inauthentic, as if something were wrong.
In the next letter, Sam realized what was wrong: the guy had a screw loose. He was nuts.
Yes, we are making good progress in our new direction, but it's hard, in a way. He was our ancient enemy, who has stalked us for years. He's been a wary adversary. Now we try to make him work for us, and yet he's still the enemy. It's like collaborating suddenly with a Nazi, very depressing but I'm sure very necessary. So I still wrestle him, though now I try to wrestle him to our side. Am I tarnished for my vanity, for my belief I can master him? Perhaps. But then I realize, / don't matter, the only thing that matters is continuing the struggle, and what others might think of me, well, that too is meaningless against the larger, more insistent drama of the crusade. Darling, when I think of your sweet pureness in this world that is so filled with filth, perversion, decadence, weakness, cowardice, it sickens me. It is not right. Darling, you are too good for this world.
What was going on with the doctor? Was he delirious? Was he losing control? Nowhere in all the previous correspondence had such an insane note been struck; it was as if the doctor were no longer himself and no longer writing these letters. Some other had taken over, some Being.
And what was this mysterious 'change in direction' in the project?
Whatever, that certainly seemed to be upsetting the doctor. Was it driving him insane, as he tried to reconcile his 'goodness' with whatever the new aims were?
There was a long lapse in the letters, at least six month's worth. By June of 1945, the doctor's mind was really scrambled:
Am I God? I think not. I never wanted to be God! But science makes us God, or at least gods: what are we to do? I sought to learn the truth, to help, and that humble mission was enough for me. Yet they sought me out, and let me have my way. They made me a god! They gave me the power!
What is life and death to a god? I smote what was evil, wherever I could find it. I found it in my own heart and there I smote it most grievously, but in doing that, I smote myself. In dying, I learned I was not god, I was but a man. I am so sorry we lost the baby all those years ago. I'm so sorry I wasn't there when it happened. I am so sorry what was going on through the microscope was more real to me than what was going on in my own house. I am so sorry about all I did before you.
Darling, forgive me. I never meant to be god.
There were but two other letters. The penultimate was from the War Department.
Mrs. David Stone, 12 Druid Hill Park Drive, Apartment 854, Baltimore, Maryland.
Dear Mrs. Stone, the War Department regrets to inform you that your husband, David M. Stone, MAJ.' U. S. Army Medical Corps, died of complications after a short illness June 23, 1945, at his post at the medical research facility at Thebes, Miss. Major Stone did a great deal to assist his country in the pursuit of final victory and we are saddened that he did not make it through the conflict.
Yours Very Warmly, George C. Marshall Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff United States Army Washington, D. C.
But the last V-letter arrived after the death notice; presumably Dr.
Stone had written it as he faced death full in the face on his last night.
It only said: 'The darkness.' 'Such a shame,' she said.
He was not sure when the woman had entered. She stood across from him now, pale and beautiful as death, as he put down the last letter.
'Ma'am, I'm very sorry.'
'Was this of any help?'
'Well, uh, I'm not certain. It contains certain leads I may be able to follow up on. Time will tell.'
'He tried so hard. He fought so valiantly. He was such a hero.'
'Ma'am, toward the end, he seemed to be… well, not quite himself.
Do you have any idea what was going on? And there was some thing about a ' in direction' in the research. Do you know what that could be?'
'I presume the disease was working on his mind. I wrote him letter after letter begging him to slow down, to relax, to go on leave. I wrote the War Department, the Medical Corps, everyone I could think of, or knew. I could feel him getting dangerously mixed up. As for the change he mentioned, I honestly couldn't say. He didn't share things like that with me.
'
'The darkness.' What could that have been?'
'I don't know.'
'What was done with the body?'
'It was shipped back in a closed coffin. He was buried here in a small, somber ceremony.'
'Here?'
'Here in Baltimore.'
'He's in Baltimore?'
'Yes, Mr. Vincent. At Green Mount Cemetery. But what would this have to do with your case? After all, you represent a man suing the State of Mississippi for a wrongful death well after the end of the war.'
Sam didn't even have an answer: he was thinking, I have to get that body autopsied.
Earl thought he'd make it. The cut wasn't deep, but arterial, and he'd spent the last two hours with his fingers in the boy's thigh, pinching off the blood flow, while the boy moaned for his mama over and over again. The other men had gotten him calmed with their strength and their music.
But he died, anyway.
As for Moon, the same hidden convict grapevine conveyed the news that his jaw was broken and he'd been wired up as best as possible, but he had to be shipped via the prison launch to Pascagoula, where a surgeon would repair his jaw and he'd be in a maximum security ward while his jaw healed. He'd be back in a few weeks or so.
It was another day on the levee. Earl worked hard, though at a strange angle, because he didn't want to stress his own wound, which had not been stitched closed as it should be but instead bound up with linens.
He knew a sudden twist or jump and the blood would start spurting again.
It wasn't arterial, so he wouldn't bleed out fast. He'd just get weaker and weaker.
The sun was a monster's eye that day. It was a huge, angry thing, and it poured out its fiery radiance, and it sucked the energy and the will off them all. The flies, the skeeters. The heavy work, the poor food, the never- enough water. Section Boss sneering at Earl up top his horse, but now, since he'd kept himself alive much longer than anybody had expected, keeping a wary distance. They were afraid of Earl now, the guards. Earl liked that. Somewhere deep inside himself, he liked that a lot.
The rain came at 3:00. It slashed down from heaven with such vengeance that even Section Boss, now in a hunter's poncho, understood that it was pointless to work, a rare concession to the elements. He commanded the convicts out of the soupy hole and up to the levee, where they could at least sit this one out.
Earl sat, as usual, alone. But he had a strange sense that men were closer to him than before.
'You, white boy. You box? You musta boxed, boy. You gots fast hands.'
The voice came from directly behind him, but nobody was looking at him.
'Did some fighting in the service,' Earl said, in response to the first question anyone had asked other than Moon or one of his young thugs.
'I worked corners and cuts for a coupla years. You gots fast hands and can slip a punch. Nice jab combo.'
'You pick things up,' was all Earl allowed himself to say.
'You so smart, buckra, how come you done made a big mistake? You be dumb as any nigger, ask me.'
'What mistake is that?'
'You shoulda kilt Moon. He down, he out of the fight. You should have pulled that blade out of that no' count Junior and come over and gutted Moon.' 'He'd said he was through.'
'You is dumb, buckra. You is dumb. That boy gonna come back with one thing on he mind. He goin' kill you. You done messed up his old haid twicet, he gots to kill you. You best kill him first night he gits back, else he kills you deader ' a motherfucker.'
It was solid advice, Earl knew. Moon wasn't the sort of man who'd learn a lesson. He'd get through his pain and fury in the prison ward in Pascagoula, wired up without anesthetic, and he'd lay in silent pain for a week or two
