“Consider, Tom,” says Van Dorn gently, even sorrowfully. “It’s a simple either/or. Either the photos are phony — which in fact they are — or they are not. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes.”
“If they are phony, which I’m sure a lab can demonstrate, then forget it. Right?”
“Right.”
“If they are genuine, ditto.”
“Ditto?”
“Sure, Tom. Once we get past the mental roadblocks of human relationships — namely, two thousand years of repressed sexuality — we see that what counts in the end is affection instead of cruelty, love instead of hate, right?”
“Yes.” He gives me another tissue.
“Look at the faces of those children — God knows where they come from — do you see any sign of pain and suffering, cruelty or abuse?”
“No.”
“Do you admit the possibility that those putative children — whether they’re real or cooked up — might be starved for human affection?”
“Yes.”
“Case closed,” says Van Dorn, sweeping up the photographs like a successful salesman. “Tom, we’re talking about caring.”
“I’ll just take those, Van,” I say, taking them.
“Okay, gang,” says Van Dorn, putting his pipe in his mouth and clapping his hands. “Let’s go.” He makes a sign to Coach, who has stopped playing Star Wars 4.
I nod to Vergil. Vergil understands, joins the uncle by the door.
Coach and Van Dorn face Vergil and the uncle.
“What’s this?” asks Van Dorn wearily, not turning around.
“Before you leave, I suggest that all of you drink a glass of the additive,” I say, blowing my nose. “Starting with Coach. You first, Coach.”
Coach winks at Van Dorn, steps up to the cooler.
“I don’t mind if I do.”
“Not from the cooler, coach. From the tube,”
“Shit, that’s molar.”
“That’s right.”
Coach looks to Van Dorn. “I can take them both.” Smiling, he starts for the uncle. His big hands are fists.
The uncle looks to me. I make a sign, touch my ear. The uncle understands, nods.
“If he tries it, shoot him,” I tell the uncle.
Coach looks quickly back at me, looks at the Purdy propped against the door behind the uncle, shrugs, and starts for the uncle. Meanwhile, the uncle, who has got the Woodsman from his inside coat pocket, shoots him.
A crack not loud but sharp as a buggy whip lashes the four walls of the room.
“You meant ear, didn’t you?” says the uncle, putting the Woodsman away.
I am watching Coach closely. Part of his right ear, the fleshy lobe flared out by the sternocleidomastoid muscle, disappears. There is an appreciable time, perhaps a quarter second, before the blood spurts.
Coach stops suddenly as if a thought had occurred to him. He holds up an admonishing finger.
“Oh, my God!” screams Coach, clapping one hand to his head, stretching out the other to Van Dorn. “I’m shot! Jesus, he’s shot me in the head — didn’t he?”—reaching out to Van Dorn not so much for help as for confirmation. “Didn’t he? Didn’t he?”
Van Dorn stands transfixed, mouth open.
“My God, he’s been shot!”
I look at Coach. There is an astonishing amount of blood coming between his fingers.
Coach turns to me. “Help me! For God’s sake, Doc, help me!”
“Sure, Coach. Don’t worry. Come over and sit right here by me. You’ll be fine.”
“You swear?”
“I swear,” I say. “Mrs. Cheney.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Mrs. Cheney, who has sat down twice and risen twice, rises quickly.
“Please bring us two towels from the bathroom. Don’t worry, Coach. We’re going to fix you up with a pressure bandage.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
“My God, my brain is damaged. He could have killed me.”
“I know.”
He turns to show me. The blood running through his fingers and down his arm drips on me. My nose is also dripping. Every time I fool with surgery, my nose runs. This doesn’t work in surgery. I think I might have chosen psychiatry for this reason.
I knot one towel, tie the other towel around his head, twist it as hard as I can. “Mrs. Cheney, you hold it here. Coach, you press against the knot as hard as you can.”
“I will!”
“Don’t worry, Dr. More!” cries Mrs. Cheney, taking hold of the towel.
“Meanwhile, drink this, Coach,” I tell him, holding the towel against his head. “Vergil, fix him a glass of additive.”
“Molar strength?” asks Vergil, still looking into his eyebrows.
“Right. Mrs. Cheney, twist the towel as hard as you can and he’ll be fine. The bleeding has about stopped.”
“I will!” cries Mrs. Cheney, twisting.
“Drink this, Coach.” I hand him the glass with my free hand.
“You’re sure?” asks the Coach, pressing the knot while Mrs. Cheney twists the towel. She is also pulling. Now his head is against her breast.
“I’m sure.”
“I’ll drink it if you say so.”
“I say so. Vergil?”
“Yes, Doc?”
“Give a glass to Mr. Brunette.”
“No problem.” He fills a glass and sets it on the table in front of Mr. Brunette.
Mr. Brunette looks at it. “Let me just say this,” he says, pushing up the bridge of his Harold Lloyd specs.
“All right.”
“First, you’re right about these people,” nodding toward Van Dorn. “Accordingly, let me make sure the photos are safe. I’ll just put them back in the file where they belong and where the proper authorities can find them.” He scoops up the photos in a businesslike way and starts for the staircase.
“I think you’d better bring those back, Mr. Brunette. How’re you doing, Coach?”
“I’m going to be fine, Doctor, since you said I would.”
“Keep twisting, Mrs. Cheney.”
“I am, Doctor!”
“There’s a balcony up there and an outside staircase,” says Vergil, taking notice for the first time.
“I really think you’d better come down, Mr. Brunette.” But he’s halfway up and gaining speed. He’s as nimble and youthful in his specs as Harold Lloyd and — do I imagine it? — grinning a wolfish little grin.
The uncle looks at me. I shrug and nod, but do not touch myself. Before I can think what has happened, the uncle has picked up the shotgun and shot him. I find that I am saying it to myself: The uncle has shot Mr. Brunette with a 12-gauge shotgun held at the hip. The room roars and whitens, percussion seeming to pass beyond the bounds of noise into white, the white-out silent and deafening until it comes back not as a loud noise but like thunder racketing around and dying away after a thunderclap.
My ears are ringing. Mrs. Brunette opens her mouth. I think I hear her say, no doubt shout, to everyone as if calling them to witness, “He’s killed my husband!”
Everyone is gazing at Mr. Brunette. The ringing seems to be in the room itself. Mr. Brunette, blown against the far rail, comes spinning down the staircase, as swiftly and silently as a message in a tube, hands still on the rails, specs knocked awry but not off.
“Uncle Hugh,” I say, but cannot hear my voice. Uncle Hugh has shot Mr. Brunette with a 12-gauge shotgun from the hip.
The room is filled with a familiar cordite Super-X smell I haven’t smelled for years.
Mrs. Brunette covers her ears and says something again. Mrs. Cheney does not let go of the towel but pulls Coach’s head close to hers, twisting the towel harder than ever.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” says the uncle beside me, and slaps at the seat of his pants. “I brushed him off right here is all. With number eight.” He turns to show me, again slapping at his pants.