Authors: Thomas Cater
“Yes, Mr. Harmon, I would like to see the picture.
What else can you tell me about your uncle?”
“Very little,” he replied soberly. “He stayed with us
for awhile, but moved out and boarded with a family called Hess. Said it was
closer to work and right in the center of the Elanville coal camp. I think he
had to share a bed with someone who worked the night shift.”
“In one of those board and batten houses along the creek
before you get to the Ryder house?” I asked.
“Yes, sir, that’s it exactly,” he said.
“You know which one?”
“’Fraid not. I was just a kid then, but I cannot
forget my Uncle Frank. He was a sailor, traveled around the world on a Yankee
clipper. Came back to West Virginia when his mother died and went to work in
the mines, just long enough to earn enough money to go back to the sea,” he
said. “He built us a row boat before he left and helped launch it on the river.
I still own it, though its bottom has been replaced several times.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“Nope, don’t know when he left town, either, just
vanished one day, left his things with us, but they’re gone too, sold or given
away. I kept the scary wooden mask he got in Africa, still got it too. Care to
see it?”
If circumstances were different, I would have been
thrilled at the prospects. “Not this time.”
“I can remember my daddy askin’ folks in town about
him, but no one had seen hide nor hair of him in years. They think he may have run
off with a young girl who used to rent bicycles on Meade Street.”
“Where do you live, Mr. Harmon?”
“In town; 34 Orchard Street.”
“May I stop by tomorrow morning?”
“Looking forward to it,” he said.
“One more question,” I asked. “Was your Uncle Frank ever
married or engaged?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he said. “He was a lady’s man
though, liked ‘em young and pretty, couldn’t seem to get his fill, as you will
most likely be able to tell from his picture. He was a real dandy, but he never
tied the knot, not formally, if you know what I mean.”
I thanked him for returning the call and hung up. I
was hopeful and expectant, and walked back to the table.
“Well, I think I may have found Elinore’s husband.”
“You have, where?” Violet inquired.
“I don’t mean found, literally, I mean found a trace
of him. His name is Frank Harmon and his elderly nephew lives on Orchard
Street. Tomorrow I’m going to check it out.”
“When did he go?” Virgil asked.
“His nephew doesn’t know, but probably around the time
Elinore found out she was pregnant.”
“Just like a man,” Violet said.
“Probably in the mid 20s or 30s,” Virgil said,
ignoring her comment. “When the mines shut down, many people left the area to
find work. Some walked away from their homes and never came back. They lost everything.
They didn’t bother to clear the table, just walked out, left everything the way
it was and never came back.”
“That sounds tragic,” I said.
“Those were hard times,” Virgil said, “especially
here. No one had a dime to spare. That article you read, the one about fruit
and vegetables rotting on the vine, could mean that it was rotting because it never
got picked, not because something had turned it bad …”
That was something I had not considered, though it did
not seem likely. It also explains why Frank Harmon left without taking his
bride. He couldn’t afford her, or she was being held against her wishes.
“I can’t imagine him leaving and not coming back. I
suspect she was waiting for him to return,” I said.
“What makes you think so?” Virgil asked.
“A recent encounter,” I replied.
“At the house?” I nodded.
“Tell me about it,” he pleaded.
“I’m worn out and hungry,” I said. “I haven’t eaten in
hours and I feel like I’ve been driving all day.”
“We’ve got some left over pot roast if you’re
interested.”
“I’m interested,” I added.
He gave Violet a warm and friendly mile “Now, let’s
hear it.”
I told them about the séance.
“Jesus,” he said. “You’re lucky those people’s brains weren’t
fried.”
“God’s children,” I said thankfully.
I told him about the Alberichs, the trip through the
mine and me ending up in the basement of the Ryder house. I told him about my desperate
run for the wall and taking a knockout punch from … something.
“You are lucky you’re alive,” he said, but with little
conviction.
“I don’t think its luck,” I said. “I think its
destiny. It was predestined. While I was wandering around in Cambodia visiting
jungle WATS, I knew then that I would end up in this county and spend the rest
of my life in that house.”
They were both silent and cautiously avoided eye
contact.
The aroma of pot roast permeated the kitchen. We
played cribbage for two hours, talked and joked about things that had happened,
but in other circumstances would have been impossible to believe.
“What are you going to do if you can’t change things?
What if Elinore doesn’t want to leave?” Violet asked.
“I’ve thought about it,” I said, “but it has never
occurred to me that she won’t leave, if she gets what she wants. If I find out
why Frank left, and why Samuel built the wall and brought in a seeing-eye
baboon …”
There was a moment of silence, and then “What?”
“I guess I forgot to tell you about the baboon,” I said.
A few minutes later, they shook their heads in
disbelief. “That’s too weird even for me to believe,” Violet said.
“Think about it,” I said. “What other useful purpose
could it serve?” Harboring serious doubts of my own, I was hopeful they might
be able to see some new wrinkle in the possibility.
“I don’t know,” Violet said, “but I certainly don’t
believe in seeing-eye baboons.”
“Why not? They’re very intelligent animals, or so I’ve
been told.” I was not trying to convince her, but to advise her of the
possibilities.
Virgil grinned and shook his head defiantly. “I think
it’s time you headed home. This country air is poisoning your mind.”
That wasn't the kind of advice I wanted to hear. Once
upon a time, I was the skeptic, but I listened and learned. Now if he could do
the same, we might both be better off.
“I’m not going back to Washington, not as long as
spirits are occupying my home.”
Violet, who had been waiting patiently, finally spoke.
“I think we should start seeking help from a higher authority,” she said,
sounding very much like her mother.
“That idea sucks,” I growled.
Her eyes widened and nearly protruded from their
sockets.
“There is no higher authority,” I said, glaring
angrily. “God hasn’t heard a prayer from anyone in this place in years. The
churches, the preaching, it’s meaningless. Everyone in this country wears a false
mask.”
It was the wrong thing to say and the wrong place to
say it. A painful hush fell over the kitchen. The next thing I heard was my own
voice humbly trying to apologize for the outburst.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m the wrong one to judge. Believe
me, I am the blackest pot in the lot.”
“Don’t apologize,” Violet said calmly. “You’re not the
first to see through us. We’ve all been wearing masks too long. We need
someone to rip the masks from our faces. What should we do?”
“Stop dodging responsibility and start believing in
the life you abandoned. Try to help others. Stop building so damned many churches
and start building affordable housing. Pay more attention to those struggling
to keep body and soul together, and a little less TV. Stop waiting for heaven
to miraculously appear in the sky and start discovering it on the street. Look
after your neighbors; it’s the best investment you’ll ever make, better than a
condo at some resort.”
I really did not expect to convert anyone with that
tacky little sermon.
“I’m really a black-hearted bastard,” I said, “but I
don’t like to see folks needlessly damaged.”
“What really hurts is that you’re probably right,” she
said.
“I hope not. I hope I’m dead wrong … no, just wrong.”
Chapter Forty-One
After two bowls of hearty pot roast, I was invited to
park my van on the street all night. At 9 pm, I turned in, curled up in bed and
started reading Grier’s journals. I thumbed through his notes and conclusions to
see what he’d learned after months of serious reflection.
“
Monkeys
with frontal lobe extirpation remember old tricks and often learn new ones.”
So where did he get his monkeys to extirpate, or was
he substituting the word monkey for men? I couldn’t recall seeing any invoices
or receipts for experimental monkeys, and I had serious questions about the
availability of psychotic monkeys, or how he could tell them apart from the
relatively normal one. Then again, they might have been circus monkeys.
“They accept frustration with philosophic calm,”
he wrote. I imagine that had a great deal to do with
their extirpation.
I was not surprised to learn he had conducted a few
experiments, but they were not with monkeys; they were on, or about that big
baboon.
The notes continued;
“used a superior approach and
cut four to six cores of white matter from the frontal lobe of 20 psychotic
patients.”
The word psychotic I suspect was justification for experiments
conducted on humans.
“Using a wire loop, I severed white tissue. There was
a definite reduction in tension and decreased psychotic disorientation.”
Ant
erior to
this note, but meant to be included was the following:
“I have observed a
degeneration of medial, dorsal and anterior thalamic nuclei following
operations. Severing the connection between the thalamic and frontal cortex
interrupts and reduces the intensity of the emotional charge imported to
abnormal ideation.”
His monkeys and patients however were not pelting each
other with their own feces.
“Numerous cysts developed in and around the plane of
section. Morbidity included hemorrhage and convulsive seizures.”
His interest in patients bordered on primitive indifference.
He was in to pure science, while others could barely separate themselves from
the pain of their patients. He did however frequently refer to them in his
journal by their first or clinical names and initials.
As I thumbed through a record, trying to find notes on
Elinore, I stumbled upon a passage that had a discretionary quality about it,
as if Grier were trying to conceal some unpleasant information. It was buried
in a paragraph I would have only briefly scanned, if it had not been for the
use of the words,
“weight gain.”
It was the first time in the past pages I had noticed
any reference to basic physiology at all. I re-examined the top of the page and
discovered that he had again only used the initial of this patient’s name.
“L’s condition continues to deteriorate. The visions she
experiences are increasing, and the depth of her despair deepens. Still I find
very little physiologically disruptive. The dreams and visions have to do with
her state of mind.
“Postponing the inevitable is a cruelty to her, but I
am not ready yet. I need more time to prepare. I have noticed a marked weight
gain in her slight figure. If I didn’t know better, I might suspect pregnancy.
God help us all if that were true. There is no telling what he would do.”
How many times had I seen references to the initial L
and ignored them. Now I would have to go through the pages again and review.
L could only stand for Elinore. She was all too often
a guest at the hospital and under his care. I consulted my graph. It was a time
in which I knew nothing of her activities. She could have been in and out of
the hospital a number of times before the actual operation. The journal I was
reading now had dates written in it ranging between 1920s and 1925s.
I would have to be more deliberate and exercise more
caution. I was in too much of a hurry, and I was going to miss something meaningful
if I was not careful.
There were random notes on a multitude of case
studies:
“Tommy C.: patient’s behavior is unacceptable. Some impairment in
the capacity for concept formation and planning, makes impulsive decisions, but
deliberates intently over the slightest gestures. Motivational drive is often
reduced; laziness or apathy is particularly evident. Ambition and goal-directed
activity diminished.”
Leucotomy might help was penciled in beside the
note.
“Case: Amanda Dew
: Patient has become less aware of
her environment. Seeks out and enjoys the company of others. I have discerned
that intelligence is not a function of the prefrontal regions, nor is it
altered by removal. There is something more important in the personality and
that something is driven by motivation. Also, meaningful effects on behavior
can be achieved by operating on both frontal lobes.”