10

Stripped to the waist, Kane sat on the edge of the examination table in the clinic. Fell continued with the physical checkup Kane had submitted to at his nagging insistence.

“Any blurring of the vision? Any feeling of just generally seeming unglued?”

“No.”

Fell grunted and shone a penlight into Kane’s eyes. Then he clicked it off and slipped it into a pocket of his white jacket. Folding his arms, he leaned back against a wall and looked up at Kane. “If you don’t take to locking your bedroom door at night and scheduling regular office hours for consultation with the inmates, I’m recommending Rest and Reassignment, Doctor, and it won’t take long to process, believe me. I’ve got all kinds of juice where it counts.”

Over the past ten days the inmates, especially Cutshaw, had subjected Kane to barrages and sallies by day and by night.

“I’m serious,” said Fell. “You’re just plain driving yourself too hard.

On the level. I can do that. You want that done? Reassignment?”

Kane’s eyebrows knitted together. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Chronic fatigue, for one thing. Rapid pulse rate. Your blood pressure’s fine for an attacking rhino. What the hell are you trying to prove?”

Kane lowered his head and was silent. Then he murmured, “Maybe so.”

“Maybe what?”

“We might do with a few restrictions. A couple. I’ll think about it.”

“Hooray. Now you’re getting some sense.”

Neither man could see Cutshaw eavesdropping out in the hall, a little to the side of the open clinic door. Hearing footsteps coming down the stairs, Cutshaw hurried away, pale and troubled.

“Picking up any insights?” asked Fell. “Any answers?”

Kane slipped his shirt off a hanger on a tree pole. “Maybe Cutshaw,” he said, looking thoughtful.

“What about him?”

“He keeps after me on God, on metaphysical questions.” He slipped on the shirt and began to button it. “There are some of us who feel that the root of all neuroses lies in the failure of an individual to perceive any meaning in his life, or in the universe. A religious experience is the answer to that.”

“That’s what Cutshaw wants? Religion?”

“He wants his father to be Albert Einstein and Albert Einstein to believe in God.”

“Then the men aren’t faking it. Is that what you believe? I mean, is that your instinct?”

Kane said simply, “I don’t know.”

They left it at that.

The following day, Kane was standing in the hall alone, examining a painting by one of the inmates, when Fell came up beside him. “How’s the boy?”

“I’m fine,” said Kane, his eyes still fixed on the painting. It was the one with the needle through the finger.

Fell gestured at it with a move of his head. “Does that mean something?”

“All of them do. They’re clues to a man’s unconscious. Like dreams.”

Fell lit a cigarette. “And what about your dream?” he asked. “Still having it?”

Kane did not respond. Instead he said, “Cutshaw doesn’t paint. That’s too bad.” He looked thoughtfully at Fell. He studied him intently. A troubled look had furrowed the skin around his eyes. “I dreamed about you last night,” he said.

“Really? What did you dream?”

“I don’t remember,” said Kane, still troubled. “It was something odd.”

The men looked up at the sound of barking.

“Colonel!”

Reno and his dog bounded up to them. Breathlessly, Reno said, “Colonel, I’m in trouble. You’ve got to help me.”

Fell said, “Take an enema and check with my service tomorrow morning.”

Reno cupped his hands around his mouth so that his voice took on a boomy resonance. “Dr. Fell, you’re wanted in surgery. Put some acupuncture needles where you need them most.” He glared at Fell and muttered, “Jerk!” Then he turned to Kane. “I meant motivational trouble, not medical. I speak of the problem of Hamlet’s madness. I’ve been having an argument, Colonel, a monster, and I’d like you to settle it once and for all.” Reno frowned. His dog sat on its haunches beside him. “Listen, here’s the puzzlement, the perplexity, the curious, mysterious fandango. Do you mind if I sit down, by the way?”

“Go ahead,” said Kane.

Reno sat on the floor. “Now, some—” He broke off and glared at Fell, who was laughing, a hand pressed over his mouth. Reno said blackly, “Why don’t you go inoculate a fucking armadillo, Fell. Get lost, pal. Take a hike.”

“Let’s go into my office,” said Kane.

“Yeah, sure.”

As they walked with him, Kane prodded him gently. “You were saying?”

“Lovely man. I was saying that some Shakespearean scholars say that when Hamlet’s pretending he’s crazy, he really is crazy. Correct?”

Kane turned to look at Reno. “That’s so,” he said.

“But other Shakespearean scholars say that when Hamlet’s pretending he’s nuts, he really isn’t nuts. They say it’s an act. Now, Colonel, I come to you as a shrinker and as a sympathetic pussycat. Please give me your opinion.”

“I’d like to hear yours first,” said Kane.

“Terrific psychiatrist! That’s class!”

They had arrived at the office. Kane stood and Fell sat down on the sofa. Reno stood near the door with his dog.

“Okay, now,” said Reno, “let’s look at what Hamlet does. First, he shtravanses around the place in his underwear. Correct? And that’s only for openers.” Reno started ticking off the points on his fingers. “Then he calls the king his mother; tells a nice old man, a hard worker, that he’s senile; he throws a tantrum at a theater party; and then he starts talking dirty to his girlfriend while she’s sitting there watching the play. She just came there to watch it; what did she come there for, to hear Hamlet’s dirty mouth?”

Kane began to speak, but Reno interrupted.

“Like a sewer, Hamlet’s mouth! Good God almighty, that’s his girlfriend there!”

“Ophelia,” grunted Fell, blowing smoke.

“Very nice,” grated Reno. “So much for your medical confidentiality.”

“The problem,” urged Kane.

“Yes, the problem. The problem is this. Pay attention! Considering how Hamlet is acting, is he really and truly nuts?”

Kane said, “Yes,” as Fell was saying, “No.”

Reno said, “Both of you are wrong!”

Kane and Fell looked at each other without expression: Reno ran to Kane’s desk and leaped up on it, sitting on its edge. He lectured Kane and Fell. “Take a look at what happens: his father dies; his girl leaves him flat; then comes an appearance by his father’s ghost. Bad enough, but then the ghost says he was murdered.

And by whom? By Hamlet’s uncle! Who recently married Hamlet’s mother! Listen, that by itself is a great big hang-up; Hamlet, he liked his mother-a lot! Listen, never mind that: I don’t want to talk filth. All I say is, what happens to this poor schmuck is very unsettling at the least. And when you see he’s a sensitive, high-strung kid, all these things are enough to drive him crazy. And that’s especially when you consider all of this happened in very cold weather.”

“Then Hamlet’s insane,” Kane concluded.

“No, he isn’t,” corrected Reno, his face glowing. “He is pretending.

But-but!-if he hadn’t pretended to be crazy, he would have gone crazy!”

Kane’s demeanor grew more intensely alert. He kept his gaze locked firmly on Reno.

“See, Hamlet isn’t psycho,” the inmate continued. “However, he’s hanging on the brink. A little push, you know, an eensy little teensy little shove, and the kid would be gone! Bananas! Whacked out! And Hamlet knows this! Not his conscious mind: unconsciously he knows it; so his unconscious makes him do what keeps him sane: namely, acting like he’s nuts! ‘Cause acting nutty is a safety valve, a way to let off steam; a way to get rid of your fucking aggressions and all of your guilts and your fears and your—”

Fell started to interrupt and Reno cut him off sharply, warning, “Watch, you! Don’t talk dirty!”

“I never talk—”

“Quiet, you! I know you: a dirty mind in a dirty clinic! Even your dental floss is dirty!”

Avidly, Reno turned back to Kane. “Little Booboo, Hamlet avoids going crazy by pretending that he’s crazy; by doing ridiculous, terrible things. And the crazier he acts, the healthier he gets!”

“Yes,” breathed Kane. There was dawning in his eyes.

“I mean terrible,” Reno continued. “But meantime, he’s safe; understand me? Look, if I did what Hamlet does in the play, they’d lock me up, you understand? They’d put me away in an institution. But him? Prince Royal Garbagemouth? He gets away with murder. And why? Because nuts are not responsible for their actions!”

“Yes!” Kane was agitated.

“Does Hamlet think he’s crazy?” asked Fell.

“Come on, nobody crazy thinks he’s crazy,” Reno answered disdainfully.

“Christ, what a putz.”

Neither Kane nor Fell spoke. Reno said, “Does silence mean consent?”

“A Man for All Seasons,” murmured Fell.

Reno shook his head in disbelief.

Kane’s eyes were fevered. “I think,” he told Reno, “I agree with your theory.”

Triumphantly, Reno whirled on his dog. “There! You see, dumb, stubborn idiot! From now on we do the scene my way!” He turned to Kane, said, “God bless your arteries, Colonel,” and walked out of the office. “Come on,” he snapped at the dog. “Rip Torn, you don’t know shit!”

Kane sat down at his desk and stared at his telephone. After a silence,

Fell spoke. “I want you to listen to me,” he said. “Groper laid on some rules today, like no more visitations with you after seven o’—” “Groper shouldn’t have done that!” Kane interrupted.

“I told him to do it.”

“You had no right!”

“I told you, you’re driving yourself too hard!” Fell’s voice was heated.

“I want the restrictions lifted,” said Kane.

“Terrific!” Fell shook his head. “I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that the Hamlet theory is a ploy dreamed up by Cutshaw to get you to lift the restrictions.”

Kane’s face was alive, excited.

“Any comment on that, Little Booboo?” asked Fell.

“I only wish,” Kane said fervently, “I were sure that it was so!”

“Oh, you can be sure, all right. Take a look in Cutshaw’s footlocker and you’ll find a book called Madness in Hamlet. You know what’s in it? The theory that Reno just gave us.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“So Cutshaw put Reno up to it!”

“What else?”

“Good! It fits!” said Kane.

“The hole in my head?”

“The Hamlet theory is correct: it’s precisely the condition of most of these men! And Cutshaw’s sending in Reno to explain it is just like those paintings out there in the hall: someone’s disguised and terrified shout for us to help him-and telling us how!”

“And that someone is Cutshaw?”

“His unconscious!”

Kane picked up the telephone receiver and pressed on the intercom buzzer. Then he gazed up at Fell. “Incidentally, how do you know what’s in Cutshaw’s footlocker?”

“Can’t tell you. ‘Medical confidentiality.’ ”

“Get me Fort Lewis,” Kane ordered into the phone. He sounded exhilarated. “Quartermaster’s Office. Thank you.” Kane hung up and awaited the connection.

“What are you doing?” Fell asked.

“We’re going to need some supplies.”

“What for?”

“We are going to give the men their ‘safety valve’ to the greatest possible degree. We are going to indulge them monumentally.”

“Precisely how do you propose to do that?” Fell asked.

Kane explained it.

Fell looked troubled. “Do it in writing,” he advised. “Don’t you think?”

“Oh?”

“It’s a little far out for most people, not to speak of the military mind,” reasoned Fell. “If I were you, I’d lay the arguments out on paper.”

“You think so.”

“Give the imbeciles something to look at. Pieces of paper make them feel more secure.”

Kane thought. Then he buzzed and canceled the call, and Cutshaw burst in upon them, exclaiming, “We want to play Great Escape!” He pounded a fist on Kane’s desk. “We want shovels, picks and jackhammers!”

Fell decided that Cutshaw must have been eavesdropping in the hall outside the office while Kane was explaining his new approach. He excused himself, went to his bedroom, telephoned the Pentagon general again and had an argument. He lost. That evening he flew to Washington and early the next day he resumed the argument in person. This time he won.

On his return, Kane asked where he’d been.

“Got an uncle in trouble,” Fell explained.

“Can I help?”

“You’re helping. Every kind thought is the hope of the world.”