Devil’s Waltz. By: Jonathan Kellerman

we both get some fresh sludge?”

He thought for a moment. “Sure, why not?”

The cafeteria was closed, so we went down the hall, past the Residents’

Lounge, where a row of vending machines stood next to the locker

room.

A thin young woman in surgical scrubs was walking away with two

handfuls of candy bars. Chip and I each bought black coffee and he

purchased a plastic-wrapped packet containing two chocolate chip

cookies.

Farther down the corridor was a sitting area: orange plastic chairs

arranged in an L, a low white table bearing food wrappers and

out-of-date magazines. The Path lab was a stone’s throw away. I

thought of his little boy and wondered if he’d make the association.

But he ambled over and sat down, yawning.

Unwrapping the cookies, he dunked one in the coffee, said, “Health

food,” and ate the soggy part.

I sat perpendicular to him and sipped. The coffee was terrible but

oddly comforting-like a favorite uncle’s stale breath.

“So,” he said, dunking again, “let me tell you about my daughter.

Terrific disposition, good eater, good sleeper-she slept through at

five weeks. For anyone else, good news, right? After what happened to

Chad, it scared the shit out of us. We wanted her awake-used to take

turns going in there, waking her up, poor thing. But what amazes me is

how resilient she is-the way she just keeps bouncing back. You

wouldn’t think anything that small could beso tough.

“I feel kind of ridiculous, even discussing her with a psychologist.

She’s a baby, for God’s sake-what kind of neuroses could she have?

Though I guess with all this she could end up with plenty,’ couldn’t

she? All the stress. Are we talking major psychotherapy for the rest

of her life?”

“No.”

“Has anyone ever studied it?”

“There’s been quite a bit of research,” I said. “Chronically ill

children tend to do better than experts predict-people do, in

general.”

“Tend to?”

“Most do.”

He smiled. “I know. It’s not physics. Okay, I’ll allow myself some

momentary optimism.”

He tensed, then relaxed-deliberately, as if schooled in meditation.

Letting his arms drop and dangle and stretching his legs.

Dropping his head back and massaging his temples.

“Doesn’t it get to you?” he said. “Listening to people all day?

Having to nod and be sympathetic and tell them they’re okay.”

“Sometimes,” I said. “But usually you get to know people, start to see

their humanity.”

“Well, this is sure the place to remind you of that-A rarer spirit

never did steer humanity; but you, gods, will give us some faults to

make us men. Words, Willy Shakespeare; italics, mine. I know it

sounds pretentious, but I find the old hard reassures me-something for

every situation. Wonder if he spent any time in hospitals.”

“He may have. He lived during the height of the black plague, didn’t

he?”

“True. Well”-he sat up and unwrapped the second cookie-“all credit to

you, I couldn’t do it. Give me something neat and clean and

theoretical, anytime.”

“I never thought of sociology as hard science.

“Most of it isn’t. But Formal Org has all sorts of nifty models and

measurable hypotheses. The illusion of precision. I delude myself

regularly.”

“What kinds of things do you deal with? Industrial management?

Systems analysis?”

He shook his head. “No, that’s the applied side. I’m

theoretical-setting up models of how groups and institutions function

on a structural level, how components mesh, phenomenologically. Ivory

tower stuff, but I find it great fun. I was schooled in the ivory

tower.”

“Where’s that?”

“Yale, øundergrad; University of Connecticut, grad. Never finished my

dissertation after I found out teaching turns me on a lot more than

research.”

He stared down the empty basement corridor, watching the occasional

passage of wraithlike white-coated figures in the distance.

“Scary,” he said.

“What is?”

“This place.” He yawned, glanced at his watch. “Think I’ll go up and

check on the ladies. Thanks for your time.”

We both stood.

“If you ever need to talk to me,” he said, “here’s my office number.”

He put his cup down, reached into a hip pocket, and pulled out an

Indian silver money clasp inlaid with an irregular turquoise.

Twenty-dollar bill on the outside, credit cards and assorted papers

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *