Flowers for Algernon

they play the most recent tape at the end of the session.

So here I am, sitting off by myself in our private sec­tion of a jet on the way to Chicago, trying to get used to thinking aloud, and to the sound of my own voice. I sup­pose the typist can get rid of all the uhm's, er's and ah's, and make it all seem natural on paper (I can't help the paraly­sis that comes over me when I think hundreds of people are going to listen to the words I'm saying now).

My mind is a blank. At this point my feelings are more important than anything else.

The idea of going up in the air terrifies me.

As far as I can tell, in the days before the operation, I never really understood what planes were. I never con­nected the movies and TV close-ups of planes with the things that I saw zooming overhead. Now that we're about to take off I can think only of what might happen if we crash. A cold feeling, and the thought that I don't want to the. Brings to mind those discussions about God.

I've thought about death often in recent weeks, but not really about God. My mother took me to church occasion­ally—but I don't recall ever connecting that up with the thought of God. She mentioned Him quite often, and I had to pray to Him at night, but I never thought much about it. I remember Him as a distant uncle with a long beard on a throne (like Santa Claus in the department store on his big chair, who picks you up on his knee and asks you if you've been good, and what would you like him to give you?). She was afraid of Him, but asked favors anyway. My father never mentioned Him—it was as if God was one of Rose's relatives he'd rather not get involved with.

'We're ready to take off, sir. May I help you fasten your seat belt?'

'Do I have to? I don't like to be strapped down.'

'Until we're airborne.'

'I'd rather not, unless it's necessary. I've got this fear of being strapped in. It'll probably make me sick.'

'It's regulations, sir. Here, let me help you.'

'No! I'll do it myself.'

'No… that one goes through here.'

'Wait, uh….Okay.'

*

Ridiculous. There's nothing to be afraid of. Seat belt isn't too tight—doesn't hurt. Why should putting on the damned seat belt be so terrifying? That, and the vibrations of the plane taking off. Anxiety all out of proportion to the situation… so it must be something… what?… flying up into and through dark clouds… fasten your seat belts… strapped down… straining forward… odor of sweaty leather… vibrations and a roaring sound in my ears.

Through the window—in the clouds—I see Charlie. Age is difficult to tell, about five years old. Before Norma…

'Are you two ready yet?' His father comes to the doorway, heavy, especially in the sagging fleshiness of his face and neck. He has a tired look 'I said, are you ready?'

'Just a minute,' answers Rose. 'I'm getting my hat on. See if his shirt is buttoned, and tie his shoelaces.'

'Come on, let's get this thing over with.'

'Where?' asks Charlie. 'Where… Charlie… go?'

His father looks at him and frowns. Matt Gordon never knows how to react to his son's questions.

Rose appears in the doorway of her bedroom, adjust­ing the half-veil of her hat. She is a birdlike woman, and her arms—up to her head, elbows out—look like wings. 'We're going to the doctor who is going to help you get smart.'

The veil makes it look as if she were peering down at him through a wire screen. He is always frightened when they dress up to go out this way, because he knows he will have to meet other people and his mother will become upset and angry.

He wants to run, but there is no place for him to go.

'Why do you have to tell him that?' said Matt.

'Because it's the truth. Dr. Guarino can help him.'

Matt paces the floor like a man who has given up hope but will make one last attempt to reason. 'How do you know? What do you know about this man? If there was anything that could be done, the doctors would have told us long ago.'

'Don't say that,' she screeches. 'Don't tell me there's nothing they can do.' She grabs Charlie and presses his head against her bosom. 'He's going to be normal, what­ever we have to do, whatever it costs.'

'It's not something money can buy.'

'It's Charlie I'm talking about. Your son.. .your only child.' She rocks him from side to side, near hysteria now. 'I won't listen to that talk. They don't know, so they say nothing can be done. Dr. Guarino explained it all to me. They won't sponsor his invention, he says, because it will prove they're wrong. Like it was with those other scientists, Pasteur and Jennings, and the rest of them. He told me all about your fine medical doctors afraid of progress.'

Talking back to Matt this way, she becomes relaxed and sure of herself again. When she lets go of Charlie, he goes to the corner and stands against the wall frightened and shivering.

'Look,' she says, 'you got him upset again.'

'Me?'

'You always start these things in front of him.'

'Oh, Christ! Come on, let's get this damned thing over with.'

All the way to Dr. Guarino's office they avoid speaking to each other. Silence on the bus, and silence walking three blocks from the bus to the downtown office building. After about fifteen minutes, Dr. Guarino comes out to the waiting room to greet them. He is fat and balding, and he looks as if he would pop through his white lab jacket. Charlie is fascinated by the thick white eyebrows and white moustache that twitch from time to time. Some­times the moustache twitches first, followed by the raising of both eyebrows, but sometimes the brows go up first and the moustache twitch follows.

The large white room into which Guarino ushers them smells recently painted, and it is almost bare—two desks on one side of the room, and on the other, a huge machine with rows of dials and four long arms like den­ tist's drills. Nearby is a black leather examination table with thick, webbed, restraining straps.

'Well, well, well,' says Guarino, raising his eyebrows, 'so this is Charlie.' He grips the boy's shoulders firmly. 'We're going to be friends.'

'Can you really do anything for him, Dr. Guarino?' says Matt. 'Have you ever treated this kind of thing be­ fore? We don't have much money.'

The eyebrows come down like shutters as Guarino frowns. 'Mr. Gordon, have I said anything yet about what I could do? Don't I have to examine him first? Maybe something can be done, maybe not. First there will have to be physical and mental tests to determine the causes of the pathology. There will be enough time later to talk of prog­nosis. Actually, I'm very busy these days. I only agreed to look into this case because I'm doing a special study of this type of neural retardation. Of course, if you have qualms, then perhaps…'

His voice trails off sadly, and he turns away, but Rose Gordon jabs at Matt with her elbow. 'My husband doesn't mean that at all, Dr. Guarino. He talks too much.' She glares at Matt again to warn him to apologize.

Matt sighs. 'If there is any way you can help Charlie, we'll do anything you ask. Things are slow these days. I sell barbershop supplies, but whatever I have I'll be glad to—'

'Just one thing I must insist on,' says Guarino, purs­ing his lips as if making a decision. 'Once we start, the treatment must continue all the way. In cases of this type, the results often come suddenly after long months without any sign of improvement. Not that I am promising you success, mind you. Nothing is guaranteed. But you must give the treatment a chance, otherwise you're better off not starting at all.'

He frowns at them to let his warning sink in, and his brows are white shades from under which his bright blue eyes stare. 'Now, if you'll just step outside and let me ex­amine the boy.'

Matt hesitates to leave Charlie alone with him, but Guarino nods. 'This is the best way,' he says, ushering them both outside to the waiting room. 'The results are al­ways more significant if the patient and I are alone when the psychosubstantiation tests are performed. External dis­tractions have a deleterious effect on the ramified scores.'