'I need a name. It would be so much easier if you would give me a name to call him.'
'I can't do that. But I'll give you a hint. He can fly.'
'Fly? Is his name Fred?'
'C'mon, you can do better than that. Can't you think of anything that flies besides airplanes?'
'He's a bird? He has the name of a bird?'
'Bingo!'
'Uh, uh, Donald? Woody? Jonathan Livingston?'
'Those aren't real birds, are they, gene?'
'Martin? Jay!'
'You're getting waaaaaarmeniiii!'
'Robin? Robert?'
'Well done, doctor brewer. The rest is up to you.'
'Thank you. I'd like to speak to him now. Do you mind?'
'Why should I?' Suddenly prot/Robert slouched down in his chair. His hands fell limply to his sides. 'Robert?'
No response.
'Robert, this is Doctor Brewer. I think I can help you.' No response.
'Robert, listen to me. You've had a terrible shock. I understand your pain and suffering. Can you hear me?' No response.
At this point I took a chance. Knowing prot and, through him, something about Robert, I could not shake the feeling that if he had in fact hurt, or killed, someone, it must have been an accident or, more likely perhaps, self- defense. It was mostly speculation, but it was all I had. 'Robert, listen to me. What happened to you could have happened to anyone. It is not something to be ashamed of. It is a normal response that human beings are programmed to carry out. It's in our genes. Do you understand? Anyone might have done the same thing you did. Anyone would condone what you did and why you did it. I want you to understand that. If you will just acknowledge that you hear me we can talk about it. We don't have to talk about what happened just yet. Only about how we can get you to overcome your grief and self-hatred. Won't you talk to me? Won't you let me help you?'
We sat silently for several minutes while I waited for Robert to make a move, a small gesture to indicate he he had heard my plea. But he never twitched a muscle.
'I'm going to ask you to think about it for a while. We'll talk about this again a week from today, all right? Please trust me.'
No response.
'I'm going to ask to speak with your friend now.'
In a twinkling prot was back, wide-eyed and smiling broadly. 'Hiya, gene. Long time no see. How ya been?' We talked a bit about our first few meetings back in May, the tiniest details of which he described perfectly, as if he had a tape recorder inside his head.
I woke him and sent him back to Ward Two. Cheerful as ever, he didn't remember a thing about what had just transpired.
THERE was a seminar that afternoon in our lecture room, but I didn't hear a word of it. I was considering the possibility of increasing the number of sessions with prot/Robert. Unfortunately, I had a meeting in Los Angeles at the end of that week and the beginning of the next, something that had been arranged months before and would have been impossible to get out of. But I suspected that even a dozen more sessions wouldn't be enough. Maybe a hundred wouldn't be enough to sort everything out. True, I now knew his first name, but I wasn't sure this would be of much help in tracing his background. It was encouraging in another sense, however: It indicated a possible crack in the armor, a hint of willingness on Robert's part to begin to cooperate, to help with his own recovery, to get well. But there were only two weeks left before prot's 'departure.' If I couldn't get through to him by then, I was afraid it would be too late.
'His name is Robert Something,' I told Giselle after the seminar.
'Great! Let me check it against my list.' She bent over a long computer printout. Her profile was perfect, like one of those 'Can you draw me?' advertisements. 'Here's one! But this guy disappeared in April of 1985, and he was sixty-eight years old. Wait! Here's another one! And he disappeared in August! No, no, he was only seven then. That would make him twelve now.' She looked at me sadly. 'Those were the only two Roberts.'
'I was afraid of that.'
'He's got to exist,' she wailed. 'There has to be a record of his existence. We must have missed something. An important clue. .. ' She jumped up and began pacing around my office. Eventually she spotted the picture of my family on my desk. She asked me about my wife, where we had met, and so on. I told her how long I had known Karen, a little about the kids. Then she sat down and told me some things about herself she hadn't mentioned before. I shall not record the details here, but she was on intimate terms with more than one prominent figure from the worlds of sports and journalism. The point, however, is that although she had countless male friends, she had never married. I wasn't about to ask her why, but she answered as if I had: 'I'm an idealist and a perfectionist and all the wrong things,' and turned her gaze to a faraway place in the distant past. 'And because I have never met a man I could give myself to, utterly and completely.' Then she turned to me. In a moment of helpless ego-Brown's syndrome is a very powerful force-I was sure she was going to say, 'Until now.' My tie suddenly needed my attention. 'And now I'm going to lose him,' she whimpered, 'and there's nothing I can do about it!' She was in love with prot!
Caught between disappointment and relief I said something stupid: 'I've got a son you might like.' I was thinking of Fred, who had just landed a part in a comedy playing at a dinner theater in Newark.
She smiled warmly. 'The pilot who decided to become an actor? How old was he when that picture was taken?'
'Nineteen.'
'He's cute, isn't he?'
'I suppose so.' I gazed fondly at the photograph on my desk.
'That picture reminds me of my own family,' she said. 'My dad was so proud of us. We all became professionals of one sort or another. Ronnie is a surgeon, Audrey's a dentist, Gary a vet. I'm the only dud in the bunch.'
'I wouldn't say that. Not at all. You are one of the best reporters in the country. Why settle for second best in something else?'
She smiled at that and nodded. 'And that picture of you reminds me of my father.'
'How so?'
'I don't know. He was nice. Kind. You'd have liked him'
'I probably would have. May I ask what happened to him?'
'He committed suicide.'
'Oh, Giselle, I'm very sorry.'Dreamily: 'He had cancer. He didn't want to be a burden.'
We sat in my office thinking our own private thoughts until I happened to glance at the clock on my desk. 'Good grief-I've got to run. We're going to go see Freddy perform tonight. He's playing a reporter. You want to come with us?'
'No, no thanks. I've got some writing to do. And some thinking.'
As we got into the elevator I reminded her that I was going out of town for a few days and wouldn't be back until the middle of the following week.
'Maybe I'll have the case solved by then! I'm supposed to get the locations of all the slaughterhouses tomorrow!'
She got off on Two and I stood there in the empty elevator feeling the tug of gravity and a profound sense of sadness and not knowing which I understood less.
Session Fourteen
I didn't get back to my office until the following Wednesday morning. As soon as I walked in I detected the
