names before?”

“No.”

“I thought you wanted to help us.”

“If I can.”

“You're not acting like you want to help us.”

I didn't respond as all of us sat silently for a moment.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Dr. Bruce Ferguson asked.

“Like what?”

“Are you a shifty man?” the black man abruptly asked, unveiling his hostility more fully. “I think you're a shifty, artful man.”

“I don't know,” I responded sheepishly.

“Only someone who is shifty would spend all his time in hiding. But I know you well. Believe me. I know your whole life story. You've been my special project these last few months. You're cautious. You've been very wary and quiet.”

He seemed like so much contained energy that he was ready to burst all over me.

“Your special project?” I echoed, my voice small within me.

“Don't think for a second that you can eat or sleep without me knowing about it?”

“Why?”

“Why? Why did you give money to that boy? What was he doing in your home?”

“But—” I began to say; I had explained all this already. I looked toward the social worker, but she wasn't going to help me

“Are you going somewhere, Dr. Parker?” the black man asked.

“What?”

“You're leaving, aren't you?”

“What?”

“You got your security deposit back on the same day the other two birds flew to Asia. Were you planning on going with them?”

“I don't know those men?”

“Did something spook them or did they plan this trip on their own?”

“I don't—What?”

“You wanted to go with them.”

“No.”

“Come on now. An American with some cash, you can barter and trade in children over there. Are you sure?”

“You don't understand. Listen,” I said.

My heart was pulsing in a spastic frenzy. Helpless, I looked at everyone in turn, and they all appeared casual and composed, as if my throbbing anxiety were insignificant to them.