I Am the Cheese (22 page)

The doctor and I continue to walk and I am tired suddenly. All that riding.

“Well, what do you know—the traveler’s back,”
Whipper says. He is sitting on the porch with his two friends, Dobbie and Lewis. They are wise guys. I don’t look at them. They are always playing pranks. Once when I was riding the bike around the grounds—Dr. Dupont allows me to do this if I promise not to leave the place—Whipper and his friends chased me and knocked me off and I went flying into a ditch. Whipper is staring at me as I go by and there’s a smirk on his face. I don’t look at him but I know the smirk is there. He’s always trying to steal my box from me. As we go by Whipper, I clutch the box tightly.

Inside, the smell of lilac fills the hallway as usual. Dr. Dupont tries to keep the place homelike. “This is not an institution but a home, a haven for troubled people,” he says.

I hear a growl as we proceed down the hall. I am tired, as if I have not slept for a long time, and when I hear the growl of the dog, I am almost too tired to be afraid.

“Now, now,” Dr. Dupont says, “everything’s all right.” He calls into the other room: “Get Silver out of here—I told you to keep him outdoors.”

Silver is a German shepherd and he is ferocious. He delights in chasing people and knocking them down. He chases me whenever I ride my bike.

We pass the office at the end of the hallway where Luke, the switchboard operator, is usually stationed. Sometimes, Luke helps to serve the meals and he often gives me extra portions to build me up physically. I wave to him as we pass and he waves back,
nodding his head, the mouthpiece clamped to his chin.

Dr. Dupont and I climb the stairs, and Arthur Haynes leans over, watching our progress up the spiral staircase. Arthur Haynes is big and fat and always perspiring. He does not say anything but watches us go up and he looks sad. He is always scratching himself. He gives me the creeps. Arthur Haynes always stays on the second floor, behind the banister, and his eyes follow everybody. I try not to let my eyes meet his.

We reach the top of the stairs and begin walking toward my room and although I do not like it here and I feel somehow that I do not belong here, there is a feeling of belonging, of being among familiar things. I know that Junior Varney lurks somewhere and will try to steal my bike. I know the bad times in the night. I know about that room where they will ask me questions. But I am tired and I am glad my room is waiting.

My room is small and comfortable, with blue wallpaper, gold birds flying on the blue. Dr. Dupont goes to my bureau and returns with the medicine. I swallow the two pills and drink the water.

I sit in the chair and look at the window. Frost edges the windowpane.

“My father,” I say, looking at the window. There are no bars on the window, not like that other room where I sit and answer questions. I hope I don’t have to go there anymore. “Is my father dead?” I ask.

“Please,” Dr. Dupont says, “relax now. Let the medicine do its work. Then we’ll talk.” His voice is
soothing, like syrup, not like that other voice in that other room. I don’t want to think about that other room. But I keep thinking about my father.

“My father is dead, isn’t he?” I ask. I know that my mother is dead. I have knowledge that she is dead. I don’t know how I know but I do. But my father is different. I wonder if he is out there somewhere, waiting for me to find him. I wonder if he is out there somewhere, hurt, injured, waiting for me to bring him help.

“We are all mortal,” Dr. Dupont says, his voice gentle. “We must all die someday.” His voice is so gentle that I lean back in the chair.

“My poor father,” I say. “He is dead, isn’t he? He didn’t get away, did he?”

The doctor’s face is sad; his face is always sad when we talk about my father and I find out again that he is dead.

The doctor takes the package from my hand and I begin to sing:

It makes me feel good when I sing. I watch Dr. Dupont as I sing. He is opening the box. He is a kind man. The medicine is working now and I can feel it in my veins. It’s singing in my veins along with me:

I am singing fine now because I know that I don’t have to go into that room and answer the questions. Maybe later, of course, but not now at least.

The doctor opens the box and takes out Pokey the Pig. My old friend. The doctor is a good man and he found Pokey the Pig for me. He went away and found it and also found my father’s old army jacket and his old hat.

He places Pokey the Pig in my arms.

I rock Pokey in my arms and I’m wearing my father’s jacket and I have on his old cap and now I’m not so sad anymore although I know he’s dead and my mother’s dead, too.

I keep singing, I keep singing.

“Rest awhile,” Dr. Dupont says. “Everything’s going to be all right, Paul.”

I wonder who the doctor is talking to, this somebody he calls Paul. Who is Paul? I know I am not Paul. There is another name I know about but I can’t think of the name now and anyway I am too busy singing, and I hold Pokey the Pig close to me and I smile as I sing because I know, of course, who I am, who I will always be.

I am the cheese.

As evidenced in attached tapes (OZK Series), it was impossible to elicit from Subject A information sought by Department 1-R. Inducement of medication (Refer: Medical Unit Group) plus preknowledge interrogation failed to bring forth suspected knowledge of Subject A. Psychiatric reports (Refer: Psychiatric Profiles Plus Analyses) corroborate results of OZK series tapes. Subject A responded with consistency of earlier sessions. (Refer: Department B-2 Tape Series ORT, UDW.) Data provided by Subject A also consistent with earlier reactions. Deep withdrawal when topics which concern Department 1-R are approached. (Refer: Witness Re-Establishment Project, File Data 865-01, Witness #599-6.) Results of questioning: negative. (Refer: negative results in Tape Series ORT, UDW.)

END TAPE SERIES OZK016

I am riding the bicycle and I am on Route 31 in Monument, Massachusetts, on my way to Rutterburg, Vermont, and I’m pedaling furiously because this is an old-fashioned bike, no speeds, no fenders, only the warped tires and the brakes that don’t always work and the handlebars with cracked rubber grips to steer with. A plain bike—the kind my father rode as a kid years ago. It’s cold as I pedal along, the wind like a snake slithering up my sleeves and into my jacket and my pants legs, too. But I keep pedaling, I keep pedaling …