The Incredible Charlie Carewe (38 page)

Charlie was ushered into a plain, unpretentious office. Not at all the swank, plush environment he’d expected. Oh, there was a couch but Doc Payne himself was lying on it, in his shirt sleeves. He jumped up and threw down some papers he’d been reading, apologizing for his appearance. The air conditioning was being fixed on the first floor, he said, and the heat had just about got him down. He couldn’t have been nicer, Charlie thought, even offered him a beer from the cooler.

“Got to be better than that, Doc. I’ve got a sizzling hangover this morning.”

“Well, let’s see now,” Larry said. “Which will it be? A shot of B
₁
or a shot of bourbon?” Charlie voted for the latter with a cool beer chaser.

“I was as gentle as I could be,” Larry said to Gregg a few weeks later. “I felt very sorry for him even though I knew my sympathy was wasted. I told him, ‘Here is your money, Charlie, all around you. Here, where sick people get well and return to the world. Here, where we are finding out new treatments, new methods, new ways of helping people. You can be proud of having made a truly great contribution to humanity.’ Of course, this meant nothing to him. He couldn’t possibly”—Larry paused, looking for a substitute word for “understand”—“feel—the importance of it. He said, ‘You mean you don’t operate at a profit? I thought there was money in this racket!’ He admitted that the money had been an outright gift at the time, and that it had been no more than a drop in the bucket to him. But I think he felt as though he’d set me up in something like a profitable oil business, and that the original amount would still be intact.”

They were now finishing lunch in the quiet atmosphere of the Harbor Club situated high above the Battery and overlooking the glittering waters of the busy Port of New York.

Larry had said over the phone to Gregg, “Had an interesting encounter with your friend Carewe. I’d like to talk to you about it.”

Gregg had hoped that there might be some new development, even some evidence that would warrant Charlie’s commitment, something that would keep him out of the world and give a little peace of mind to those around him; relieve them of the tension of “What’s next?”

Apparently Charlie had stayed for hours, enjoying the attention he received from Dr. Payne and his staff. “It was interesting for us also because usually any attempt to get a psychopath in for observation is about as successful as using a butterfly net to capture a kangaroo in full flight. Mostly we get them after they’ve had a brush with the law; after they’ve done something so fantastic that a mental hospital is the only answer. Then, unfortunately, because they don’t fall into any psychotic category, they cannot technically be held.”

“But you use the term ‘psychopath’—isn’t that enough?”

Payne shrugged. “It’s the term used in the profession—far from adequate—etymologically, it simply indicates a ‘sick mind’ It’s a kind of shorthand word that we understand as meaning those who don’t have any psychoses or even psychoneuroses. ‘Constitutional psychopath,’ ‘sociopathic personality,’ ‘semantic sociopath’—none of them quite define it.”

“Odd,” said Gregg, “people—laymen—when they use the word usually connect it up in their minds with something perverted or deadly. You know, like the newspaper headlines: ‘Psychopathic killer,’ ‘Sex fiend.’ ”

“I know. I know,” replied the doctor. “It’s very difficult——” He held his ale up to the sunlight and watched the bubbles rising in the glass. “But you see you can also find the psychopathic personality
with
manic-depressive behavior,
with
schizophrenia, or
with
paranoia; then, to a certain extent, we can handle them. But the typical—the pure—psychopath rarely makes that kind of headlines. He is too clever, too evasive. Evasiveness is one of his distinguishing traits. The ‘higher type’—the ones with good backgrounds, education, etc.—are distinguished by their ability to keep out of jail, usually by exploiting the sympathies of those around them who love them.” He caught the flicker in Gregg’s eyes; he knew he had hit something close, but discreetly did not pursue it, continuing, “And of course, against the background of a mental institution, his superficial appearance and manner are deceptively normal. The nurses fall in love with him and relatives enlist the help of doctors to effect his release, and away he goes and all hell breaks loose again!” He chuckled. “I’ve never met one that wasn’t a charmer.”

“But what is to be done? Apparently it’s a big problem,” said Gregg.

“Takes time, Gregg. It is full of contradictions, opinions, but there will come a time when it is better understood, better defined—and, of course, better treated. One writer said, ‘The psychopathic delinquent is the orphan of both penology and psychiatry.’ ”

Gregg thoughtfully pushed around the crumbs of the remains of his apple pie. He was beginning to despair of getting Larry off the general and back to the particular. He said, “You knew Charlie pretty well, Larry. Years ago. Could you have predicted anything about him?”

“Of course—and did—to you!”

“I mean perhaps some of the tremendous heartbreak the man has caused—and perhaps will cause—might have been prevented.”

“Your own experience, Gregg, has proved it couldn’t. Didn’t you tell me about the wall of disbelief you ran into whenever you suggested some of the things I told you? The common revulsion against the stigma of anything being wrong with ‘the mind’? It is hard enough to get the co-operation of families in the grossest, most obvious cases, let alone a type it takes an expert to recognize.”

“Well, how can the layman recognize it and what can he do about it?”

“Gregg, the layman is no fool. I must amend what I said. He is aware that something
is
wrong, but he puts up with him, excuses him, gets involved with him before he knows it. And now in these days of that dangerous ‘little knowledge,’ people search for motives, and that is even more baffling because he does not seem to be the victim of conflicts, of early traumas, broken homes, overprotection, alcoholism, all the favorite themes of the literature and drama of today. He is not driven by dark passions; there is no delight in evil, no tortured hate of life, no vivid needs. He is a tragic waste—he wastes himself and life and people because he has no values. He is not even aware that he lacks values. He’s far from rare, you know. . . .”

Gregg laughed. “Lord, there could only be one Charlie in the world!”

“In the sense that everyone is unique—yes,” agreed Larry, “but he is—well, a Goering, he is the ne’er-do-well of Victorian fiction; he is the ordinary con man or the irresponsible vagabond hopping freights. One thing they have in common: they all defeat themselves. They may be successful but, inevitably, whatever they have built they pull down around themselves. Again, it’s because they cannot learn from mistakes; they cannot build securely.”

“How about suicide?” Gregg asked, and smiled at the twinkle in Dr. Payne’s eyes.

“Sorry. Very rare. Oh, they’ll talk about it—even make dramatic attempts, well-planned attempts that fail, but, of course, succeed in getting them what they want. No, what I meant by self-defeat is—well, just exactly what is happening in Charlie’s case. I was very sorry, naturally, but not surprised when he told me the state of his finances. It has taken tremendous energy to dispose of so many assets—social and financial—— Oh, incidentally, what about the son? I was extremely happy to hear Charlie complain about the fact that you and the family had ‘completely alienated him’!”

“We didn’t have to! Charlie did it all by himself. We just stood by. Charlie disappointed John on numerous occasions; he shocked him, he embarrassed him with his school friends, until finally John developed a kind of healthy indifference.”

Payne smiled, nodding approvingly. “Good, good, that’s the ticket. I doubt if the boy could have achieved it, however, if he had been with his father from the beginning of his life——”

“Probably not. It provoked a great emotional discovery between him and his mother, a very gratifying one to both of them.”

“How so?”

“Because she had left the discovery up to him. She never said anything about Charlie—she was oddly silent about him, John had felt. But now he feels nothing but admiration for her for not knocking his father. The kind of ‘wall’ that was between them has broken through because of John’s firsthand experiences. He wants her to go to California with him when he goes to work for Herb at the lab, but I don’t think she’ll budge. She runs a fine vacation spot in Clarke Falls. Fox Fire Lodge, it’s called.”

“Then it’s the sister—Virginia—who most concerns you in regard to Charlie, is that right?”

Caught off guard, Gregg studied the efforts of a toy tug in the river below, huffing and puffing alongside the streamlined shape of a great liner moving fractionally into a shed.

The doctor persisted, gently. “You are more than intellectually interested in this man, Gregg; I realize this.” He clasped his firm hands together, the blue prominent veins of age standing out sharply. “What can I do, my friend? How can I help
you?
”

“I wish I knew,” said Gregg seriously, shaking his head. “I suppose I can only stick around, try to outguess him.”

“Can you do this?” Payne’s humorous black eyes glinted behind his glasses.

“I haven’t done very well in the past—God knows I haven’t. And lately I’ve been too occupied with my own problems to do very much about it.”

“Ah, yes, of course, your job,” said Larry. “And what do you think of Washington? Have you met the President?”

“Oh no, not personally. I’ve attended some of his press conferences, of course. But I’m not in the thick of firsthand news. I like to work on it from a distance, from a perspective, from the point of view of how close we are to putting an end to history.”

Payne noticed he did not have his mind on Washington or the imminence of history’s demise.

“From what you’ve told me,” Gregg said, “I think I’d better go back to Nelson.”

“Charlie headed for home, is that it?”

“Naturally. There’s no place left for him to go. Walter has wisely kept him down to an allowance, what Charlie calls ‘petty cash,’ but even so, he has a damned easy life. But that’s not what I mean. You see”—he began to draw diagrams on the tablecloth with the tip of a spoon—“well, let’s put it this way. I became emotionally involved with Virginia, who, to her regret and to my misery, wants no part of me except as a friend.”

Payne nodded sympathetically. “And you are torn between duty and emotional self-preservation, is that it?”

“I’m no hero, Larry. I rationalized my way out of the situation to myself and to the family whom I love. My trips to Washington became more and more extended. I said that they ‘needed’ me down there. Hell, it was just an escape, that’s all. I felt that as long as I kept track of Charlie, and kept in touch with Virginia and her parents, I was doing my share. Oh, I don’t know what I thought, except that it was just too damn difficult for me to live under the same roof with Virginia. John was all squared away—at school and with his mother——”

“But it is Virginia you wish to help, isn’t that right?” the doctor persisted.

“Yes. Yes—
and
Walter and Bea. If Charlie is going to stay at Nelson permanently—and I don’t see how he can do anything else—I think I’d better be there. I can’t do much, but maybe I can keep in the way—keep between him and his effect on them. Virginia has an ambiguous—or ambivalent, you might say—feeling toward him. She hates what he has done, but she will always love the brother—with her own, particular, dear, touching loyalty.” He paused to light a cigarette. “Bea, of course, sees him only as she wants to, but she is easily upset when, at times, he is not the fine, loving son. And he gives Walter ulcers. I tell you, Larry, it is a dreary household—as unhappy a place as you can imagine.”

“There is one thing, Gregg, that might help you——”

Raising his eyes to the waiter who was offering some hot coffee, Gregg said, “No thanks. What’s that, Larry?”

Payne accepted a refill of his cup before he continued. “If you are to be helpful to them, you must keep watch on your own emotions.”

“Oh, I realize that,” Gregg agreed, confidently.

“You must be careful—really
beware
of letting him pull you down to an emotional level; don’t let him engulf you. It would mean your own destruction, and it would be futile, like shaking your fist in a hurricane.”

Gregg laughed. “I’m a peaceful man, Larry—I go to pour oil on troubled waters, not to stir them up!”

Gregg slowed his small sedan at the blinking of a road light ahead. It was hot and muggy and the rain had left the road dangerously slippery. Someone had gone over the edge, apparently; but there were no ambulances around. It was just a tow truck easing a Thunderbird out of the ditch.

He had to stop for a minute to allow for cars coming toward him before he could pull around the truck, and then, as he picked up speed, he caught a glimpse of the familiar marker, “Nelson 20 mi.” As always, his pulse started gaining on him, the years fell away, and he felt like a lovesick kid as the miles decreased between him and the house of the beloved.

To keep from precipitating any objection from Charlie, he had thought it best to return unannounced, forestalling any sort of scene which he wouldn’t be around to handle. . . . The last letter from Virginia, written shortly after Charlie had arrived, said, “As usual, there is a pall over the house. We walk on eggs, Dad and I, for Mum’s sake. She is failing very rapidly and Charlie vacillates between being the attentive, devoted, grieving son, and practicing on his bongo drums up in John’s room.” Bongo drums, for God’s sake, at his age! Virginia said he frequently went to a new, somewhat unsavory night club called the Tam o’ Shanter, where he’d made buddies of some of the boys in the band. That he’d get quite drunk and hilarious and they’d let him join in with them on the traps. “But, of course, nowadays, nobody seems a bit shocked,” she concluded, “they just think he’s a good sport and ‘fun’!”

Gregg felt that there was little he could do except clear up the atmosphere of “walking on eggs.” Utter nonsense. All right, so there was no changing Charlie, nothing they could do, he figured to himself. He would explain fully all the things he had learned about Charlie from Larry Payne, that they must—and they would—readjust their thinking and emotional reaction to Charlie. They could learn to live with him, without catering to him to keep him in a pleasant mood; without being afraid of what he might do, without being embarrassed by some stupid buffoonery, or by the constant possibility of his getting thrown into the local hoosegow for drinking and disturbing the peace.