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have to go where he goes!"
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"No, you don't!" Jim said. He jerked his hand away from
hers. "Damn you and damn him! All the way to hell!"
Not until later, when he reran the scene in his mind, did
he realize that he had almost never before spoken to his
770
mother like that. No matter how angry he had been with her,
he had almost always been gentle. She had been hurt
enough by his father.
"For the sake of blessed Mary, mother of God, don't say
that, Jim!"
She reached out to take his hand again, but he moved it
away.
"He can't get a decent job here. It's killing him, you
know that. He's heard ... a friend told him you re-
member Joe Vatka? there's plenty of work in Dallas. It's
a booming town, and ..."
"What about me?" Jim said. He began pacing back and
forth, his hands clenching and unclenching. "Don't I count?
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And who's going to pay for the insurance, for my therapy?
Where am I going to live when I'm an outpatient? I don't
want to give up therapy! This is my only chance to make it!
I won't, I won't!"
"Please understand, son. I'm torn, I'm being pulled
apart. But I can't let him go without me, and he says he will
if I don't go, too. He is my husband. It's my duty!"
"And I'm your son!" Jim shouted.
Kazim Grasser, a black nurse, put his head in the room.
"Everything OK? Any problem?"
"This is a family matter," Jim said. "I'm not going to get
violent. Beat it!"
Grasser said, "OK, man, just take it easy," and he
withdrew his head.
"And why doesn't he come here and tell me instead of
sending you?" Jim bellowed at his mother. "Is he afraid to
face me? Does he hate me so much he doesn't give a shit
about me?"
"Please, Jim, no bad language," she said. "No, he
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doesn't hate you, Jim. Not really. But he is afraid to face
you. He feels like he's a failure ..."
777
PHILIP JOSE FARMER
RED ORC'S RAGE
"Which he is!"
". . . as a husband and a father and a provider ..."
"Which he is!"
"... and he thinks you would attack him. He
says ... he says . . ."
"Say it! That I'm crazy!"
Eva put out her hand. "Please, Jim. I can't stand much
more of this. If it wasn't such a sin, unforgivable, I'd kill
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myself!"
"You do whatever you think is best for you," he said, and
he walked out of the room. Her voice shrieked through the
doorway, "Jim! Don't do that!" Though he hesitated, he did
not turn back. When he got to his room, he sat down and
cried. Loneliness was a tide that swept him away over the
horizon, far from all human beings, to an island also called
Loneliness.
Even in his grief, he thought that that phrase would make
a great title for a song. "The Island Also Called Loneli-
ness."
The brain was a funny thing. In the midst of deep-purple
grief, it sent strange messages. Always working, working,
working simultaneously on many different subjects, and
why it semaphored reports about certain workings when the
timing was wrong, no one knew.
Or was the timing wrong? Maybe the brain was trying to
soften the grief by distracting itself from itself.
If so, the ruse worked only for a minute. Jim dived deep
into black and cold waters and would not come up for some
time. His fellow patients did their best for him. Doctor
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Scaevola, who had taken over for Doctor Porsena while he
was gone to a three-day conference, tried to bring light to
Jim. He failed.
That very evening, just after the group session, Jim was
again called to the visitors' room. "Mr. and Mrs. Wyzak,"
772
the O.D. told him. "They aren't the bearer of good news,
Jim. Not the way they look."
The Wyzaks stood up as he came in. Mrs. Wyzak burst
into tears, ran to him, and enfolded him in her big strong
arms. His face was crushed against her big breasts. He
smelled a cheap perfume.
Mrs. Wyzak wailed, "Sam is dead!"
Jim reeled inside himself. He felt numb. Her voice
became distant, and he seemed to be drowning in soft cotton
candy. Everything was floating away except for the breath-
stealing cottony stuff. He could see through it as through
many strips of gauze.
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Nor could he cry. The tears that had flowed that afternoon
were all he had. The spring had run dry, and only the stone
from which the water had issued was left. It was cold, hard,
and dry.
He sat down while Mrs. Wyzak told him about Sam. Mr.
Wyzak sat voiceless, his head bent, his body sagging. Her
story was brief. Sam had run away. He had hitchhiked
several rides. The last one was with the driver of a
semitrailer. No one knew why it had happened, but the rig
had jackknifed, gone over the edge of a steep hill, and
rolled many times to the bottom. The driver had been badly
injured and was now in a coma. Sam had been thrown clear
of the cab but was crushed by the trailer. The funeral would
be in three days.
"I didn't want to just phone you," Mrs. Wyzak said,
dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "I wanted to be
here when you got the news. You and Sam . . . you've
been best friends since you started walking."
She began sobbing. Jim did all he could to console her
though he did not share her heartache and grief. Nothing
was getting through to him. Sam's death seemed to have
taken place long ago.
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773
PHILIP JOSE FARMER
When Doctor Porsena, after his return from the confer-
ence, had his first private session with Jim, he worked on
Jim's nonfeelings. Near the end of the hour, the doctor said,
"It's possible that you're suffering from doubly intensified [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]