Pharmakon (24 page)

Friedrich also remembered the day after his ninth birthday when he and Homer were on a train platform waving good-bye to his father as he left for Chicago to talk to a man about opening up a John Deere tractor dealership in the county seat. Ida didn’t like the farm.

Two weeks later he and Homer were feeding the chickens. His mother came outside with a letter in her hand. She told them, “Your father died in a hotel fire with a woman.”

He recalled after a long cry hugging his mother. She smelled of tuberoses. What he liked remembering least was when he finally came up with a thought that would make them all feel better, and said, “At least Daddy wasn’t alone.” His mother slapped him. After she said she was sorry and didn’t mean it, she asked him and Homer nicely to go kill the rooster for Sunday dinner.

The tulip moon was ten feet across, concentric circles of Red Suns and mauve Sweet Loves and Kingsblood followed by Mon Amour planted in holes twelve inches deep with broken oyster shells in the bottoms to keep the voles and moles from dining on the bulbs over the winter.

“Did your dad teach you to put oyster shells in the bottom of holes?” That was Willy. He would have different memories of his father than Friedrich had of his.

“No, we couldn’t afford tulips.” Friedrich had thought about his father enough for one day.

“Why do you know how to do it?”

“I read it in a book.”

“Is that how you learned everything you know?” Fiona smiled.

“Mostly. But not everything.”

“Will you teach me something you didn’t learn from a book?” Reading wasn’t coming easily for Lucy. Dyslexia?

“Something I didn’t learn in a book . . .” Friedrich repeated the question slowly, baffled by the fact that at that moment he couldn’t think of one goddamn thing that he hadn’t learned from a book. “A snake can bite you after you cut off its head.” Friedrich lifted his sleeve, and showed Willy a scar on his wrist where a blacksnake had bitten him.

“Wow.” Willy was impressed. “Why’d it bite you?”

“I put my hand where it didn’t belong.”

“Jack’s planting the tulips upside down.” That was Fiona.

“Maybe they’ll bloom in China.”

“Don’t be silly, Daddy.” Lucy laughed.

“It’s good for Daddy to be silly.” That was Nora. It had been Nora’s idea to roll out the old concrete birdbath that the previous owners of their house had left in the garage and place it in the very center of Jack’s tulip moon. Friedrich filled its heavy scallop-shaped cement bowl with a hose and a blue jay promptly flew in for a bath.

Friedrich’s spade was now turning up a new flowerbed along the path in front of the house that made a sloppy S between the driveway and the front door. He was sweating, blisters had risen and popped, and his hands hurt. Nora offered him her gloves, but he resisted. “Getting soft, time to toughen up” was what he said to her.

The first time the phone rang, Nora ran, but she missed it. A few minutes later, it rang again. Friedrich sprinted. He was out of breath when he picked it up. “Yeah?”

“Professor Friedrich?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“It’s Whitney Bouchard. Is this a bad time?”

Friedrich lied. “No . . . what’s on your mind, Whitney?” Casper had told Friedrich Whitney was going to call.

“I’m not calling about me, sir.” He slurred the “sir.”

“Whitney, have you been drinking?”

“Casper’s the one you should be worrying about.”

“Right now, I’m worried about you.”

“For your information, he’s made a list.”

“Daddy, come back.” Jack banged on the glass of the kitchen door.

“A what?” As Jack’s fists pounded on the window panes, he imagined the glass shattering, shards slashing his wrists.

“A list.”

“What sort of list?” Nora pulled Jack away from the window and her husband’s fantasies of doom.

“People he blames.” He could hear the ice rattling in Whitney’s glass. He remembered Casper’s saying Whitney was going to say terrible things about him, how he wanted to get him kicked out of Yale.

“Whitney, you’re drunk.”

“That doesn’t change the fact you’re on his list. I didn’t make the cut.”

“Does that bother you? Do you think he should blame you, Whitney?” Without thinking about it, Friedrich had shifted into the doctor-patient mode.

“I didn’t do anything to him.”

“But he did something to you.”

“He turned into a jerk. You should see the way he brown-nosed everybody at the club. Did he honestly think people weren’t going to see him for what he is?”

“What is he?”

“The worst kind of social climber, Doc. The kind who thinks he’s superior to the people he’s sucking up to.” Friedrich felt the small hairs on the back of his neck rise. It was as if Whitney were talking about him, not Casper.

“Who else is on Casper’s list?”

“Alfred Griswold.”

“You called the president of Yale?” If Whitney talked to Griswold, Casper would be kicked out of Yale. Maybe even if it wasn’t true.

“No, you think I should?”

“Not unless you want the president of Yale to expel you for being a drunk. Whitney, if you need to talk to me, call me during office hours.”

“Casper is the one that needs talking to. He stole my girl, stole my clothes, God knows what else. He rummaged through all my drawers.”

“As I recall, you loaned him the clothes, Whitney. And you stole his girl first.”

“What girl?”

“The bird-watcher.”

“Well, if I loaned him the clothes, he should have given them back. And none of that makes it alright that he stole my motorcycle.”

“Did you see him steal it?”

“Well, the keys are gone, he’s gone, and it’s not where I parked it last night.”

“Maybe you were too drunk to remember where you left it. Be careful of what you accuse people of, Whitney.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Doc.”

Friedrich hung up the phone, thought of calling Whitney’s mother, but decided he’d better talk to Casper first. He dialed the pay phone in Casper’s dorm. The line was busy.

He didn’t like the sound of a list. He tried to imagine what reason Casper could possibly have to make one. What could he be unhappy about? What could he blame me for? Paranoids make lists. That wasn’t Casper’s problem, that was Friedrich’s problem. The world was Casper’s oyster that fall, not his enemy. Friedrich went back to his family and the tulips.

They were almost done. There were just six bulbs left, one for each of the Friedrichs to plant. Nora and the children were on their knees, dropping the bulbs into the last of the holes they had dug—small hands burying spring’s promise. Friedrich’s back was starting to hurt. He’d used muscles he’d forgotten he had. He stood behind them, leaning on a spade, smiling down on his family.
If it all turns to shit, we can always become farmers,
was what he was thinking but didn’t say.

Wanting to build on the day, not undercut it, he kept his doubts to himself and decided to kiss the mole on the back of his wife’s neck instead. He was just about to drop the spade when the slow thump of a single-cylinder engine caught his ear.

When he turned his head he saw Whitney’s black Triumph motorcycle heading their way. Helmet on, goggles in place, the biker was careening up the wrong side of the street. The motorcycle wobbled, the driver in danger of losing his balance. Friedrich guessed Whitney’d been too loaded to remember that Friedrich had told him to call him at the office for an appointment.

Friedrich didn’t want to talk to him. He was relieved when the motorcycle passed him by. He let the shovel fall and went back to the idea of kissing Nora’s neck. But the motorcycle turned around. Whitney had seen them. The motorcycle rolled to a stop two houses down, opposite side of the street. He got off the motorcycle, put down the kickstand, then took off his helmet and goggles and reached into his pocket. Friedrich realized it was Casper at the same time he saw the boy was holding a gun. Casper was on their side of the street. It was too late to run.

Friedrich took a knee next to his wife. But instead of putting his lips to the beauty mark on the nape of her neck, he whispered, “Don’t look up and don’t say a word.”

“What are you playing at?” Nora thought he was trying to sound sexy.

“It’s Casper.”

“So . . .” She started to turn her head.

“Don’t look. He has a gun.” Friedrich whispered, but Casper seemed to hear him. Keeping his finger on the trigger, he shoved his revolver into his jacket pocket. It was still pointing at the Friedrichs.

“What? Why would he . . . ?”

“I’m serious, just do what I say.”

“Whispering’s not polite.”

“You’re right, Fiona, it’s not.” Friedrich pretended he didn’t see Casper. “Come on, everybody, let’s go inside.”

“I don’t want to go inside. It’s boring inside.”

“What is going on?” Nora was scared and angry.

“Whitney called. Says Casper has a list of people he blames.” Friedrich looked up and, in the glass of the picture window in front of his house, he saw Casper’s reflection staring at their backs. He was walking toward them now, mouth open, his lips pulled back like Homer’s dog when it was ready to bite.

Nora put her arms around the children. “It’s time to go in the house now.”

Lucy stood and turned around before Friedrich could stop her. “Hi, Casper. Want to plant tulips with us?” Casper was on their lawn now. His right hand still gripped the pistol in his pocket. Friedrich could only assume he wanted to get so close he couldn’t miss. Friedrich armed himself with the shovel and waited for Casper’s response.

His clothes were wrinkled, and there was a grass stain on one of his knees. His hair hadn’t seen soap or a comb in days. The finger of his left hand clawed at the side of his head; he looked like his old self.

Lucy took two steps toward him. “Is that your motorcycle?”

Casper stopped walking.

“Can I go for a ride?”

Casper slowly shook his head no.

Friedrich forced himself not to glare at the boy or look him directly in the eye. He focused his gaze on Casper’s chest, slowly moved his hands to the end of the shovel handle. He’d only have one chance to break his neck with a blow to the head. That’s what he intended to do. “Lucy, don’t bother Casper now.”

The seven of them stood frozen in misunderstanding until Jack suddenly stood up, made his fingers into claws, screwed on his scariest face, and growled. Casper turned and walked back to his motorcycle. Helmet and goggles on, he kick-started the engine, clicked it into gear, and pulled away from the curb. He ignored the children as they waved and shouted, “Bye.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Fiona inquired.

“I’m not sure.” Nora roughly yanked the children through the front door.

Friedrich stood on the lawn, shovel in hand, hyperventilating fear even after Casper and Whitney’s motorcycle disappeared down the street.

“Lock the doors and the windows, and take the children upstairs.” Friedrich’s voice was calm as he dialed the operator.

“Is a storm coming?” Willy shouted.

“No . . . maybe . . . yes. Operator, get me the police.”

“How could you let us be out there if you knew . . . ?” Nora was crying.

“I didn’t know.”

“Yes, you did.” Nora slammed the window so hard the pane cracked. The police were on the line now.

“This is Dr. Friedrich. I live at Ninety-two Hamelin Road. I want to report a boy on a motorcycle. He was just here. His name’s Casper Gedsic.”

“What’d he do?”

“He stole a motorcycle and he’s got a gun.”

“He stole your motorcycle?”

“No, the motorcycle belongs to his roommate. Look, none of that’s important. The point is . . .”

“Whose gun?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he point it at you?”

“The point is, I’m a psychologist, he’s a patient of mine. I think he’s having a psychotic episode and is a threat to himself and others.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“I’ve been told he has a list of people he blames.”

“For what?” The cop was taking notes.

“He’s not happy with the treatment he received. Look, I know the president’s on the list. . . .”

“The president of the United States?”

“No, Yale. His name’s Griswold. And I think Dr. Winton might be on it. I tried to call her, but it’s busy. She lives up on Ridge.”

“We’ll send a car to Winton’s.” Friedrich hung up the phone and dialed Winton. The line was busy.

An hour later the doorbell rang. Nora was reading to the children from
Charlotte’s Web.
The spider had just begun to speak. Friedrich peered through the drawn curtains before going downstairs to answer the door. Two black-and-white patrol cars were parked at the curb.

Nora held Jack in her arms as she looked down through the curtains and watched Friedrich talk to the cop who stood on the front step. After a very few words, a complex sentence at most, Friedrich hit his forehead with the palm of his hand, staggered, then grabbed hold of the railing to keep himself from falling and slowly lowered himself down onto the stoop.