I want to get away but he’s a nice old man, white hair and a face with so many red and blue veins that it resembles the road map in his hands. I had stopped at the service station to rest and ask for a map and to check the air in the tires. The old man, who seemed to be just hanging around, was eager to help, using a gauge to measure the air and then hunting up a map.
“I figure I can make ten miles an hour,” I say.
“Lucky if you make five. Or even four,” the old man says. “I don’t think you’re going to make it today, Skipper.”
“My mother and father and me—we once stayed in a great motel in Belton Falls. If I can make it that far, I can stay there tonight.”
The old man squints at the map again. It flutters in the breeze. “Well, maybe. But there’s other motels before then.” He starts to fold the map. “Where you from, Skipper?”
“Monument.” It has turned cold now and the sun has disappeared behind the clouds.
“Let’s see—this is Aswell. How long did it take you to make it here from Monument?”
I really want to be going. “About an hour.”
He strokes his chin with the map. The map bulges in his hand. He has done a terrible job of folding it. “Well, from downtown Monument to this very spot is about five miles. But you had some good hills to coast down. Five miles an hour—probably the best time you’ll do all day.”
“Yes.”
He turns away and looks up at the sky and then back at me again. “What do you want to go for, Skipper? It’s a terrible world out there. Murders and assassinations. Nobody’s safe on the streets. And you don’t even know who to trust anymore. Do you know who the bad guys are?”
I want to be going. I don’t want to listen.
“Of course you don’t. Because you can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys anymore. Nobody knows these days. Nobody. No privacy, either. Next time you use a phone, you listen. Listen close. You might hear a click. And if you do, then somebody’s listening. Even if you don’t hear a click, somebody might be listening anyway.”
I kick at the tire of the bike.
“Don’t trust anybody, Skipper. Ask for identification if a stranger comes near you. But you can’t trust identifications, either. They can forge anything today—passports, licenses, you name it. So if you have to go, Skipper, be careful. Be careful.”
He hands me the road map. “Keep it,” he says. It’s spotted with grease and not folded right but I tuck it into the basket, sliding it between the strap and my father’s package.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Skipper,” he says. “That cap you got on. Haven’t seen one of them for years. In the old days, we called them tooks. The wife used to make them for the kids, with cut-rate wool she picked up at the mill.”
“It’s my father’s cap,” I say. “He kept it all these years. I’m going to visit him—he’s in a hospital in Rutterburg and I figure he’ll get a kick out of seeing the cap.”
“That your father’s jacket, too?” he asks. “Looks like one of them army fatigue jackets. I had a boy in the service. World War Two, that was. He wore a jacket like that. Looked too big for him, like yours. He got killed at a place called Iwo Jima you probably never heard of.”
The blue veins are bulging out on his face, all mixed up with the red ones. I want to leave. I am getting nervous. I feel bad about his son, but I don’t want to talk to him anymore. I’m afraid that he’ll start asking about my father. And my mother.
“I’m sorry about your son,” I say.
He doesn’t say anything but he wipes his hand across his face and sighs heavily as if he is suddenly very tired. “Well, have a good trip, Skipper,” he says, stroking the front tire. “If I was forty years younger, I’d go along with you. The spirit’s willing but the flesh is weak, like they say.”
I leap on the bike. I head for the road.
“Thanks,” I yell, looking back at him. “Thanks for the map and the air in the tires.”
He stands there, looking sad, hands hanging at his sides.
“Be careful now,” he calls, his voice cracked by the wind.
I wave and turn away, pedaling hard.
I have a destination to reach, and the old man is already in the past.
I am away. I am with the wind and the sun. I am the bike and the bike is me.
TAPE OZK002 1430 date deleted T-A
T: Now tell me, should we discuss Paul Delmonte?
A: Who?
T: Paul Delmonte.
(8-second interval.)
T: I’d prefer not to.
(5-second interval.)
T: Amy Hertz, then?
A: My headache is returning.
T: Relax for a moment. I shall send for medication.
A: I’d rather not have medication right now.
T: As you wish.
(10-second interval.)
T: You seem upset. Please relax. Realize that the tension and the headache are anxiety reactions. And I’m sorry you are reacting this way. When we undertook these talks, we agreed that they must be voluntary on your part, that I would act merely as a guide. I would not take you to places where you do not wish to venture, into territory you do not wish to invade.
A: I understand.
T: We can return to Paul Delmonte and Amy Hertz another time.
A: My head really hurts. I feel nauseous, too.
T: Let us suspend, then.
A: Thank you.
END TAPE OZK002
The road is long and level and straight, and there are no dogs in sight and the sun is shining. I sing as I pedal along:
The farmer in the dell,
The farmer in the dell,
Heigh-ho, the merry-o,
The farmer in the dell.
The cars speed past me because Route 119 is a state highway with a faded yellow line in the middle of it like an old ribbon left out in the rain too long. I sometimes steer the bike onto the sand of the soft shoulder, afraid that a car might hit me if I stray too far into the road itself. The wheels slide on the sand and I almost lose my balance. I keep singing:
The farmer takes a wife,
The farmer takes a wife,
Heigh-ho, the merry-o,
The farmer takes a wife.
I try to sing the song the way my father always sings it, comically, making his voice go up and down, then loud and soft. He has a terrible singing voice—“You have a tin ear,” my mother always says—but he always gets a kick out of singing that particular song. “It’s our song,” he says. I can remember how he’d pick me up when I was just a kid and swing me almost to the ceiling, singing:
The wife takes the child,
The wife takes the child …
And then he’d gently place me in my mother’s lap where she’d be sitting, knitting or reading, and I would curl into her body, feeling warm and safe and protected from all the bad things in the world. I was only five or six at the time, I guess. And my father sang raucously and joyously:
Heigh-ho, the merry-o,
The farmer in the dell.
“Dave, Dave,” my mother would say. “You’re a nut, a real nut.” There were laughter and tenderness in her voice, and the lilac of her perfume surrounded me.
“Hey, what other family has a theme song tailor-made for them?” my father would say, acting the clown now, prancing around the room.
The child takes the cat,
The child takes the cat …
“They didn’t make up the song for us,” my mother would say, falling in with the old game that always delighted me. This was in the days before she became sad, of course.
“Who says they didn’t make up the song for us?” my father would ask. Looking down at me, he’d say, “What’s your name, boy?” Pretending to be very serious now.
“Adam,” I’d answer. “Adam Farmer.” Glad to be a part of the game, a part of them.
“Right,” my father would say. “Suppose our name was Smith? Did you ever hear anybody singing ‘Mr. Smith in
the dell, Mr. Smith …’ ”
“Oh, David,” my mother would say. And I’d laugh with delight and my father would begin singing again the way I sing now on Route 119:
Heigh-ho, the merry-o,
The child takes the cat …
The day is suddenly glorious, the October trees burning in the sun, colors rioting, hectic reds and browns. Sometimes the wind rises, startling a flock of birds into flight, sending leaves tumbling through the air and onto the highway. I pass a long meadow where cows lounge lazily, chewing their cuds.
I am glad that I didn’t take the pills and I sing:
The cat takes the rat,
The cat takes the rat,
Heigh-ho, the merry-o,
The cat takes the rat …
I try to keep singing like my father but I have lost the touch. The wind catches at my throat and I realize I have to conserve my breath. My lungs burn and I figure I’d better stop singing for a while. My shoulders throb with pain and my fingers ache where they grip the handlebars.
A hill confronts me, sloping upward endlessly.
I look behind me: nothing.
I get off the bike and stare at the hill.
I start pushing the bike and walk along beside it. I don’t like to walk that way because I feel vulnerable. And I have to go to the john now. I should have gone at that gas station back in Aswell. I could go into the woods but I hesitate to stray from the road. Who knows what lurks in the woods? I am not only afraid of dogs but all animals, plus snakes and spiders. They are not rational. So I need to stay on the road and keep moving, keep moving, even if I am tired. I reach the top of the hill and a beautiful vista is spread below me. A mile or so away, a cluster of buildings and a white church steeple stabbing the sky. And I leap onto my bike again and start down the hill, down, down, seeking again my old friend momentum, and the bike gathers speed and I am sailing now, sailing sweetly, and I am dashing toward that church steeple, heading toward it so swiftly that it seems I could become impaled on it if I lose control of the bike. I am slanting down the hill and the wind eats at my cheeks, biting chunks out of my flesh, and I begin to sing again, trying to sound like my father and failing, but singing just the same:
The farmer in the dell,
The farmer in the dell …
The wind takes my voice and scatters it in the air and it disappears like smoke.
I hit the straightaway.
I am hurtling now, really zooming, and the trees and the telephones flash by.
Heigh-ho, the merry-o,
The farmer in the dell …
My voice breaks loud and clear against the wind, and I breeze on, feeling at last that I am really and truly on the way to Rutterburg, Vermont.
TAPE OZK003 0845 date deleted T-A
T: Shall we continue?
(8-second interval.)
T: Do you feel well?
(5-second interval.)
T: You seem unhappy, distracted. Is there anything wrong?
(15-second interval.)
T: Have you been administered your medicine today?
(10-second interval.)
He had stepped outside himself, departed, gone from this place and was outside looking in, watching himself and the doctor, if he was a doctor. He could be a doctor, he had a kindly face although sometimes his eyes were strange. The eyes stared at him occasionally as if the doctor—if that’s what he was—were looking down the barrel of a gun, taking aim at him. He felt like a target. That’s why he was glad that he could stand aside like this, step out of himself and look back and see the two of them there in the room. He was curious about himself, of course, but he really didn’t want to look at himself and so he kept his eyes directed at his questioner, obliterating himself from the view. He hadn’t realized he could be so clever, so cunning. And he thought, If I can step outside myself like this, maybe I can go to other places. The possibility delighted him, made him forget. Forget what? He wasn’t sure—something—something just hovering at the edge of his mind, scurrying away when he tried to capture it …
T: Shall we continue?
(8-second interval.)
T: Perhaps we should postpone.
(5-second interval.)
T: There is no hurry. We shall try again later.
END TAPE OZK003
The dog is ferocious and I am terrified.
He is waiting for me at the end of a long flat stretch at the bottom of the hill. I had seen him waiting for a long distance when he was only a small, silent lump at the side of the road. Then, as I drew nearer, he revealed himself as a German shepherd, sleek and black, a silent sentinel guarding the driveway of a big white house. The house is set back from the road. I sense that the house is deserted, that I am alone out here with the dog. I pump furiously, wanting to sail by the dog as fast as possible, so fast that I will dazzle him with my speed and leave him stunned by my passing.
The dog lifts his head at my approach, alert, ears sharp, as if he is accepting a challenge. My eyes swing quickly, left to right and back again, but there are no rescuers in sight. The driveway behind the dog is empty, no cars in sight, and the house itself wears an abandoned look, as if the people have all gone away. Across the street, an open field lies behind a wandering low stone wall.
As I approach, the dog steps out into the road and I think, It’s as if he has been waiting for me all my life. The dog is unmoving, his tail not wagging, his eyes like marbles. He is silent, watchful, a killer dog. I am close enough now to see how his sleek hair is shiny, and I tell myself, Let’s go, it’s just a dog, a dog is man’s best friend, it’s not a lion or a tiger.
The dog makes a move, steps into the roadway directly in the path of the bike, his head lifted now, a snarl on his lips. He is silent, he has not barked or growled or maybe I can’t hear the growl as the wind rushes past my ears. I pedal hard, crouched on the bike, fingers clutching the handlebars, legs pumping away, the bike aimed directly for him, afraid that if I try to steer around him, I will somehow lose my balance and be flung to the pavement, at his mercy on the pavement. I slit my eyes and my legs slash away and I hurtle toward the dog. And at the last possible moment the dog darts aside, and now I hear his growl and then the growl erupts into short sharp savage barks and this is worst of all because the barks reveal his teeth.
The dog keeps trying to dash in front of the bike, as if he is more interested in stopping the bike than in attacking me. I take heart at this. The dog bites at the front tire and turns away as the tire scrapes his nose and the wheel wobbles frantically. And I keep yelling to myself, It’s all right, it’s all right, but my words are lost on the wind and inside I am saying, The hell with this, if I get away from this dog, I’m going home, I’m taking the first bus back, the hell with Rutterburg, Vermont, the hell with everything …
The bike is in danger of toppling now as the dog continues to attack the front wheel and I realize with horror that this has been his intention from the beginning: to topple the bike, send it askew and have me crashing to the roadway, his victim.
We are past the driveway now and approaching a curve. I hope desperately that there is safety around the curve, a house or a store or a shack or anything. That’s when I hear a car approaching and a horn frantically blowing. I suddenly realize that I have drifted perilously close to the center of the road. The oncoming car, a yellow Volkswagen with luggage lashed to the roof, has to cut speed and swerve to avoid hitting me, the blast of the horn joined by the squeal of brakes. The dog is distracted by the car and the honking and the screeching and it hesitates for a moment, pausing almost in midair, looking at the car as if puzzled. Or tempted. I keep pedaling. But I can’t resist looking behind me and I see the dog streaking away, down the road in pursuit of the VW, barking wildly, body arched and stretched, a fuzzy furry arrow.
“Let’s get out of here,” I yell to nobody, and renew my pedaling, fear and panic having obliterated any weariness, any aching muscles. The barking of the dog grows distant as I swoop around the cur
ve and sail steadily onward.
I am approaching the main street of Fairfield and it is hardly a Main Street and hardly a town, just a few stores and that church with the white steeple, and I speed through the street, carried by my momentum. I know I should stop but I don’t want to get off the bike. I want to keep going, to get to Rutterburg. I have a feeling that the dog will pursue me forever, will wait for me outside stores if I stop to eat or go to the john. I open my mouth and gulp air and the rush of air is sweet in my lungs and I feel strong again as the air caresses my lungs. I pedal through the town, across a wooden bridge, the sound of the slats like applause in my ears. And I say hello and goodbye to Fairfield and continue on my way, feeling as though I will never stop, never stop.
TAPE OZK004 0800 date deleted T-A
A: Are you a doctor?
T: Why do you ask?
A: Well, I’ve taken it for granted that you are a doctor, a psychiatrist maybe. That first session—you said your name is Brint. But you didn’t say “Dr. Brint.” And this place seems to be a hospital. But is it?
T: I am happy to see you taking an interest in your surroundings. For a long time, you did not do so. But what makes you think this place may or may not be a hospital?
A: Well, it doesn’t smell like one. You know—hospitals have a medicine smell. And high white beds. The doctors wear white coats, the nurses dress in white, too. But not here. This place is more like—
T: Like what?
A: I don’t know. A private home. Not merely a home but an estate. All the rooms and all these people. A private sanitorium maybe.
T: Does this bother you?
A: I don’t know. There are so many things I don’t know.
T: Then let’s find them out, shall we?
(5-second interval.)
T: Those clues, for instance.
A: What clues?
T: You mentioned something about clues earlier.
He was wary again, on guard, distrustful. Yet he had no reason to distrust Brint, even though he was a stranger. Anyway, he was feeling much better, and he didn’t even care if feeling better was only an illusion. Maybe he should tell Brint some of the clues. Not all, but some. He could do it because he felt good, in command. He could parcel out information as if he were dealing cards, a little at a time. But he would have to be clever, cunning.