The Doomsters

6

I WASN’T SURPRISED, just disappointed. Tom had played his part in the postwar rebellion that turned so many boys against authority. But he had been one of the salvageable ones, I thought. I’d helped to get him probation after his first major conviction – car theft, as usual – taught him a little boxing and shooting, tried to teach him some of the other things a man should know. Well, at least he remembered my name.

“What happened to Tom?” I said.

“Who can say? He was only in a short time, and we hadn’t got to him yet. Frankly, we don’t spend much time on personal work with addicts. It’s mostly up to them. Some of them make it, some don’t.” He looked down into the folder on his desk. “Rica has a history of trouble. We’ll have to notify the police of his escape.”

“What about Carl Hallman?”

“I’ve been in touch with his family. They’re contacting Ostervelt, the sheriff in Purissima – he knows Carl. I’d rather handle it unofficially, if it’s all right with you. Keep this car trouble off the books until Carl has a chance to think twice about it.”

“You think he’ll come to his senses and bring it back?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. We could at least give him a chance.”

“He’s not dangerous, in your opinion?”

“Everybody’s dangerous, given the wrong circumstances. I can’t predict individual behavior. I know that Carl got rough with you. Still, I’d be willing to take a chance on him. His hospital record is good. And there are other considerations. You know what happens when a patient goes out of here, with or without leave, and gets into any kind of trouble. The newspapers play it up, and then there’s public pressure on us to go back to the snake-pit days – lock the loonies up and forget about them.” Brockley’s voice was bitter. He passed his hand over his mouth, pulling it to one side. “Are you willing to wait a bit, Mr. Archer? I can get you transportation back to town.”

“I’d like a few questions answered first.”

“I’m overdue on the ward now.” He glanced at the watch on his wrist, then shrugged. “All right. Shoot away.”

“Was Carl being kept here by his brother Jerry, after he needed it?”

“No. It was a staff matter, essentially my decision.”

“Did he tell you he blamed himself for his father’s death?”

“Many times. I’d say that guilt feeling was central in his illness. He also attached it to his mother’s death. Her suicide was a great shock to him.”

“She killed herself?”

“Yes, some years ago. Carl thought she did it because he broke her heart. It’s typical of psychotic patients to blame themselves for everything that happens. Guilt is our main commodity here.” He smiled. “We give it away.”

“Hallman has a lot on his mind.”

“He’s been getting rid of it, gradually. And shock therapy helped. Some of my patients tell me that shock treatment satisfies their need for punishment. Maybe it does. We don’t know for certain how it works.”

“How crazy is he, can you tell me that?”

“He was manic-depressive, manic phase, when he came in. He isn’t now, unless he’s starting to go into a windup. Which I doubt.”

“Is he likely to?”

“It depends on what happens to him.” Brockley stood up, and came around the desk. He added, in a casual voice, but glancing sharply down at me: “You needn’t feel that it’s any responsibility of yours.”

“I get your message. Lay off.”

“For a while, anyway. Leave your telephone number with Miss Parish down the hall. If your car turns up, I’ll get in touch with you.”

Brockley let me out, and walked rapidly away. A few steps down the hall, I found a door lettered with Miss Parish’s name and her title, Psychiatric Social Worker. She opened it when I knocked.

“I’ve been hoping you’d come by, Mr. Archer, is it? Please sit down.”

Miss Parish indicated a straight chair by her desk. Apart from the filing cabinets, the chair and desk were about all the furniture the small office contained. It was barer than a nun’s cell.

“Thanks, I won’t take the time to sit down. The doctor asked me to leave my telephone number with you, in case our friend changes his mind and comes back.”

I recited the number. She sat down at her desk and wrote it on a memo pad. Then she gave me a bright and piercing look which made me self-conscious. Tall women behind desks had always bothered me, anyway. It probably went back to the vice-principal of Wilson Junior High, who disapproved of the live bait I used to carry in the thermos bottle in my lunch pail, and other ingenious devices. Vice-Principal Trauma with Archer’s Syndrome. The hospital atmosphere had me thinking that way.

“You’re not a member of Mr. Hallman’s immediate family, or a close friend.” The statement lifted at the end into a question.

“I never saw him until today. I’m mainly interested in getting my car back.”

“I don’t understand. You mean he has your car?”

“He took it away from me.” Since she seemed interested, I outlined the circumstances.

Her eyes darkened like thunderclouds. “I can’t believe it.”

“Brockley did.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean I doubt your word. It’s simply – this eruption doesn’t fit in with Carl’s development. He’s been making such wonderful strides with us – helping us look after the less competent ones – But of course you’re not interested. You’re naturally resentful about the loss of your car.”

“Not so very. He’s had a good deal of trouble. I can afford a little, if he had to pass it on.”

She looked more friendly. “You sound as though you talked to him.”

“He talked to me, quite a lot. I almost got him back here.”

“Did he seem disturbed? Apart from the outburst of violence, I mean?”

“I’ve seen worse, but I’m no judge. He was pretty bitter about his family.”

“Yes, I know. It was his father’s death that set him off in the first place. The first few weeks he talked of nothing else. But the trouble had died down, at least I thought it had. Of course I’m not a psychiatrist. On the other hand, I’ve had a lot more to do with Carl than any of the psychiatrists.” She added softly: “He’s a sweet person, you know.”

Under the circumstances, the sentiment seemed slightly sticky. I said: “He picked a funny way to show it.”

Miss Parish had emotional equipment to match her splendid physical equipment. The thunderclouds came into her eyes again, with lightning. “He’s not responsible!” she cried. “Can’t you see that? You mustn’t judge him.”

“All right. I’ll go along with that.”

This seemed to calm her, though her brow stayed dark. “I can’t imagine what happened to stir him up. Considering the distance he’d had to come back, he was the most promising patient on the ward. He was due for a P-card in a very few weeks. He’d probably have gone home in two or three months. Carl didn’t have to run away, and he knew it.”

“Remember he had another man with him. Tom Rica may have done some pretty good needling.”

“Is Tom Rica with him now?”

“He wasn’t when I saw Carl.”

“That’s good. I shouldn’t say it about a patient, but Tom Rica is a poor risk. He’s a heroin addict, and this isn’t his first cure. Or his last, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. I knew him when he was a boy. He had his troubles even then, but he was a bright kid.”

“It’s queer that you should know Rica,” she said with some suspicion. “Isn’t that quite a coincidence?”

“No. Tom Rica sent Carl Hallman to me.”

“They are together, then?”

“They left here together. Afterwards, they seem to have gone separate ways.”

“Oh, I hope so. An addict looking for dope, and a vulnerable boy like Carl – they could make an explosive combination.”

“Not a very likely combination,” I said. “How did they happen to be buddies?”

“I wouldn’t say they were buddies, exactly. They were committed from the same place, and Carl’s been looking after Rica on the ward. We never have enough nurses and technicians to go around, so our better patients help to take care of the worse ones. Rica was in a bad way when he came in.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A couple of weeks. He had severe withdrawal symptoms – couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Carl was a positive saint with him: I watched them together. If I’d known how it was going to turn out, I’d have–” She broke off, clamping her teeth down on her lower lip.

“You like Carl,” I said in a neutral tone.

The young woman colored, and answered rather sharply: “You would, too, if you knew him when he’s himself.”

Maybe I would, I thought, but not the way Miss Parish did. Carl Hallman was a handsome boy, and a handsome boy in trouble was a double threat to women, a triple threat if he needed mothering.

Not needing it, and none being offered, I left.