“Right,” says Vergil, appearing to take thought, but falls silent.
“Goddamn it, tell me, Vergil. This is important.”
“All right. Mrs. Brunette was sucking off Mr. Brunette with the two little girls placed in such a way that they could watch, don’t you know.”
“I see. And Dr. Van Dorn?”
“Oh. Well, he had this child and he was holding her like — Oh. I also picked up these stills.” He is leaning over, fishing in his jacket pocket. “I had to grab what I could.”
“Stills?”
In the space on the sofa where Ricky was sitting and out of sight of Ricky, Vergil carefully lines up half a dozen glossy 5x7 photographs, taking care to place them at an angle so I can see them easily and he has to slant his head. Vergil is finding it useful to be overly considerate. There is only time to catch a glimpse of the Coach and Mrs. Cheney, Mrs. Cheney on all fours, naked, the Coach behind her, also naked and kneeling, torso erect above her, and Mr. Brunette kneeling at a young man, not Claude, and Van Dorn lying on his back holding a child aloft as a father might dandle his daughter except that — when there are two knocks at the door, too sharp for knuckles, either boot heel or gun butt.
I sweep up the photos, slip them under the plastic cushion. Strange to say, what sticks in the mind about the photos is not the impropriety but the propriety: Mr. Brunette’s carefully brushed hair, cut high over the ears and up the neck in 1930s style, the vulnerability, even frailty, of his pale, naked back; the young man’s solemn, smartest-boy-in-the-class expression; the child’s — perhaps a six-year-old girl — demure, even prissy simper directly at the camera.
“And I got these cassettes here,” says Vergil helpfully.
“Never mind,” I say quickly. “There isn’t—” I see only the top cassette, Little Red Riding Good, showing Little Red Riding Hood without her hood astride the wolf in bed, who is dressed like Grandma in a bonnet and is arched up under her, in a cheerful opisthotonos, keeping her in place with his paws. “Just tell me quickly what the setup is with the additive, the source of the tube there.”
He speaks rapidly, hands on his knees. He could be in his chemistry class at L.S.U. “They have metal canisters lined up. They’re double-walled like a thermos. One was empty, so I could see that. One is upended right there in that corner and connected to that tube, rubber-stoppered, you know, like a chemical reagent. The reagent was stenciled on the side. Sodium 24.
“Concentration?”
“Molar.”
“I see.”
“They have a little card which gives the amount of additive per bottle down here. One cc. per ten gallons. What they must do is measure out the additive and add it to the Abita Springs water down here before they upend it on the fountain.”
“I see.”
After a while Vergil stirs uneasily.
“I wonder where they are.”
“What?”
Vergil leans forward to see me better. “I said I wonder where they are.”
“Don’t worry. They’ll be here.”
“You all right, Doc?”
“Sure.”
After another while Vergil gets up. “Doc, let’s go get Claude and get out of here.”
“Don’t worry. They’ll be here with Claude.”
“Doc, what you got in mind?”
“We’ll see. Here they are.” There’s a commotion outside and two more knocks.
5. IN THEY COME, a good-humored crew: Van Dorn smiling and natty in his new-style long knickers and Norfolk jacket; Mr. and Mrs. Brunette in proper sober suit and dress, but by no means lugubrious; Coach in a clean scarlet warmup suit, heavy-shouldered and big-nosed — he’s chipper, grips my hand warmly, is frank and forthcoming. He’s the sort of rising young coach who would talk optimistically about his “program”—Mrs. Cheney, hugging her arms, giving me a special look, almost a wink: I got them here, didn’t I? Claude is himself and of a piece, I see at once. Quickly he takes his place with Vergil, the two standing quiet and attentive, hands clasped behind them, as if they were attending a PTA meeting. There’s a word and a nod between them. Vergil nods at me. He wants to leave. I shake my head.
Van Dorn, who has taken my hand in both of his, is shaking his head in mock outrage. “You old scoundrel beast,” he says, and coming close: “I got some great news for you.” He notices the uncle’s shotgun propped by the door. “How do you like these guys?” he says to nobody in particular. “Probably poaching and shooting Belle Ame deer out of season. Mr. Hugh Bob, why don’t you show the folks that Purdy? He’s a hard man, Tom. Did you know I offered him five thousand for it?”
“I been offered ten thousand,” says the uncle, who, however, is glad to show off his shotgun, walking from one person to another. They look politely.
“When you going to take me to Lake Arthur, Mr. Hugh Bob?” asks Van Dorn.
“Like I told you,” says the uncle, “there ain’t no ducks there. We’ll have to go to Tigre au Chenier.”
“You got a deal.”
The uncle, pleased, blows a few feeding calls.
“How about that guy?” Van Dorn is still shaking my hand. “I don’t know how you fellows got in here, but I’m delighted to see you.”
“We came by the river. The gate is locked. We came to pick up Claude. His father was anxious about him.”
Van Dorn lets go of my hand, grows instantly sober, paces.
“I know, I know. Would you believe we’ve had threats from some locals, Kluxers, fundamentalists, fundamentalist Kluxers; I mean, God knows. But we’re not going to let a couple of rednecks scare us, are we, Claude?”
Claude says nothing, stands at ease, gazing at a middle distance.
“Mr. Bon,” says Van Dorn to Vergil, “I understand your anxiety, but I can assure you we’re delighted to have him and he’s perfectly safe here.”
“I think we’ll be on our way,” says Vergil.
“No problem,” says Van Dorn. “A fine boy,” he adds absently. “Make a world-class goalie.”
Now we’re sitting on the two bamboo lounges, with a scarred plywood table between marked out as a checkerboard and a Parcheesi game.
There follows a period of social unease, like a silence at a dinner party. But Van Dorn goes on nodding good-naturedly, as if agreeing with something. Vergil, hands on knees, shoots a glance at me. I am silent. The uncle, restless, stands at Mrs. Cheney’s end of the couch, eyes rolled back.
Vergil opens his hands to me: What—?
Van Dorn claps his hands once. “Two pieces of news, Tom,” he says in a crisp voice. “And I see no reason to keep either secret, since we’re all friends here. As a matter of fact, it is serendipitous that you should have dropped by, since I couldn’t call you — it seems the yahoos have cut my line. Number one: I’m going to be moving on. To a little piece of work at M.I.T., Tom,” he says in a sober yet cordial voice. “I’ve paid my dues here. But the time comes — The school will be in good hands — in fact, no doubt better off without me — like my friend Oppie at Los Alamos, I seem to arouse controversy. Number two,” he counts, leaning toward me across the table. “You’re in, Doctor. You’ve got your grant from Ford: $125,000 per. Not great, not adequate compensation for your contribution, but you’ll have time for your practice plus research access to Fedville — you can name it. They just want you aboard.”
Ricky has left the Star Wars 4 game and is kneeling at the half-finished game of War, evening up the deck against his stomach and eyeing me impatiently.
I do not reply. As all shrinks know, it is useful sometimes to say nothing if you want to find out something. In the silence that follows, it is Vergil with his sense of social propriety who feels the awkwardness most. His expression as he looks not quite at me is worried and irritable.
“We’ll finish the game later, Ricky,” I tell him. “I’ll tell you what let’s do.”