Ordinary People (5 page)

Well, who can help?
Severe Depressive Episodes: High Risk of Suicide
was the initial diagnosis on the commitment papers he signed last January. A seven-word diagnosis. Is there a seven-word cure?
Is he cured?

“Listen,” Ray says, “I’ll give you a couple of minutes to finish up.”

“Okay.” He pushes the papers around until Ray has left, then reaches into the bottom drawer of his desk for the Evanston telephone directory: Tyrone C. Berger, M.D. 651 Sherman Ave. So. Near the railroad station. Not the hottest of neighborhoods, but close to the Plaza. He can walk over to the office when he’s through. They can ride home together. He had told Cal last night that he made an appointment. A good boy. Obedient. He does what he is told to do.

Another duty of fatherhood. Checking up. Signing commitment papers, and other papers, authorizing certain specified treatments. Protecting yourself from further grief, from any more facts of history that do not change; that cannot be changed. Like the loss of Jordan, his elder, his light-hearted son, the one who never worried, who believed they would all live forever. Two sons, Jordan and Conrad, born fourteen months apart. One now deceased. Another word from the commitment papers. Part of the background information he was required to furnish. Deceased. Too formal a word to have any meaning. A symbol without impression, without power to hurt, or to heal.

She was right. He lied to her at lunch. He does not believe himself to be innocent. It has to be his fault, because fault equals responsibility equals control equals eventual understanding. How things happened. Why they happened. So where is the fault? Is it in believing that the people you love are immortal? Untouchable? No, everyone believes that. Only no one knows it’s what he believes—until it happens. Then comes the rage, the banging about the walls, crying what if, what if. Everyone is always so damned surprised, that is the horror of it.

The topic of London is not finished, he is sure, but merely held over for future discussion. Well, why not go? What difference will it make? If she’s right, and it made no difference, last year was nobody’s fault—nobody’s fault. That is the truth. That is what makes it all so impossible to understand.

The building is shabby, and inside, the lobby is hot and dark. He glances at his watch; too dark in here to make out the numbers. The crisp and sunny day he has left outside has nearly blinded him. A directory on the far wall; he goes to it; scans the list of names. Eleven in all; seven with M.D. after them. The top name on the list is the one he is looking for: T. C. BERGER M.D. 202. Would any of these guys be of use in an emergency? All specialists—podiatrists, optometrists, psychiatrists—but what if an accident were to happen in front of the building? Or a mugging? It looks like a great neighborhood for muggings.

Glancing at his watch again, he finds his eyes have adjusted to the dim light. Four o’clock. Exactly.
Well then get on it no backing out now
an idea he has toyed with all week not going just not showing up won’t work. He is to meet his father at his office at five-fifteen. “Don’t be late. I’ve got a meeting tonight. I’d like to get out of there as close to five as I can.” Translated: “Don’t let the guy upset you, show up when you’re supposed to, it only takes ten minutes to walk from Sherman and Tenth to the Plaza, I have clocked it.” No. Not fair. Not necessary to take everything so personally. He probably does have a meeting tonight. Everything’s all right, everything’s fine, keep it that way. On an even keel, as his grandfather would say.

Stuck between the directory and the wall is a small white business card:

The edges of it are furred; curved slightly inward. As if it has been there a long time. He shakes his head, making for the staircase; forces a growl from the back of his throat. He is being strangled.

In the narrow hallway on the second floor, a single light bulb bums, helpless against the invading gloom. High, old-fashioned doors, with windows of bubbled glass in them; all dark on both sides of the hall, and looking as if they haven’t been used for years. Any people in this building? Is this an emergency? Even a podiatrist would do. Panic begins to settle in around him.

At the end of the hall is a doorway with light behind it. He goes to it. The letters, stuck to the opaque glass with adhesive backing, spell out T C BERGER M D. They slant upward, crooked rectangles, like a kid would print them on unlined paper. He pushes experimentally at the door, but it works on a heavy spring mechanism. Even when he turns the knob, it doesn’t give. He pushes harder this time, and it opens. He steps inside. The door closes sharply behind him.

He is in an entry, empty of people, longer than it is deep, with a chair in it, a floor lamp, a small table strewn with magazines, a green metal wastebasket. Barely furnished, the room still seems cluttered. Opposite him is a doorway; an overturned chair blocks it. From inside the other room mysterious, shuffling sounds are issuing. A scene of total disorder confronts him as he moves toward the door. Books, magazines, loose piles of paper are everywhere; empty plastic cups, pieces of clothing, a cardboard box, THE BAKERY lettered in script on its lid, all tossed together in the middle of the floor. Several ashtrays are dumped, upside down, on the rug. A gooseneck lamp lies, like a dead snake, beside them. In the midst of it, a man stands, bent over, his back to the doorway. As Conrad approaches, he turns. About him there is the look of a crafty monkey; dark skin, dark crinkly hair sprouting in tufts about his face, a body that hunches forward, an elongated question mark.

“Wait,” he says, “don’t tell me. Jarrett.”

The eyes, a compelling and vivid blue, beam into whatever they touch. They touch Conrad’s face now, and the effect is that of being in an intense blue spotlight.

He snaps his fingers. “Yeah. You look like somebody Crawford would send me. Somebody who’s a match for my daring wit and inquiring mind.”

Conrad, cool and polite, asks, “Am I seeing you? Or are you seeing me?”

He laughs, delighted. “That oughta be easy. This my office, or yours? No. No good. Lotsa guys in this business make house calls now. Let’s see your appointment book.” He steps over to his desk, rummaging fiercely for a minute; he comes up with a gray stenographer’s notebook. “Here. Tuesday, four o’clock. Conrad Jarrett. Ah. I knew it.” He grins, then.

Conrad is not easily charmed. Or fooled. Eccentricity. A favorite put-on of psychiatrists. He does not trust them. Too many oddballs floating around the hospital. Only Crawford had behaved as if he knew what he was doing. He bends to pick up the overturned chair.

“Bring that over here,” Berger directs him. “Sit down.”

He continues to prowl around the room, lifting books, setting them aside, retrieving papers from the floor, stacking up empty plastic cups. On further examination, he resembles a compact, slightly undersize gorilla. Conrad cannot take his eyes off him.

“I think I was ripped off this afternoon,” he says. “Or else the cleaning lady did one hell of a job on me. Place didn’t look this bad when I left. Somebody was after drugs, I guess. What a neighborhood. Nothing but placebos here. Use ’em myself for quick energy sometimes. Just sugar.” He smiles, arms raised, palms turned up in an attitude of perplexity.

“You were robbed?”

“Looks like.”

“You going to call somebody?”

“Who? You mean cops?” He shrugs. “What’s missing? Maybe nothing. Maybe they even left something, who knows?” He moves to the small sink, half-hidden in the corner behind a huge pile of books. “You want some coffee? Listen, do me a favor, look on the desk there, see if you can find a data sheet—you know, name, age, date of birth, et cetera—fill it out for me, will you? Gotta keep records, the state says. Rules.” He sighs. “Now what am I supposed to do with those poor bastards lying on the floor, I ask you?” He indicates the overturned filing cabinet, its contents scattered. “Did you say yes or no?”

“What?”

“Coffee. Yes or no? Sit down, sit down.”

“No. Thanks.” Obediently he goes to the desk; searches through the papers on top of it until he comes up with a blank information card. He begins to fill it out. Berger empties the other chair of debris and drags it over to the desk.

“How long since you left the hospital?”

“A month and a half.”

“Feeling depressed?”

“No.”

“Onstage?”

“Pardon?”

“People nervous? Treat you like you’re a dangerous man?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, a little, I guess.”

“And are you?”

“I don’t know.”

Berger grins, then. “You look sensible enough to me. At least, you looked sensibly disgusted when you walked in here. God, it is disgusting, isn’t it? The second time this year. What do you think I oughta do about it?”

He is used to this technique; he looks for psychological design in the question. No. Too farfetched. Nobody would go to this much trouble just to set up a test for him.

He says, “I guess I’d just clean it up and forget about it.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Christ, what a gigantic pain in the tail though, huh?” The man sits back, fingers curved around his coffee cup, watching as Conrad finishes filling out the card. “Sure you don’t want any coffee? I’ve got clean cups around here somewhere.”

Conrad shakes his head; hands him the card.

He reads it quickly. “Good, strong print. Neat. Like an engineer. So. What’re you doing here? You look like a healthy kid to me.”

“What I’m doing here,” Conrad says, “is that I had to come.”

Berger nods. “Uh huh. Rules again. Authority reigns.” He tosses the card onto the desk. “So, suppose you didn’t have to come. What would you be here for?”

“I wouldn’t.”

He finds himself firmly enveloped in the piercing blue gaze; shifts uncomfortably in the chair.

“How long were you there?”

“Eight months.”

“What did you do? O.D.? Make too much noise in the library?”

“No.” Looks steadily at the bookcase in front of him; floor-to-ceiling, jammed with books. “I tried to off myself.”

Berger picks up the card again; studies it as he blows on his coffee. “What with? Pills? Gillette Super-Blue?”

He sees the way to handle this guy. Keep it light. A joker. Slide out from under without damage. “It was a Platinum-Plus,” he says.

The eyes are fixed upon him thoughtfully. They hold him still. “So how does it feel to be home? Everybody glad to see you?”

“Yes. Sure.”

“Your friends, everything okay with them?”

“Fine.”

“It says here, no sisters, no brothers. Right?”

“Right,” he says.
Don’t squirm don’t panic release is inevitable. Soon soon.

Berger leans back in the chair, hands behind his head. It is hard to figure his age. He could be twenty-five. He could be forty. “So, what d’you want to work on?” he asks.

“Pardon?”

“Well, you’re here. It’s your money, so to speak. What d’you want to change?”

He thinks, then, of his father; of their struggle to keep between them a screen of calm and order. “I’d like to be more in control, I guess. So people can quit worrying about me.”

“So, who’s worrying about you?”

“My father, mostly. This is his idea.”

“How about your mother? Isn’t she worried?”

“No.”

“How come?”

“She’s—I don’t know, she’s not a worrier.”

“No? What does she do, then?”

“Do?”

“Yeah, what’s her general policy toward you? You get along with her all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” He is abruptly uncomfortable. An endless grilling process, like it was in the hospital. He forgot how it tightened him up; how much he used to hate it.

“You’ve got a funny look on your face,” Berger says. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” he says, “if you’re a friend of Crawford’s you’re probably okay, but I don’t like this already. Look, what do you know about me? Have you talked to Crawford?”

“No.” The blue high-beams have switched to low. The smile is benign. “He told me your name, that’s all. Told me to look for you.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you some things.” He turns his head slightly, taking in the narrow window at the left of the bookcase. Sunlight streams in from the slot, cutting a bright path across the carpeting. “I had a brother. He’s dead. It was an accident on the lake. We were sailing. He drowned.”

“When?”

“Summer before last.”

Staring now at the bookcase, he tries to make out the titles of the books from where he is sitting. He cannot. They are too far away.

“I suppose you and Crawford talked about it,” Berger says.

“Every day.”

“And you don’t like to talk about it.”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t change anything.”

A pigeon, dull-gray, lights on the cement window sill. It pecks inquiringly at the window for a moment; then flies off.

“Okay,” Berger says. “Anything else?”

“No,” he says. “Yeah. About friends. I don’t have any. I got sort of out of touch before I left.”

“Oh?”

He does not respond to this technique; the comment in the form of a question. He had cured Crawford of it by telling him it was impossible to concentrate on what a person was saying if you were listening for his voice to go up at the end of the sentence.

“Well, okay,” Berger says. “I’d better tell you. I’m not big on control. I prefer things fluid. In motion. But it’s your money.”

“So to speak.”

“So to speak, yeah.” Berger laughs, reaching for his notebook. “How’s Tuesdays and Fridays?”

“Twice a week?”

He shrugs. “Control is a tough nut.”

“I’ve got swim practice every night.”

“Hmm. That’s a problem. So, how do we solve it?”