He need not have worried, because she was more interested in the contents of the envelope than in him. “It can’t be an ad in a plain envelope. The only things that come in plain envelopes without return addresses are wedding invitations – which this isn’t – and dirty literature.” Her expression was uncharacteristically stern. “I won’t tolerate dirty literature in my house.”
“And I don’t blame you,” Chase said.
“Then it isn’t?”
“No.” He opened the envelope and withdrew the psychiatric file and journal articles that Judge had promised to send to him. “I’m interested in psychology, and this friend of mine sometimes sends me particularly interesting articles on the subject when he comes across them.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Fielding was obviously surprised that Chase harbored such intellectual and hitherto unknown interests. “Well … I hope I didn’t embarrass you-”
“Not at all.”
“-but I couldn’t tolerate having pornography in my home.”
Barely refraining from commenting on the half-undone bodice of her housedress, he said, “I understand.”
He went out to his car and drove three blocks before pulling to the curb. Letting the engine idle, he examined the Xeroxes.
The extensive handwritten notes that Dr. Fauvel had made during their sessions were so difficult to read that Chase passed over them for the time being, but he studied the five articles – three in the form of magazine tearsheets, two in typescript. In all five pieces, Fauvel’s high self-esteem was evident, his egotism unrelenting. The doctor referred to the subject as “Patient C”; however, Chase recognized himself – even though he was portrayed through a radically distorting lens. Every symptom that he suffered had been exaggerated to make its eventual amelioration appear to be a greater achievement on Fauvel’s part. All
the clumsy probes that Fauvel had initiated were never mentioned, and he claimed to have succeeded with strategies of therapy that he had never employed but that he’d apparently developed through hindsight. Chase was, according to Fauvel: one of those young men who go to war with no well-formed moral beliefs and who, therefore, are clay in the hands of manipulative superiors, capable of being induced to commit any atrocities without questioning their orders. Elsewhere, he observed that Patient C: came to me from a military hospital, where he had recovered sufficiently from a total nervous breakdown to attempt social reintegration. The cause of his breakdown had been not a sense of guilt but extreme terror at the prospect of his own death, not a concern for others but a crippling recognition – and fear – of his own mortality.
“You bastard,” Chase said.
Guilt had been his constant companion, whether he was awake or asleep. Recognition of his mortality had not been a source of fear, for God’s sake; instead, it had been his only consolation, and for a long time he had hoped for nothing more than the strength to end his own life.
Fauvel had written: He still suffered nightmares and impotence, which he felt were his only afflictions and were a result of his fear. I recognized, however, that the real problem for Patient C was an underlying lack of moral values. He could never heal himself psychologically until he made peace with his horrific past, and he could not make peace with his past until he fully understood and acknowledged the gravity of the crimes that he had committed, even if in war.
Understood and acknowledged! As if Chase had blithely pulled the trigger, waded through the blood of his victims, and then had gone in search of a good shoeshine boy to buff the stains off his boots. Jesus.
Dr. G. Sloan Fauvel – psychiatrist extraordinaire, confessor, and tower of moral rectitude – had therefore: at last commenced the long, difficult process of inculcating in Patient C, by diverse and subtle means, an understanding of the concept of morality and a capacity for guilt. If he could develop a sincere sense of guilt about what he had done, then the guilt subsequently could be relieved through classic therapy. A cure might then be possible.
Chase returned the material to the plain brown envelope. He tucked the envelope under the passenger seat.
He was shaken by the realization that he had spent so much time in the care of a physician who neither understood him nor possessed the capacity to understand. For too long, Chase had trusted in others to save him, but the only salvation was to be found in God and in himself. And after his experiences in Southeast Asia, he still was not entirely sure of God.