Flowers for Algernon

her, but now, knowing she is my mother, I can make out the faint details—yes!

Thin, drawn into exaggerated lines. Sharp nose and chin. And I can almost hear her chatter and bird-screech. Hair done up in a bun, severely. Piercing me with her dark eyes. I want her to take me into her arms and tell me I am a good boy, and at the same time I want to turn away to avoid a slap. Her picture makes me tremble.

And Norma—thin-faced too. Features not so sharp, pretty, but very much like my mother. Her hair worn down to her shoulders softens her. The two of them are sit­ting on the living room couch.

It was Rose's face that brought back the frightening memories. She was two people to me, and I never had any way of knowing which she would be. Perhaps she would re­veal it to others by a gesture of hand, a raised eyebrow, a frown—my sister knew the storm warnings, and she would always be out of range whenever my mother's temper flared—but it always caught me unawares. I would come to her for comforting, and her anger would break over me. And other times there would be tenderness and holding-close like a warm bath, and hands stroking my hair and brow, and the words carved above the cathedral of my childhood:

He's like all the other children.

He's a good boy.

I see back through the dissolving photograph, myself and father leaning over a bassinet. He's holding me by the hand and saying, 'There she is. You mustn't touch her be­cause she's very little, but when she gets bigger you'll have a sister to play with.'

I see my mother in the huge bed nearby, bleached and pasty, arms limp on the orchid-figured comforter, raising her head anxiously. 'Watch him, Matt—'

That was before she had changed towards me, and now I realize it was because she had no way of knowing yet if Norma would be like me or not. It was later on, when she was sure her prayers had been answered, and Norma showed all signs of normal intelligence, that my mother's voice began to sound different. Not only her voice, but her touch, her look, her very presence—all changed. It was as if her magnetic poles had reversed and where they had once attracted now repelled. I see now that when Norma flowered in our garden I became a weed, allowed to exist only where I would not be seen, in corners and dark places.

Seeing her face in the newspaper, I suddenly hated her. It would have been better if she had ignored the doc­tors and teachers and others who were so in a hurry to con­vince her that I was a moron, turning her away from me so that she gave me less love when I needed more.

What good would it do to see her now? What could she tell me about myself? And yet, I'm curious. How would she react?

To see her and trace back to learn what I was? Or to forget her? Is the past worth knowing? Why is it so impor­tant for me to say to her: 'Mom, look at me. I'm not re­tarded any more. I'm normal. Better than normal. I'm a genius?'

Even as I try to get her out of my mind, the memories seep back from the past to contaminate the here and now. Another memory—when I was much older.

A quarrel.

Charlie lying in bed, with the covers pulled up around him. The room dark, except for the thin line of yellow light from the door ajar that penetrates the darkness to join both worlds. And he hears things, not understanding but feeling, because the rasp of their voices is linked to their talk of him. More and more, each day, he comes to associ­ate that tone with a frown when they speak of him.

He has been almost asleep when through the bar of light the soft voices were raised to the pitch of argument— his mother's voice sharp with the threat of one used to hav­ing her way through hysteria. 'He's got to be sent away. I don't want him in the house any mote with her. Call Dr. Portman and tell him we want to send Charlie to the War­ren State Home.'

My father's voice is firm, steadying. 'But you know Charlie wouldn't harm her. It can't make any difference to her at this age.'

'How do we know? Maybe it has a bad effect on a child to grow up with… someone like him in the house.'

'Dr. Portman said—'

'Portman said! Portman said! I don't care what he said! Think of what it will be like for her to have a brother like that. I was wrong all these years, trying to believe he would grow up like other children. I admit it now. Better for him to be put away.'

'Now that you've got her, you've decided you don't want him any more….'

'Do you think this is easy? Why are you making it harder for me? All these years everyone telling me he should be put away. Well, they were right. Put him away. Maybe at the Home with his own kind he'll have something. I don't know what's right or wrong any more. All I know is I'm not going to sacrifice my daughter for him now.'

And though Charlie has not understood what passed between them, he is afraid and sinks beneath the covers, eyes open, trying to pierce the darkness that surrounds him.

As I see him now, he is not really afraid, just with­drawing, as a bird or squirrel backs off from the brusque movements of the feeder—involuntary, instinctive. The light through that door ajar comes to me again in luminous vision. Seeing Charlie huddled beneath the covers I wish I could give him comfort, explain to him that he has done nothing wrong, that it is beyond him to change his mother's attitude back to what it was before his sister came. There on the bed, Charlie did not understand what they were saying, but now it hurts. If I could reach out into the past of my memories, I would make her see how much she was hurting me.

This is no time to go to her. Not until I've had time to work it out for myself.

Fortunately, as a precaution, I withdrew my savings from the bank as soon as I arrived in New York Eight hun­dred and eighty-six dollars won't last long, but it will give me time to get my bearings.

I've checked into the Camden Hotel on 4lst Street, a block from Times Square. New York! All the things I've read about it! Gotham… the melting pot… Baghdad-on-the-Hudson. City of light and color. Incredible that I've lived and worked all my life just a few stops away on the subway and been to Times Square only once—with Alice.

It's hard to keep from calling her. I've started and stopped myself several times. I've got to keep away from her.

So many confusing thoughts to get down. I tell myself that as long as I keep taping my progress reports, nothing will be lost; the record will be complete. Let them be in the dark for a while; I was in the dark for more than thirty years. But I'm tired now. Didn't get to sleep on the plane yesterday, and I can't keep my eyes open. I'll pick up at this point tomorrow.

June 16

Called Alice, but hung up before she answered. Today I found a furnished apartment. Ninety-five dollars a month is more than I planned to spend, but it's on Forty-third and Tenth Avenue and I can get to the library in ten minutes to keep up with my reading and study. The apart­ment is on the fourth floor, four rooms, and there's a rented piano in it. The landlady says that one of these days the rental service will pull it out, but maybe by that time I can learn to play it.

Algernon is a pleasant companion. At mealtimes he takes his place at the small gateleg table. He likes pretzels, and today he took a sip of beer while we watched the ball game on TV. I think he rooted for the Yankees.

I'm going to move most of the furniture out of the second bedroom and use the room for Algernon. I plan to build him a three-dimensional maze out of scrap plastic that I can pick up cheaply downtown. There are some complex maze variations I'd like him to learn to be sure he keeps in shape. But I'm going to see if I can find some mo­tivation other than food. There must be other rewards that will induce him to solve problems.

Solitude gives me a chance to read and think, and now that the memories are coming through again—to redis­cover my past, to find out who and what I really am. If anything should go wrong, I'll have at least that.

June 19

Met Fay Lillman, my neighbor across the hall. 'When I came back with an armful of groceries, I discovered I had locked myself out, and I remembered that the front fire escape connected my living room window and the apartment directly across the hall.

The radio was on loud and brassy, so I knocked— softly at first, and then louder.

'Come on in! Door's open!'

I pushed the door, and froze, because standing in front of an easel, painting, was a slender blonde in pink bra