Chase

4

The nightmares were so bad that Chase slept fitfully, waking repeatedly at the penultimate moment of horror, as he was surrounded by the tight circle of dead men, as their silent accusations began, as they closed in on him with their hands outstretched.

He rose early, abandoning any hope of rest. He bathed, shaved, and washed his hands with special attention to the dirt under his fingernails.

He sat at the table and peeled an apple for breakfast. He did not want to face the regular customers at Woolworth's lunch counter now that he was more than just another face to them, yet he couldn't think of any place where he might go unrecognized.

It was nine-thirty-five, much too early to begin drinking. He observed few rules, but never drinking before lunch was one of them. He seldom broke that one. Afternoons and evenings were for drinking. Mornings were for remorse, regret, and silent repentance.

But what could he do with the long hours until noon? Filling time without drinking was increasingly difficult.

He turned on the television but couldn't find any old movies. Turned it off.

At last, with nothing to do, he began to recall the details of the nightmare that had awakened him, and that was no good. That was dangerous.

He picked up the phone and placed another call.

It rang three times before a pert young woman answered. She said, "Dr. Fauvel's office, Miss Pringle speaking, can I help you?"

Chase said, "I'd like to see the doctor."

"Are you a regular patient?"

"Yes. My name's Ben Chase."

"Oh, yes!" Miss Pringle gasped, as though it was a small joy to be hearing from him. "Good morning, Mr. Chase." She rattled the pages of an appointment book. "Your regularly scheduled visit is this Friday afternoon at three."

"I have to see Dr. Fauvel before that."

"Tomorrow morning we have half an hour-"

Chase interrupted her. "Today."

"I beg your pardon?" Miss Pringle's pleasure at hearing his voice seemed to have diminished appreciably.

"I want an appointment today," Chase repeated.

Miss Pringle informed him of the heavy workload that the doctor carried and of the numerous extra hours in each day that the doctor required to study case histories of new patients.

"Please call Dr. Fauvel himself," Chase said, "and see if he can find time for me."

"Dr. Fauvel is in the middle of an appointment-"

"I'll hold."

"But it's impossible to-"

"I'll wait."

With a sigh of exasperation, she put him on hold. A minute later, chagrined, Miss Pringle returned to the phone to tell Chase that he had an appointment at four o'clock this afternoon. Clearly, she was perturbed that the rules should be broken for him. She must have known that the government paid the tab and that Fauvel received less compensation than he would have received from one of the wealthy neurotics on his patient list.

If one had to be psychologically disturbed, it helped to have a unique disturbance that intrigued the doctor — and a measure of fame or infamy to ensure special treatment.

At eleven-thirty, while Chase was dressing to go out for lunch, Judge called again. His voice sounded better, although still far from normal. "How are you feeling this morning, Mr. Chase?"

Chase waited.

"Be expecting a call at six this evening," Judge said.

"From whom?"

"Very funny. At six o'clock sharp, Mr. Chase." Judge spoke with the smooth authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "I will have several interesting points to discuss with you, I'm sure. Have a good day now."

The inner office of Fauvel's suite on the eighth floor of the Kaine Building, in the center of the city, did not resemble the standard psychiatrist's therapy room as portrayed in countless films and books. For one thing, it was not small and intimate, not at all reminiscent of the womb. It was a pleasantly large space, perhaps thirty feet by thirty-five, with a high shadow-shrouded ceiling. Two walls held bookshelves floor to ceiling; one wall was dressed with paintings of tranquil country scenes, and the fourth was all windows. The bookshelves contained a handful of expensively bound volumes — and perhaps three hundred glass dogs, none larger than the palm of a man's hand and most a good deal smaller. Collecting glass dogs was Dr. Fauvel's hobby.

Just as the decor of the room — battered desk, heavily padded armchairs, foot-scarred coffee table — didn't match its function, Dr. Fauvel was unlike any stereotypical image of a psychiatrist, whether by intent or by nature. He was a small but solidly built man, athletic-looking, with hair that spilled over his collar in a manner that suggested carelessness rather than style. He always always wore a blue suit cut too long in the trousers and in need of a hot iron.

"Sit down, Ben," Fauvel said. "Like something to drink — coffee, tea, a Coke?"

"No, thank you," Chase said.

No couch was provided. The doctor did not believe in pampering his patients. Chase sat in an armchair.

Fauvel settled into the chair to Chase's right and propped his feet on the coffee table. He urged Chase to follow suit. When they were in a pose of relaxation, he said, "No preliminaries, then?"

"Not today," Chase said.

"You're tense, Ben."

"Yes."

"Something's happened."

"Yes."

"But that's life. Something always happens. We don't live in stasis, frozen in amber."

"This is more than the usual something," Chase said.

"Tell me about it."

Chase was silent.

"You came here to tell me, didn't you?" Fauvel urged.

"Yeah. But…. talking about a problem sometimes makes it worse." "That's never true."

"Maybe not for you."

"Not for anyone."

"To talk about it, I have to think about it, and thinking about it makes me nervous. I like things calm. Still and calm."

"Want to play some word association?"

Chase hesitated, then nodded, dreading the game that they often used to loosen his tongue. He frequently exposed more of himself in his answers than he wished to reveal. And Fauvel did not play the game according to established rules, but with a swift and vicious directness that cut to the heart of the matter. Nevertheless, Chase said, "Go on."

Fauvel said, "Mother."

"Dead."

"Father."

"Dead."

Fauvel steepled his fingers as if he were a child playing the see-the-church game. "Love."

"Woman."

"Love."

"Woman," Chase repeated.

Fauvel did not look at him but stared studiously at the blue glass terrier on the bookshelf nearest him. "Don't repeat yourself, please."

Chase apologized, aware that it was expected. The first time that Fauvel had expected an apology in these circumstances, Chase had been surprised. They were therapist and patient, after all, and it seemed odd for the therapist to foster a dependent relationship in which the patient was encouraged to feel guilty for evasive answers. Session by session, however, he was less surprised at anything that Fauvel might suggest.

The doctor again said, "Love."

"Woman."

"Love. "

"Woman."

"I asked you not to repeat yourself."

"I'm not a latent homosexual, if that's what you're after."

Fauvel said, "But the simple 'woman' is an evasion."

"Everything is an evasion."

That observation appeared to surprise the doctor, but not enough to jar him out of the stubborn, wearying routine that he had begun. "Yes, everything is an evasion. But in this case it's an egregious evasion, because there is no woman. You won't allow one into your life. So, more honesty, if you will. Love."

Already Chase was perspiring, and he did not know why.

"Love," Fauvel insisted.

"Is a many splendored thing."

"Unacceptable childishness."

"Sorry."

"Love."

Chase finally said, "Myself."

"But that's a lie, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Because you don't love yourself "

"No."

"Very good," Fauvel said. Now the interchange of words went faster, one barked close after the other, as if speed counted in the scoring. Fauvel said, "Hate."

"You."

"Funny."

"Thanks."

"Hate."

"Self-destructive."

"Another evasion. Hate."

"Army."

"Hate."

"Vietnam."

"Hate."

"Guns."

"Hate."

"Zacharia," Chase said, although he had often sworn never to mention that name again or to remember the man attached to it or, indeed, to recall the events that the man had perpetrated.

"Hate," Fauvel persisted.

"Another word, please."

"No. Hate."

"Lieutenant Zacharia."

"It goes deeper than Zacharia."

"I know."

"Hate."

"Me," Chase said.

"And that's the truth, isn't it?"

"Yes." After a silence, the doctor said, "Okay, let's back up from you to Zacharia. Do you remember what Lieutenant Zacharia ordered you to do, Benjamin?"

"Yes, sir."

"What were those orders?"

"We'd sealed off two back entrances to a Cong tunnel system."

"And?"

"Lieutenant Zacharia ordered me to clear the last entrance."

"How did you accomplish that?"

"With a grenade, sir."

"And?"

"And then before the air around the tunnel face could clear, I went forward."

"And?"

"And used a machine gun."

"Good."

"Not so good, sir."

"Good that you can at least talk about it."

Chase was silent.

"What happened then, Benjamin?"

"Then we went down, sir."

"We?"

"Lieutenant Zacharia, Sergeant Coombs, Privates Halsey and Wade, a couple of other men."

"And you."

"Yeah. Me."

"Then?"

"In the tunnel, we found four dead men and parts of men lying in the foyer of the complex. Lieutenant Zacharia ordered a cautious advance. A hundred fifty yards along, we came to a bamboo gate."

"Blocking the way.

"Yeah. Villagers behind it."

"Tell me about the villagers."

"Mostly women."

"How many women, Ben?"

"Maybe twenty."

"Children?" Fauvel asked.

Silence was a refuge.

"Were there children?"

Chase sank down in the heavy padding of the armchair, shoulders drawn up as if he wished to hide between them. "A few."

"They were imprisoned there?"

"No. The bamboo was an obstacle. The Cong tunnels ran a lot deeper than that, a lot farther. We hadn't even reached the weapons cache. The villagers were assisting the Vietcong, collaborating with them, obstructing us."

"Do you think they were forced to obstruct you, forced by the Vietcong… or were they willing agents of the enemy?"

Chase was silent.

"I'm waiting for an answer," Fauvel said sternly.

Chase didn't reply.

"You are waiting for an answer," Fauvel told him, "whether you realize it or not. Were these villagers being forced to obstruct your advance, forced at gunpoint by the Cong in the tunnels behind them, or were they there at their own choice?"

"Hard to say."

"Is it?"

"Hard for me, anyway."

"In those situations you could never be sure."

"Right."

"They might have been collaborationists — or they might have been innocent."

"Right."

"Okay. Then what happened?"

"We tried to open the gate, but the women were holding it shut with a system of ropes."

"Women."

"They used women as a shield. Or sometimes the women were the worst killers of all, cut you down with a smile."

"So you ordered them out of the way?" Fauvel asked.

"They wouldn't move. The lieutenant said it might be a trap designed to contain us at that point, delay us long enough for the Cong to somehow get behind us."

"Could that have been true?"

"Could have been."

"Likely?"

"Yes."

"Go on."

"It was dark. There was a smell in that tunnel I can't explain, made up of sweat and urine and rotting vegetables, as heavy as if it had substance. Lieutenant Zacharia ordered us to open fire and clear the way."

"Did you comply?"

Chase was silent.

"Did you comply?"

"Not immediately."

"But eventually?"

"The stench… the darkness…"

"You complied."

"So claustrophobic down there, Cong probably coming around behind us through a secret tunnel."

"So you complied with the order?"

"Yes."

"You personally — or the squad?"

"The squad and me. Everyone did."

"You shot them."

"Cleared the way."

"Shot them."

"We could have died there."

"Shot them."

"Yeah."

Fauvel gave him a rest. Half a minute. Then: "Later, when the tunnel had been cleared, searched, the weapons cache destroyed, then you ran into the ambush that earned you the Medal of Honor."

"Yes. That was above ground."

Fauvel said, "You crawled across the field of fire for nearly two hundred yards and brought back a wounded sergeant named Coombs."

"Samuel Coombs."

"You received two minor but painful wounds in the thigh and calf of your right leg, but you didn't stop crawling until you had reached shelter. Then you secured Coombs behind a stand of scrub, and having reached a point on the enemy's flank by means of your heroic crossing of the open field — what happened?"

"I killed some of the bastards."

"Enemy soldiers."

"Yeah."

"How many?"

"Eighteen."

"Eighteen Vietcong soldiers?"

"Yeah."

"So you not only saved Sergeant Coombs's life but contributed substantially to the well-being of your entire unit." He had only slightly paraphrased the wording on the scroll that Chase had received in the mail from the president himself.

Chase said nothing.

"You see where this heroism came from, Ben?"

"We've talked about it before."

"So you know the answer."

"It came from guilt."

"That's right."

"Because I wanted to die. Subconsciously wanted to be killed, so I rushed onto the field of fire, hoping to be shot down."

"Do you believe that analysis, or do you think maybe it's just something I made up to degrade your medal?"

Chase said, "I believe it. I never wanted the medal in the first place."

"Now," Fauvel said, unsteepling his fingers, "let's extend that analysis just a bit. Though you hoped to be shot and killed in that ambush, although you took absurd risks to ensure your death, you lived. And became a national hero."

"Life's funny, huh?"

"When you learned Lieutenant Zacharia had submitted your name for consideration for the Medal of Honor, you suffered a nervous breakdown that hospitalized you and eventually led to your honorable discharge."

"I was just burnt out."

"No, the breakdown was an attempt to punish yourself, once you'd failed to get yourself killed. Punish yourself and escape from your guilt. But the breakdown failed too, because you pulled out of it. Well regarded, honorably discharged, much too strong not to recover psychologically, you still had to carry your burden of guilt."

Chase was silent again.

Fauvel continued: "Perhaps when you chanced upon that scene in the park on Kanackaway, you recognized another opportunity to punish yourself. You must have realized that there was a strong possibility you'd be hurt or killed, and you must have subconsciously anticipated your death agreeably enough."

"You're wrong," Chase said.

Fauvel was silent.

"You're wrong," Chase repeated.

"Probably not," Fauvel said with a hint of impatience, and he used a direct stare to try to make Chase uncomfortable.

"It wasn't like that at all. I had thirty pounds on him, and I knew what I was doing. He was an amateur. He had no hope of really hurting me."

Fauvel said nothing.

Finally Chase said, "Sorry."

Fauvel smiled. "Well, you aren't a psychiatrist, so we can't expect you to see into it so clearly. You aren't detached from it like I am." He cleared his throat, looked back at the blue terrier. "Now that we've come this far — why did you solicit this extra session, Ben?"

Once he began, Chase found the telling easy. In ten minutes he had related the events of the previous day and repeated, almost word for word, the conversations that he'd had with Judge.

When Chase finished, Fauvel asked, "So. What do you want from me, then?"

"I want to know how to handle it, some advice."

"I don't advise. I guide and interpret."

"Some guidance then. When Judge calls, it's more than just the threats that upset me. It's — this feeling I have of being detached, separated from everything."

"Another breakdown?"

"I feel the edge," Chase said.

Fauvel said, "Ignore him."

"Judge?"

"Ignore him."

"But don't I have a responsibility to-"

"Ignore him."

"I can't."

"You must," Fauvel said.

"What if he's serious?"

"He's not."

"What if he's really going to kill me?"

"He won't."

"How can you be sure?" Chase was perspiring heavily. Great dark circles stained the underarms of his shirt and plastered the cotton to his back.

Fauvel smiled at the blue terrier and shifted his gaze to a glass greyhound blown in amber. The smug, self-assured look was back. "I can be so sure of that, because Judge does not exist."

Chase did not immediately understand the reply. When he grasped the import of it, he didn't like it. "You're saying what — that this Judge isn't real?"

"Is that what you're saying, Chase?"

"No."

"You're the one who said it."

"I didn't hallucinate him. None of this. The part about the murder and the girl are in the papers."

"Oh, that was real enough," Fauvel said. "But these phone calls… I don't know. What do you think, Chase?"

Chase was silent.

"Were they real phone calls?"

"Yes. "

"Or imagination?"

"No."

"Delusions of-"

"No."

Fauvel said, "I've noticed for some time that you have begun to shake off this unnatural desire for privacy and that you're gradually facing the world more squarely, week by week."

"I haven't noticed that."

"Oh, yes. Subtly, perhaps, but you've grown curious about the rest of the world. You're beginning to be restless about getting on with life."

Chase didn't feel restless.

He felt cornered.

"Perhaps you're even beginning to experience a reawakening of your sex drive, though not much yet. Guilt overwhelmed you, because you hadn't been punished for the things that happened in that tunnel, and you didn't want to lead a normal life until you felt that you'd suffered enough."

Chase disliked the doctor's smug self-assurance. Right now all he wanted was to get out of there, to get home and close the door and open the bottle.

Fauvel said, "You couldn't accept the fact that you wanted to taste the good things of life again, and you invented Judge because he represented the remaining possibility of punishment. You had to make some excuses for being forced into life again, and Judge worked well in this respect too. You would, sooner or later, have to take the initiative to stop him. You could pretend that you still wanted seclusion in which to mourn but were no longer being permitted that indulgence."

"All wrong," Chase said. "Judge is real."

"Oh, I think not." Fauvel smiled at the amber greyhound. "If you really and truly thought this man was real, that these calls to you were real — then why wouldn't you go to the police rather than to your psychiatrist?"

Chase had no answer. "You're twisting things."

"No. Just showing you the straight truth."

"He's real."

Fauvel stood and stretched. "I recommend you go home and forget Judge. You don't need an excuse to live like a normal human being. You have suffered enough, Ben, more than enough. You made a terrible mistake. All right. But in that tunnel, you were in an incredibly stressful situation, under unendurable pressures. It was a mistake, not a calculated savagery. For the lives you took, you saved others. Remember that."

Chase stood, bewildered, no longer perfectly sure that he did know what was real and what was not.

Fauvel put his arm around Chase's shoulders and walked him to the door. "Friday at three," the doctor said. "Let's see how far out of your hole you've come by then. I think you're going to make it, Ben. Don't despair."

Miss Pringle escorted him to the outer door of the waiting room and closed it after him, leaving him alone in the hallway.

"Judge is real," Chase said to no one at all. "Isn't he?"