Letters

Hmp, said Joe (approximately). I then Ripped Up the book, several pages at a time when I Found myself Unable to Rip them all at once. This session is canceled, I Declared. Put that gun away. No more reenactments. Your wife is dead, Joe. Partly my Fault, partly hers, partly yours. Etc. You’ve humped mine; she’s pissed at me; I’m Pissed at you. Genug! Basta! Gun away!

MORGAN (VERBATIM): The score is not settled, Jake. You never Knew the score.

I (IN EFFECT): How so? Because Rennie’s dead and Marsha’s alive? I Didn’t Kill Rennie! [Sudden panic; you understand.] Where’s my Wife?

But as I Made to Leave, Joe picked up and aimed the pistol at me, saying: Dead asleep when I left her. Sit, Horner.

Well. He had explained already, Joe said when I Sat, at least remarked, that his grievance against me was not — at least had for many years not been — that I had Done A and B and C with Rennie, which led to D, which led to E and F and G. It was not even that, for all his efforts to the contrary, his own life, as much as Rennie’s and mine, had been arrested in 1953 by what transpired on 8/31, 9/2, et seq. of that fell year. No. It was (his final, unremitting, unappeasable grievance) that I had Written It All Down.

Wrote It All Down, Horner! he now repeated in a Cold Fury. Just as you’ve been Writing All This Down, since March! That [verbatim, sir] I don’t forgive you, Horner. Even when I contemplate your miserable, your creepy Life; even when I consider, with pleasure, what surely lies ahead for you [I Paraphrase: Condemnation to Life, i.e., to Personality & Responsibility, which in fact, in my View as in his, I had never successfully Quite Abdicated. Petty career as 45-year-old Failure: dull bumbling teacher of remedial English, say, at bottom of pay scale, in 5th-rate community college, to dyslexic dolts. Pussy-Whipped Cuckold Husband of Termagant WASP already pregnant by God knows whom, & who will surely in future either polish & repolish my Antlers or divorce me with punitive alimony. Etc.], [he went on] I do not consider that score settled. I am not reconciled. I do not forgive you. I want you dead. I will now shoot you in the heart. [End of quote.]

But aha, I was Remobilized, and though I Could Not Deny the likelihood of his prophecy, with more spontaneity than I Have on any prior occasion Mustered I here Sprang across the Doctor’s desk and Clutched Joe’s pistol hand with such force (and momentum) that he, it, & I Went Tumbling with his swivel chair to the floor, where, despite his relatively good condition and my Years of Diminished Physical Activity, I Wrestled him to an impasse. Our faces were inches apart. Joe closed his eyes, almost smiled; it was a swoonish moment; I Rallied my Last Strength not to Drift off into Weatherlessness. Then he said, in effect: You are Behaving Like Me, Jacob. I see what the [late] Doctor meant. Look: you’re Mobilized. Your Therapy is done. Your Wife is okay, and she understands about last night. There are no bullets in this gun: only one blank, get it, to scare you with. Our session is finished. Also Der Wiedertraum. Also your Stay at the Farm. Mine too. It’s all finished. Let go now.

He did (I Mean end his resistance), whereat my Grip on his arm (I Meant to Commandeer that pistol, sir, no matter what he said, till I was Up and Out of there) happened to bring the gun barrel to his temple. At the touch of it he opened his eyes — calm and lucid and blue as when I’d First Seen them in Wicomico, but focused somewhere past me — and pulled the trigger.

The gun went off with an astounding bang, and (literally, sir) blew Joe’s brains out. People came running. The mess was dreadful; there was retching. My Head rang. Tombo X was furious; declared this was it. Marsha came in, Cross as a Bear, but then said Wow and after that mainly stared at me. I am Proud to Report that she supported my Subsequent Testimony to the Ontario Provincial Police, a briefer version of the foregoing. I was by them Detained, Interrogated, and Released on my Own Recognizance pending (possible) further inquest — until when, at least, Joe’s death has been ruled Accidental. I myself Engaged our regular undertaker (many of our patients are old) and Set About to Send Word to Morgan’s sons, of whose whereabouts we had no clear record. Burial was planned for today, in the Fort Erie Cemetery, until your fortuitous arrival this morning changed, welcomely, that plan. We are Grateful that the Tidewater Foundation sees fit to arrange and cover the expenses of the funeral of the first president of Marshyhope State University. May I Add my Hope that your client and our former patient Ms. Golden will turn up unharmed. Our files are open for your inspection.