“Don’t worry,” Harold said. He patted me on the shoulder. Harold liked to treat me like a little brother, and sometimes I let him. “I’ll take care of it.” He leaned over and pinched Exley’s nose shut. I knew Harold had learned this from his older brother, who’d practiced this move on Harold himself many a time — in the middle of the night, when Harold had fallen asleep in front of the television, pretty much anytime Harold slept even for a second while his brother was around. But I know Harold never reacted to his brother the way Exley reacted to Harold. Exley’s eyes sprung open and then he punched Harold, right in the mouth. It made that sick, thick sound of knuckle on tooth. Harold staggered back with his hand over his mouth; his eyes went really wide for a second and then he started to whimper. Then my head finally piped up again and said to me, I told you he wasn’t Exley. But I argued back, Exley punched people in his book. Although I didn’t exactly want to argue this, because two of the people whom Exley punched in the book were a black guy and a white guy, because they were walking together, and other people he thought about punching were beautiful women he saw on TV and in the newspaper. I guessed this was why Mother hated his book so much, and I also guessed my head would make me regret my argument. But it didn’t. Yes, my head said, but none of them were kids. Exley wouldn’t hit a kid. Exley wouldn’t hit a Harold. And then I started to whimper a little, too. Because if that wasn’t true, and if Exley was the kind of guy who would hit kids, then I wasn’t sure he was the kind of guy who could also help my dad. And if it was true, and if Exley wasn’t the kind of guy who would hit kids, then this wasn’t Exley.
“Harold, wait,” I said. But Harold wasn’t waiting: he was running away, in the direction of our school. The guy was slumped against the wall again. His body looked like he was asleep or passed out, but his eyes were open and looking at me. His face was about at foot level. I wanted to do something terrible to him. I wanted to kick him in the face and then keep kicking him until my leg got tired. Not just because he’d done what he’d done to Harold, but also because he wouldn’t tell me whether he was Exley. But then I stopped myself from kicking the guy in the face — not because I was scared of him or anything like that, but because I wasn’t sure if my dad would want me to kick the guy, even if the guy had punched Harold. And more than anything else, I wanted to know what my dad wanted me to do, and then do that. So I just decided not to kick the guy in the face and gave him a wide berth as I walked around him and into the Crystal.
Doctor’s Notes (Entry 14)
After “licking my wound” (the wound was literal — the guards gave me quite an ache in my left arch while dumping me on the sidewalk — although, of course, I did not actually attempt to lick it) received at the Veterans Affairs hospital, I am standing on the sidewalk, trying to decide my next course of action, when I see M. hurtling down Washington Street on his bicycle. A few seconds later, I see a boy running in the same direction. I decide to follow, but at a walk, because one never knows when one will run into one’s patient, and because running can appear most undignified if one is a mental health professional. But before I can even make it to our Public Square, I see the boy running back toward me. Running is perhaps the wrong verb; perambulating awkwardly at a speed somewhat faster than a walk while flapping one’s hands like a panicked duck might be more fitting. Odd: the boy is moving forward, but his head appears to be straining in the opposite direction, while at the same time something seems to be struggling to escape from his throat. I can see a tennis-ball-sized and — shaped lump strain at the skin, then withdraw, strain, then withdraw. The boy comes closer and I recognize the lump as perhaps the most enormous — enormous and, indeed, gargantuan — Adam’s apple I have ever witnessed. And when I recognize the Adam’s apple, I recognize the boy, from M.’s description: it is his friend, H.
“Whoa there, young man,” I say, grabbing H.’s elbow as he attempts to pass by. I believe H. to be moving as quickly as his physique would allow, but halting his forward progress is no more difficult than stopping a tissue floating in the breeze. “Are you, by any chance, M.’s friend?”
H. nods. “M.,” he pants, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously. H. has a fresh cut on his lip; I know it’s fresh because there’s a trickle of blood proceeding from it, down his chin. I make a move to wipe it off, but H. flinches and takes a step back.
“Who are you?” H. asks.
“I’m” — and I nearly introduce myself as M.’s mental health professional. But it occurs to me that perhaps M.’s friends don’t know that M. has an MHP and I don’t want to blow his cover — “Horatio Pahnee,” I finally say. “I’m M.’s friend.” It feels surprisingly good to say that, and I wonder why I’ve always been so hesitant to utter those words about M. or anyone else, until H. reminds me by saying, “I’m M.’s friend and I’ve never even heard of you.”
“I’m a new friend,” I say. “Did I just see M. biking in the direction of our Public Square?”
“I guess.” H. looks back and touches his lip, and I deduce that H. received his wound in the vicinity of the Square, and I also deduce that M. is still there. I hurriedly reach into my jacket pocket, take out my wallet, open the wallet, extract my business card, and hand it to H. “I would greatly appreciate it if you’d ‘keep an eye on’ M.”
“Keep an eye on him?” H. says, looking at the card. I realize, too late, that the card identifies me as a mental health professional whose name is not Horatio Pahnee; but perhaps H. won’t realize the difference in names, or that I’m M.’s mental health professional. Perhaps H. doesn’t even know that M. is in need of a mental health professional. This is one of the most curious qualities of the juvenile mind: it is able to hide its illness from other juvenile minds. This is not to say that all juvenile minds are ill, but merely that they are not as well as the adult minds trained to diagnose and heal the sickest among them.
“Yes,” I say. “In particular, if you could let me know if he ever finds, or tries to find, a man named Exley.” H. touches his lip again at the name Exley, and in that way I surmise who has given him the wound. “Why would I want to do that?” H. asks.
I consider saying, Because you’re M.’s friend. But then again, if being M.’s friend has gotten H.’s lip bloodied, it’s probably not the best approach. As I say to all my patients, it’s a complicated bit of business, having friends: perhaps that’s why I’ve had so few of them. I take a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet, hand it to H., and say, “That’s why.”
Then I turn and run toward the Public Square. As I reach the center of the Square, I see M. standing on the sidewalk on the far side, talking to an adult male reclined on that sidewalk. I hide behind the statue honoring our local soldiers and sailors and watch as M. pulls back his foot, and I think, Surely, M. wouldn’t kick this man! And then M. does kick him, quite solidly, in the rib region. Surely, I think, M. would not kick this man again! And then M. pulls back his foot to kick this man again; this time, however, his foot appears to be destined to strike the man’s face. But then M. does not kick. Perhaps because he regrets what he’s done. Or perhaps because the man is laughing, loudly and carelessly, as though being kicked was the best thing that could possibly have happened to him.