TAPE OZK008 0930 date deleted T-A
A: The gray man.
T: One moment, please. Let me sit, first.
A: The gray man.
T: You look positively excited. I have never seen you in such a state. This is good.
A: The gray man.
T: And who is this gray man?
A: I’m not sure. But he’s important. It happened last night after I returned to my room. They gave me a pill. And I lay there, letting myself drift. Thinking of all the blank spots that have been filled in—Amy—the clues—and suddenly I remembered him.
T: And you call this person the gray man?
A: Yes. But only in my mind. That’s what I always called him. The gray man.
T: And why was that?
A: I don’t know. I’m not sure. But I think it’s important. He’s important.
T: In what way?
A: I can’t tell yet, I’m not certain. But I think of him, what he looked like, and I know he’s important, a real clue. I can feel it in my bones.
T: Tell me more.
(3-second interval.)
A: I wish I could. But I can’t.
T: Can’t or won’t?
A: Can’t, won’t? Don’t you think I want to remember, that I want to know? All I know right now is that there was a man in the past, someone I referred to as the gray man, and I have a feeling he was important. In all that blackness, he’s the only clue I’ve got.
T: Then rest easy, relax, let it come. Perhaps a pill …
A: No, no pill. No shot, either.
T: Whatever you wish.
(10-second interval.)
T: Anything?
A: Nothing.
T: Don’t force, don’t force. Let the thoughts come. Try to think of this gray man, what he looked like, what his name was, what he did, where did you see him most of the time, was he a friend, a relative, an uncle, perhaps—
A: Shut up, stop.
(10-second interval.)
A: He’s gone. I had him—I had him right on the brink—I almost remembered and now he’s gone.
(5-second interval.)
T: He’ll return. The important thing is that you made contact. Remember earlier? How the clue of the dog led to the clue of Amy Hertz and that phone call. And the phone call led to the birth certificates—
A: I don’t want to talk about all that. I want to go back to my room.
T: There is no hurry.
A: I’d prefer to go back.
T: Let us talk of something else.
A: I want to go to my room.
(10-second interval.)
T: For instance, Paul Delmonte—
A: Is he the gray man?
T: Do you think he is?
A: I don’t know. You asked me about him before. At the beginning. And I said I didn’t want to talk about him. But I was bluffing. I didn’t know who he was.
T: Do you know who he is now?
A: No.
T: Who do you think he is?
A: I want to go back. I’m not going to say another word.
(5-second interval.)
T: As you wish. Let us suspend.
END TAPE OZK008
I am a mile or so outside of Carver on a narrow road in the country, no houses anywhere. Once in a while a car passes, uncomfortably close on the narrow roadway. The road is paved but it’s pockmarked with ruts and holes. The road drops off into a ditch about four feet deep and there is no sandy shoulder. I have no rearview mirror and I try to maintain a straight course as I pedal along. I am glad to be leaving Carver behind and glad for the bike and glad for the sun shining and glad to be safely away from the wise guys, the troublemakers. I am only sad about Amy but I will call her the next time I see a phone booth, before I eat or stash my bike or anything else. She is more important to me than food, than the bike even.
I hear a car coming.
The cars usually don’t speed on this road because it’s not built for speed and there is barely room for two cars to pass each other. But this car that’s approaching is going fast. I can tell by the motor. The motor roars and whines. The motor grows louder. I grip the handlebars tightly, holding on. I am afraid that the car will cause a rush of wind that will suck me off the road as it passes.
The car approaches, the sound of the motor gathering in volume, filling the air. It soars past me, at great speed, so close that it almost brushes my elbow. I am thrown off balance and lose speed and the bike almost tips over as the front wheel wobbles. The car recedes ahead of me and I want to raise my fist and hurl an insult at the driver but I look up and see a familiar face in the rear window of the car. One of the troublemakers at the lunchroom.
I pedal furiously now, not because I want to catch up with them but because this road is deserted and I want to reach a better road or highway as soon as possible. I feel more vulnerable than ever. There are no houses in sight. Most of the cars use the interstate that runs parallel to this old road. I keep pedaling. There’s a curve ahead. Maybe there’ll be a house or a new road or something around the curve.
I hear the car again. That unmistakable motor. The car is coming back. The car is rounding the curve, heading in my direction. The car’s grille looks like the grinning mouth of some metal monster. The car is pink, a sickly pink, the kind of pink found in vomit. The car thunders by and I see the face of Whipper at the wheel and his grin is as evil and ferocious as the car’s grille. The other two guys poke their heads out the window and laugh raucously as they go by.
I reach out and touch my father’s package in the basket and I keep pedaling. There is nothing else to do but keep pedaling. I approach the curve and coast for a moment, anticipating rescue there. But there is nothing. Only open fields. Why do the ecologists think we are running out of space on this planet? I’ve seen so many unoccupied and uninhabited places today that I’m starting to feel lonesome for stores and houses and sidewalks and traffic jams. But now there is a panic in the loneliness. I know the car will come back.
The motor ignites the air again. I hear it coming.
The sound of the motor is louder now, as if magnified, as if the road is a tunnel with invisible walls and the thunder of the motor reverberates against those walls, increasing the decibels. I keep myself rigid, crouched on the bike, and the car comes closer, closer.
This time the car brushes me. I feel the wind, like a monster’s foul breath, and I feel the contact of metal and a whine as the metal strikes my bike. The bike is wobbling dangerously and I hang on. I fight to regain my balance. My shoulder bursts with pain and I realize that something has struck my shoulder. One of the guys in the car tried to hit me as the car went by. Now it’s gone again. But it will come back. I know it will come back.
“God,” I say, and the word fills the emptiness left by the car, fractures the silence of the country air. I should have taken my pills this morning. I think of my options. I can leave the road and hide in the fields. But the fields present no hiding place. There is only a scattering of trees and I would be spotted right away. I would also have to abandon the bike. And I can’t stay here, either. The car will mow me down. I can only keep on riding, riding—hoping a car will come along that I can flag down. Or maybe the wise guys are tired of the game, maybe they won’t come back after all. Maybe they realize what they’re doing and that it’s against the law: assault with a dangerous weapon. They have turned the car into a weapon.
I hear the car coming again. Not toward me as I expected.
The motor whines. From behind me.
I hang on. I pedal furiously to maintain balance. I gather speed and momentum. My legs hurt and my arms hurt and my body hurts but I keep pedaling, hurried by the sound of the motor like a wind blowing me along. I hear the squeal of the car’s tires and the whine of the motor and it’s coming, coming, louder and louder, powerful and undeniable, and I brace myself.
The car brushes by and hands reach out for me, pushing, grabbing, and I lose my balance, the bike wavers under me and heads for
the ditch, the steep ravine by the side of the road, and I am helpless to halt its progress toward the ditch, and the wheels spin and I hear raucous laughter as I loom at the edge of the ditch and then feel myself falling, spinning, sucked into the ditch, sucked into the wetness and darkness of a sudden startling nighttime.
TAPE OZK009 0900 date deleted T-A
T: Are you feeling better? They say you refused to get out of bed yesterday. Are you better today?
(10-second interval.)
T: They say you have not eaten. That you have not slept. That you lie there staring into space.
(5-second interval.)
T: But we know that you are not merely lying there staring into space, don’t we? You are thinking, aren’t you? Remembering?
(15-second interval.)
T: And much of what you are remembering is unpleasant, isn’t it? Terrible. But I am here to help you make it not so terrible.
(10-second interval.)
T: You must allow me to help you get through this. You must not withdraw.
(10-second interval.)
T: You must stay with us—you must not retreat—
(5-second interval.)
T: You must face the gray man. Otherwise everything will come to a halt.
(10-second interval.)
T: We shall try later. Please—take the medicine. Food, at least. I am here, always, to help you. Remember that.
END TAPE OZK009
TAPE OZK010 0900 date deleted T-A
T: And how are we this morning? Forgive my cheerfulness but it’s a beautiful day outside. The birds are singing. It is quite a beautiful day.
(10-second interval.)
T: You look alert this morning. Eyes bright. Flesh tones normal. How do you feel?
(10-second interval.)
T: They tell me you have eaten. Breakfast, at least. That’s good. You must keep up your strength.
(10-second interval.)
T: Do you wish to converse? We can speak about anything you wish. I leave it up to you.
(5-second interval.)
T: There is no need to discuss the gray man. Unless you wish to. We can talk about anything at all, anything.
(5-second interval.)
T: Very well. We can suspend. There may come a time when you wish to speak to me and I may not be here.
(10-second interval.)
T: Let us suspend, then.
(10-second interval.)
T: Suspend.
END TAPE OZK010
“You all right, son?”
I hear the voice and see the face at the same time as I rise from the spiraling darkness where there was nothing to hold on to and I wanted to scream with panic but could not and now suddenly You all right, son? and the panic is over and the face above me is kind and concerned, an old face, a grandfather kind of face.
“I’m all right,” I say, struggling up. I don’t like to be flat on my back—I always sleep on my stomach—and I don’t like to be confined or held down. My instinct, then, is to get up on my feet, flailing my arms at anything that might try to hold me down, confine me.
“Take it easy, son,” the man says, still gentle, still calm.
I nod my head, stalling, trying to establish myself in the world again. My arms ache and my mouth tastes metallic, like dirt and acid mixed together.
“You must have had quite a tumble,” the man says.
I stand erect and the world settles down around me and I remember what happened—the troublemakers and the car and the plunge into the ditch.
“Is the bike all right?” I ask.
“Seems okay,” the man says.
We are standing by the side of the road. The man’s car, a big station wagon with paneling, is parked nearby. A white-haired woman sits in the car, a worried expression on her face.
“Is he all right, Arnold?” she calls.
“Yes, he is, Edna,” he answers. Then to me: “Sure you’re okay? Boy, I was coming along slow, the wife doesn’t like to go fast since she had her stroke, and I saw one of the wheels of your bike sticking up out of that ditch and we stopped and I came over to look, although the wife says people should mind their own business. You were lying in the ditch like you was fast asleep. I pulled your bike all the way up and then your eyes fluttered and you came to.”
I nod, thinking of the wise guys. I look around, wondering if they might return. I wonder how long I’ve been unconscious in the ditch.
“What time is it?” I ask. My head aches.
“Coming up to four o’clock,” the man says, his voice a Yankee twang, like a violin string being tuned.
“Thanks for stopping,” I say. “I appreciate it. I guess I lost my balance on the bike and fell into the ditch.”
“No broken bones?” he asks.
I flex my arms and pat my chest and thighs.
“No broken bones,” I say.
“You from around here?” he asks.
“We’re going to be late, Arnold,” his wife calls.
“One minute, dear,” he says, raising his voice. And again to me: “Can we give you a lift, son? We’re going up to Hookset. You look kind of tired.”
“Hookset, that’s right next to Belton Falls, isn’t it?”
“Only a mile or two.”
I know that I have been determined to cover the distance by bike but it’s almost four o’clock and I’ll never make Belton Falls before darkness at this rate.
“Listen, we can throw your bike in the back of the wagon. And don’t mind my lady. She hasn’t been herself since the stroke. Got no patience, poor thing. But she’s a fine lady.”
I realize that the important thing is to reach Rutterburg as soon as possible and not the manner of traveling.
“Well, if you don’t think your wife will mind …,” I say.
“You come with us. How far did you say you’re going?”
“I’m going to Rutterburg, Vermont, but I’ll be satisfied to make Belton Falls tonight. There’s a motel there I can stay at and then arrive fresh in Rutterburg tomorrow morning.”
“Well, you come along,” he says. “We can take you as far as Hookset, and Belton Falls is just next door. I’d take you all the way but my lady has an appointment at the doctor’s.”
I push the bike toward the car and my legs resist movement. They echo with pain, my arms throbbing, my calves pulsing. I am a sheet of pain but the car awaits and I can rest and let my body renew itself.
“Don’t mind my lady,” the man says. “She’s not herself these days.”
I climb into the backseat of the car after putting the bike into the back of the station wagon. The woman darts a quick look at me and sniffs, her face pinched, her nose wrinkled. The smell of liniment fills the air, not locker-room liniment but sickroom liniment.
“I’m not very comfortable with strangers in my car, Arnold,” she says. And the man shakes his head and murmurs, “Now, Edna, poor boy’s had a fall and needs a ride. That’s all.”
The car bumps along, slow, about twenty miles an hour, and speeds up a bit once going up a hill, and the woman says, “Not too fast, Arnold, not too fast.”
I close my eyes and let the minutes pass, let myself coast, let my body relax. I begin to feel nauseous. I have never been carsick in my life but now my stomach bounces with the movement of the car and I am afraid I will have to vomit. I look out the window at the passing scene. We are entering a town: Fleming, probably. That is my next stop and I think that maybe I should get out in Fleming and get some Alka-Seltzer in a drugstore. But I think of pedaling all the way from Fleming to Hookset and I tell myself, Hold on, hold on.
I begin to sing to myself, silently so that the man and woman won’t hear me:
The farmer in the dell,
The farmer in the dell,
Heigh-ho, the merry-o,
The farmer in the dell …
I sing and I think of the motel waiting in Belton Falls and how a good night’s sleep will soothe my body and restore my energy and how tomorr
ow I will see my father in Rutterburg.
The wife takes the child,
The wife takes the child,
Heigh-ho, the merry-o,
The wife takes the child …
It is pleasant now, drifting and singing, my stomach not churning anymore and the car purring smoothly, and then I hear the man say, “Well, we’re here, son …”
I must have fallen off to sleep because we are on a busy street, traffic heavy, neon signs pulsing in the gathering dusk.
“Is this Hookset?” I ask, surprised at the quick passage of time.
“Do you think we’d lie?” the woman asks, sniffing again.
“Now, Edna,” the man says.
He stops the car and I get ready to leave. I gather my package and the road map. My stomach is nauseous again but I figure I will go into the first drugstore I see and order an Alka-Seltzer. I open the door and the sounds of the city grow in my ears, as if someone has turned on the volume.
The man gets out of the car to help me with the bike and he says, “I hope you get there all right, boy. You look kind of green around the gills there. Better get some rest before moving on.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it very much.”
He pats me on the shoulder and goes back to the car and I look around for a drugstore. Despite my stomach, I am glad to be in Hookset because it is only a short distance now to Rutterburg, Vermont.
TAPE OZK011 0915 date deleted T-A
A: My arm hurts. My body hurts. All those needles.
T: I am sorry. I shall ask them to shift the area of penetration. You realize it was necessary, don’t you? You retreated completely. We had to take drastic measures.
A: I know.
T: You do understand, then?
A: I don’t understand anything, really. Why I’m here. How I got here.
T: That’s what we’re attempting to learn. That’s why we are going through—all this.
(8-second interval.)
T: It’s possible that you went into retreat because you were getting close to remembering—and there will be pain in the remembering. You realize that, don’t you? It’s possible that the gray man represents the key and at the last moment you refused to use the key, afraid of what would be lurking beyond the door the key would open.