Ceremony of the Innocent

  They went to Ellen, and had difficulty in arousing her attention. They knew how heavily her doctors kept her under drugs, “to calm and soothe her.” “Mama,” said Gabrielle, catching the stench of liquor and wrinkling her nose, “your doctors aren’t doing you much good. We’ve decided to consult another. You will help us, won’t you?”

  Ellen was dimly alarmed, then she smiled lovingly. “Certainly,” she said. She frowned as if puzzled. “But I’m really feeling much better—some of the time. I sleep very well.”

  Gabrielle and Christian had had the thought of persuading Ellen to refuse to see Dr. Cosgrove, but had had second thoughts concerning it. Charles Godfrey, he had more than hinted himself, would petition the judge to demand other opinions, and the judge would naturally consent. After they had persuaded Ellen to see Dr. Cosgrove they approached him discreetly themselves. But he refused to see them.

  “I want to form my own opinion,” he told them on the telephone, in a deep quiet voice. “This is a serious matter, Miss Porter. I refuse to let you try to influence my conclusions. I assure you that if I believe your mother needs to be institutionalized I will so recommend it. No, I don’t want to hear, just now, what Dr. Lubish and Dr. Enright have said. I do know, however, that their reputations are excellent.” He did not add that he knew all about Dr. Lubish’s private clinic.

  “There is no need to tell all you know,” he said to Charles, in the latter’s office. “Yes, those men are authentic psychiatrists; they are no charlatans.”

  “What do you know about them privately, George?”

  Dr. Cosgrove winked. He was a short, broad, and very jolly little man, with a rosy face and gay alert eyes. “Every man, it is said, has his price. Is that enough? I will talk to them myself, after I’ve seen Mrs. Porter.” He became serious. “It is very possible that Mrs. Porter is indeed in need of institutionalization. If she is, Charles, I am going to agree with our noble friends.”

  Gabrielle expertly “dressed” her mother for the consultation with Dr. Cosgrove. “We must look our best,” she chided Ellen. “You don’t want us to be ashamed of you, do you? There, dear. You look wonderful.” Gabrielle had applied a purplish layer of rouge on Ellen’s ravished face and heavy lipstick on her sick dry mouth. She had frizzled Ellen’s faded hair and had perched a very youthful new hat, a small one, on top of the shaking mound. She had bought Ellen a violently red tight dress, which stretched at the seams, and with a scandalously short skirt. Ellen feebly protested; even she could see the parody of an aging and raddled hag in her mirror. “But you look splendid!” cried her daughter, standing off and clapping her hands in mock delight. “Ten years younger, at least!” She became grave; she squatted on her heels before her mother. “Now, Mama, we are going to be very good—and honest—with Dr. Cosgrove, aren’t we? We are going to tell him everything, so he can help you. We are going to tell him of our awful dreams, and forgetfulness, and our nightmares and our lack of appetite. We are going to tell him how you think Papa is with you all the time—”

  “But he is, dear.” Ellen’s voice was small and smothered. Gabrielle nodded. “Good. Be sure and tell the doctor that, and how you hear Papa talking to you all the time. Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we are going to tell him about that nasty liquor, too, aren’t we?”

  Ellen colored under the streaks of gaudy rouge. But she said, “Yes,” very humbly. “I do want to get well, dear.”

  As Dr. Cosgrove had told Francis that he was not to bring the children of Ellen to his office, Francis brought her himself. He concealed his concern when he saw Ellen, for she had not spoken or taken his offered hand. But he said with brightness, “You really look very well, Mrs. Porter. That—er—dress, and that hat—they are very becoming. You are a good shopper.”

  Some of Ellen’s fear of strangers left her. “I—I didn’t buy them myself. My little daughter did—Gabrielle. She—she put this stuff on my face, too.”

  Dr. Cosgrove nodded. He had suspected such. Then Francis said, with stiffness, “I think it is all hideous, Doctor. Ellen doesn’t usually wear paint and powder; I never saw them on her before, and her eyebrows aren’t black and shaggy like that. And the dress and hat are horrible. They make her look like a clown.”

  Ellen stared at him, her dull eyes suddenly glinting. “My daughter knew best,” she said. “Francis—go away—please.” Her breath came hard and fast.

  Dr. Cosgrove, prepared not to have much mercy on Francis, was now sympathetic. Charles had told him a great deal. “A real burning zealot, George. One of those ideological pure-in-hearts. But you’ve probably read much about him in the papers. I’ll let you form your own opinion.”

  Francis retired to the waiting room, and Dr. Cosgrove saw Ellen’s vague but poignant relief. He put her with kindness into a chair facing him. He saw her clenched hands, the rising fear in her poor face, her shrinking. She kept wetting her painted lips. Once, he thought, she was a beauty; it is in her bones, the hint of her former coloring. She has been destroyed, perhaps deliberately.

  He smiled at her, a warm and generous smile. He sat in his chair and looked, Ellen thought distantly, like a Santa Claus without the beard. He rocked gently in his chair and continued to smile at her. But inwardly he was aghast. It was obvious that she was, indeed, very ill, physically at least. The white and shrunken neck; the mottled hands, beyond her actual years; the dried and sickly skin; the shapeless breast; the tremulousness about her mouth. Her constant blinking. She gazed at him fearfully. He said, “Haven’t we had the hottest weather this summer? Do you mind it, Mrs. Porter?”

  “No. Yes.” She lapsed into dullness again. “I—I don’t notice it. I don’t go out very often. I don’t remember when last I was out.” In her voice he heard the echoes of once lovely cadences.

  “Well, I don’t blame you for not going out much,” he said heartily. “Tell me. Did you bring the medication Dr. Lubish gave you?”

  “No one told me to,” said Ellen. But Dr. Cosgrove had specifically ordered Gabrielle, on the telephone, to have her mother bring her medication with her. His bright smile became set and mechanical. “I—I take a lot of pills,” Ellen added, as if in apology. “Blue, pink, white, yellow—”

  “With whiskey, too,” the doctor said in a matter-of-fact tone. Again the unhealthy color flared out under the purplish rouge. But she saw he was not condemning her. “Yes,” she faltered. “Dr. Lubish said it would be good for me. He even gave me prescriptions for it, so it would be—genuine—whiskey.”

  She looks at least sixty-five or seventy, thought Dr. Cosgrove, and his full red mouth thinned. Well, we’ll see. He rang for his nurse and took Ellen, who was trembling again, into his examination room. She looked about her helplessly.

  “What are you looking for, Mrs. Porter?” he said with compassion.

  “Why, why—the dressing room—and the gown.”

  “Why?”

  “The other doctors—they always examined me—every time.”

  Ah, thought Dr. Cosgrove. “We’ll dispense with all that, Mrs. Porter. You’ve been examined enough. Except for your blood pressure and heart, and above all, your eyes. Your eyes.” He had seen the dwindled pupils. “Then we’ll have a little chat.”

  “Chat?” she repeated. Her voice trembled. “I’ve told the other doctors everything. They can tell you.”

  “No. Just tell me yourself. I will ask the questions.” He saw her terror. He leaned towards her, over his paunch. “Mrs. Porter, don’t be afraid of me, above anything else. I am your friend. Believe me, I am your friend. Nobody is going to hurt you, ever again. I promise you that.”

  He waited, compellingly. She began to relax. She even attempted a piteous smile. He nodded, reached out and touched her hand. His own was warm and firm, and all at once she trusted him, as never she had trusted Dr. Lubish. He talked to her quietly and soothingly, and her eyes filled with tears. She began to sob, and he did not scold her as Dr. Lubish invariably did.

  “I
want my husband—Jeremy!” she cried, and wrung her hands.

  “Certainly you do, Ellen, certainly you do. That is only natural. I’m a widower, and have been for twelve years. And I still want my wife. She is still my wife. And I believe, very surely, that someday we will be joined together again. Just as you will be joined to your husband.”

  “Well,” said Charles Godfrey to Dr. Cosgrove as they sat in Charles’ office two weeks later. “You’ve told me nothing, except that you have put Ellen in the hospital, with private nurses, and have forbidden any visitors. How you managed that I don’t know. Congratulations, anyway.”

  “I had able help,” said Dr. Cosgrove. “That burning zealot, her present husband. You were right. He honestly cares about her. I pity him. He is truly devastated; he wants her to be what he calls ‘well.’ He never questioned any of my orders. After all, thank God, as her husband he comes before her children, under the law at least. He even appears at night, until very late, to be sure that my orders are carried out, and Ellen’s children refused admission. They’ve hounded him, of course. But he stands against them, just repeating what I’ve told him to say. And the nurses I ordered are grenadiers. Good women. I’ve told them a little, and they understand. They’ve seen such things before, unfortunately.”

  “What do you tell Ellen when she asks for her children?”

  “I tell her that I’ve informed them that she must be quiet, and alone, for a while, and that they agree with me. God help her, with children like that. I’m glad I don’t have any; no regrets. This is not an exceptional case. I’ve handled others just like that.”

  He took the drink the impatient Charles gave him, and pondered. He became somber. “She’s been systematically drugged. She is suffering some withdrawal symptoms, which can’t be helped. But she is not an alcoholic. I do permit her a drink or two a day, and it quiets her.”

  “Drugged!” Charles exclaimed. “I suspected that, but had no proof.”

  The doctor made a wry face. “There’s another thing. I have no proof anyway, except her condition. I can’t accuse those rascals of anything, in court. The law demands proof. At the very worst they can claim that they prescribed what they thought best for her—and who is to deny it? They can even swear they gave her only mild sedation, for her nerves and hysteria—and who is to prove differently? After all, into the bargain, they do have an excellent reputation, and the judges respect them. I asked Mr. Porter to bring me all of his wife’s medicines, and he innocently brought a bottle of aspirin, Bromo-Seltzer, and a very mild sedative. There was nothing else in her rooms, he said, and I believe him. But who is to say who spirited it all away? Who is to accuse whom? We are on dangerous ground. My own accusations, and physical findings, and suspicions, would mean nothing without actual proof.”

  “George, you could have brought in another psychiatrist.”

  Dr. Cosgrove gave him another wry smile. “The medical fraternity sticks together. We don’t want any scandals about our brethren. The American Medical Association doesn’t like it at all. The public must have faith in its physicians. I see their point myself. After a friend of mine reminded me.”

  “Damn,” said Charles.

  Dr. Cosgrove comfortably filled his pipe. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve had a nice little visit with Lubish and Enright. We understood each other, without much argument. I named the drugs I suspected they had given her, and hinted that we found some forgotten bottles, secreted away. I recalled to them certain medical ethics—Well, to cut it all very short, they’ve discharged Ellen, and will not see her again.”

  “No!” cried Charles with delight. Then he was no longer delighted. “All right. Ellen is safe in the hospital, just now. But what will happen when she is discharged? Her children could get men like those other two, again, and it will start all over. She trusts her children implicitly, and, as you have said, God help her and other mothers like her.”

  But Dr. Cosgrove was not disturbed. “Let’s not cross our bridges until we come to them.” He was as unoriginal as Charles himself when it came to metaphors. “I’ve had a long talk with Francis Porter, too. He has written a formal letter—at my dictation—to Miss Gabrielle and Mr. Christian, and has warned them that as he is Ellen’s husband he especially forbids them to visit her without his permission. They are also warned not to call any other physician for Ellen, without my express and written orders. By the way, your friend, Mr. Wainwright, has received a copy of that letter, and I have one here for you, too. Mr. Wainwright has withdrawn from the case.”

  Charles sat back, his face glowing with fresh delight. “You have been busy, haven’t you? So Ellen is safe for a time. But you haven’t told me all about her condition.”

  “She is extremely undernourished. We are forcing nutrition on her, telling her that she will cause her children much worry if she refuses. There has been an improvement, I am glad to say, in spite of the original, and continuing, withdrawal symptoms, which are subsiding. We hope to have her completely cleaned out in another week. The nurses take her on the garden roof, in the pavilion, every day for walks, in spite of her protests. But she is calmer. I repeat to her, over and over, that her late husband would be very angry if he knew that she was resisting all of us. I have told the nurses to encourage, an unsuspected reservoir of fortitude. I doubt she will ever love as hers is frightening. I never encountered such devotion and passion before, in any woman. No one should love another like that. It is murderous, to the lover. But then, as you’ve told me, she never really had anyone else. Tragic. She will never get over it. But at least I hope that she will soon begin to accept it, as once she was so beginning, as you’ve told me, until she made this second marriage.”

  “Then you think you can cure her, George?”

  The doctor hesitated. “In rare cases, such as hers, she cannot be completely cured of love. But I have discovered that she has a lot of courage, an unsuspected reservoir of fortitude. I doubt she will ever forget, but at least she will learn to endure. I wish she had some religion.”

  “She did. Until Jeremy was murdered.”

  “So? I wonder if there is any way of restoring it. It would be of magnificent help.”

  Charles mentioned Maude’s suggestion, and the doctor nodded brightly. “Let the good Reverend try, at any rate. It won’t do any harm. It may do some infinite good. If he is tactful.”

  “He is an old priest, and tactful, and old priests are very wise, George.” Charles asked, “What of poor Francis?”

  “Now, there is another sad case. I have advised him, as delicately as possible, not to try to see her for a long time, until she is discharged from the hospital.”

  “But I’m afraid her marriage to him precipitated her condition.”

  “Yes. We’ll come to that, in time. She’s not in the least psychotic, though she’s neurotic, which is no wonder, considering her history. I had thought to ask him to leave his wife, but then remembered her children. So I told him that though it might be best, for a long period, for her not to be overtly aware of his presence, in her house, he must guard her. From her children. I had to do some subtle reasoning with him there. He believes her children to be devoted to their mother. He was considerably shocked, and incredulous. So I told him that they might, with the best of intentions, of course, bring other physicians to her in her house, or take her to their offices, and that would cause her to have a perhaps fatal relapse. He is really a very simple soul, in spite of his ideological madness. He is, himself, quite psychotic. Didn’t you know that?”

  “I suspected it. All his kind are, as Jeremy used to say.”

  “Yes. There is an old saying: ‘Who will guard the city when madmen are the guards?’ Well. There is a very thin line between sanity and insanity, as you know. They often overlap. We are all occasionally mad. But men like Francis Porter never are quite sane. We have one hold on him, fortunately. He loves his wife, and love is the best of guardians.”

  Charles was moved, thinking of his wife. Then he said, “Jochan Wi
lder, whom you know, has persuaded his former wife, Kitty, to leave the United States for a long, long world cruise, or something. She won’t be bothering Ellen any longer, either.”

  Dr. Cosgrove was not certain of that. “At any rate, we’ll come to some decision much later. By that time I hope to have Ellen restored, physically, and good health is, in itself, an excellent protection against knaves.”

  He sighed. “The more I see of my fellow men, the gloomier I become. We are all the sons of Cain. Murder is our familiar.”

  C H A P T E R 40

  CHARLES CALLED IN GABRIELLE and Christian Porter, “for a consultation.”

  He looked at the two with stern and bitter hatred, and condemnation.

  “I don’t need to beat about the bush. You have been warned by your own former attorney, Mr. Wainwright, that if you attempt, again, to injure your mother you will hear from him, and privileged communications’ be damned. Above legal ethics there is the preservation, literally, of the innocent life of another, whose life is in danger from mortal enemies. You two are the mortal enemies of your mother. One more attempt out of either of you—and I will tell your mother everything. I will advise her, even force her, if necessary, to write a new will and leave you nothing. Nothing. That is the only thing you understand, isn’t it? Money.”

  Christian did not pretend to be astounded or appalled. He smiled viciously at Charles. “A new will can be overthrown. She is insane.”

  “You’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you? But she is not in the least insane. True, she has been driven to the edge of insanity—by her children. Her dear and beloved children. Damn you both! Push me too hard, drive me too hard again, and I’ll bring legal action against you. Don’t smile. To save themselves, Lubish and Enright will testify that your mother was never psychotic, and that you both, and others, lied to them about her and misled them. You’ve made affidavits, filled with perjuries. Do you know what the penalty for perjury is, in New York State? Fines, and imprisonment for five years.”