The Demon (29 page)

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to swallow through the taste of bile. He had to move. He had to get up and bathe—o, dear god, he had to bathe, to plunge himself in the water—and get dressed and get out of here and maybe get some rest . . . yes, some rest . . . Jesus, God, some rest. Why in the hell couldnt he move? He had to get up

---and out. (Come on, I/ll race you to the float.) He jerked

himself around and up and cringed as his body scraped through the sheets and his bare feet touched the floor, and he immediately stretched up as far as possible on the tip of his toes. He darted to the bathroom, trying, in an insane ballet, to keep his feet off the floor as much as possible. He felt the cold, slimy tile under his feet and looked around, in the dimness, at the bare bathroom. He hesitated for a moment, then turned on the light and instinctively leaped back. He quickly saw the shit-and pukestained commode and the dried vomit on the rust-stained bathtub. How in the name of krist can anyone sink so low to have to live like this? Animals dont live like this. Then it suddenly struck him that he was there. The scabby hulk couldnt help it, but he— He quickly jabbed at the light switch and started vomiting almost simultaneously. It splattered off the side of the tub onto his legs and the floor. He leaned over the tub until he was finished vomiting, swearing, crying, raging and pleading within himself as he bent so as to prevent any more vomit from splattering on him. When he stopped, he wiped his legs with toilet paper and instinctively started to wipe up the mess he had made, then suddenly dropped the toilet paper and backed out of the bathroom and hurriedly dressed and scrambled from the building.

He thrust
 
himself

through the street, trying to breathe deeply, but unable to rid himself of the smell and taste that burned through him to the marrow of his bones and the pit of his gut. He looked up and down the dreary streets frantically and finally got a cab and went to a Turkish bath.

He stayed in the steam room for hours

visualizing the poison oozing from his pores, constantly swallowing, not because of the bile that soured his taste, but

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because of something that was trying to worm its way up from the depths of the darkness within him. He continued to swallow and to shove this demon down without ever acknowledging its existence.

 
On the way home that night he bought a box of chocolates for Linda. She was surprised by the gift and upset by Harrys appearance. You all right, Harry?

Yeah, sure, why do you ask?

 
O, you look a little pale, like you might be coming down with something.

No, yawning and shaking his head, just a tough day.

 
They tried to act normal, but Harry was fighting sleep but did not want to go to bed too early. He could not let Linda know how tired he was. He sat in his chair trying to think of something to say, fighting his exhaustion and the need of his eyes to close, but he could not get more than a couple of words together and just stared at the television and prayed that it would soon be late enough to go to bed.

 
Linda tried to reawaken the joy and closeness they had shared on the island but could not create the necessary degree of enthusiasm. She made the attempt many times during the evening, but Harry was silent and unresponsive and looked so haggard and exhausted—and . . . and . . . well, haunted. She did not know exactly why that word popped in her head, but she had to admit that it did describe how he looked. She did not like the word either because of the implication. It made her feel very uncomfortable. Especially when she thought of the present Harry had brought home that night, the box of chocolate-covered nuts. It puzzled and upset her. From time to time Harry would bring home a little present for her, but he had never brought home a box of candy. Especially a kind she did not like. Harry always made fun of men who brought home boxes of candy or bouquets of flowers. He said they were always apologizing for something. Yet that was what he had brought home. Not a lace handkerchief like before, or a Peanuts book or some silly little thing he had

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found. This was the thought that disturbed Linda and that she tried to keep from her mind.

 
She was also profoundly disturbed because when they had returned from Jamaica Harry was so relaxed, and they were so happy, that she believed that whatever had been wrong was a thing of the past and that they would continue to live the happy, carefree days of a second honeymoon, but now things were suddenly worse than they had been and Lindas sense of equilibrium was shattered.

 
Harry no longer left the office alone for lunch, but only in the company of his colleagues. He could not risk a reoccurrence of what had happened with Von Landor. Fortunately no real damage had been done, but the next time it might be disastrous.

 
But the occasional nighttime excursions continued, and as they did the fear increased. From Eighth Avenue he went further west to the waterfront, or in the opposite direction to the East River. He knew that fights, and occasional knifings, were not unusual, yet Harry found himself inexplicably and irresistibly drawn back there.

 
But it was not the fear of being physically attacked or beaten that troubled him. What really made him suddenly burn and flush was the fear of contracting a venereal disease. He had not made love to Linda since returning from the Caribbean because of that fear. Many times he thought of going to a doctor for a test, but just could not do it. How could he go into a doctors office and ask for a blood test? The doctor would want to know why. He would ask questions. What could he say? What excuse or reason could he give? Suppose they found out who he really was? He/d give them a phony name, but they would know he was lying. Suppose someone who knew him saw him go into the doctors office? They might ask him why he was there or mention it to Linda or someone at work. Jesus krist, what a fucking mess that

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would be. No. No, if he went to a doctor it would have to be in some asshole place in the Bronx. At night. But even then he could not be certain that he would not be discovered. And anyway, what would be the use? Even if they told him everything was all right, it wouldnt help because deep down inside a part of him knew that he would just go back to those places and so the whole cycle would start over again. There just wasnt any hope. There was no answer.

 
Linda tried, desperately, to continue to believe that it was the pressure of work that was bothering Harry, but it became increasingly more difficult. She still believed that he loved her, but suspicions, or rather vague misgivings, about another woman kept fighting their way into her thoughts. She battled them as soon as they started, but she could not ignore the occasional box of chocolates, and what it represented, and the change in Harrys behavior and appearance. The haunted look increased, and he was not only more morose most of the time, and quiet, but he was always apologizing for something. And not just in words, but in actions and attitude. She had the inescapable feeling that he was apologizing for his existence and was pleading with her, and Harry Junior, to tolerate him. He seemed to be constantly in pain.

 
And he never touched her. He not only did not make love to her anymore, but did not kiss her hello, or goodbye, and when she kissed him he turned his head so the kiss landed on his cheek. He never held her hand or touched her on the shoulder. He treated her like a leper. She would shake her head in disbelief and confusion and tears would slowly form in her eyes and roll down her cheeks and she would sob, and the nights when she was alone, she would cry herself to sleep.

 
She finally swallowed her pride and told her mother what was happening, or what she thought was happening, and was so confused and incoherent that her mother was shocked and disturbed. She had never seen her daughter so distraught. She calmed her down and they spoke as calmly as possible and

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for the longest time her mother was paralyzed by Lindas pain, but was able to console her. She finally suggested to Linda that perhaps she should ask Harry if something was wrong. You know, dear, its just possible that hes sick and doesnt want to worry you.

 
Why would he do that? Im going out of my mind the way things are now. It would be a blessing to know that it was as simple as that.

 
I know, dear, but youre dealing with a man and men are not very logical in these matters. They have some sort of dumb idea that theyre supposed to prove theyre men by suffering in silence, she started laughing, and driving us crazy with the noise of it.

 
Her mothers laughter forced a smile to Lindas face. I hope its just some silly little thing like that—I dont mean I hope hes sick, but I just want—

 
I know, dear, putting her arms around her daughter, I know what you mean. Why dont you just ask him? Maybe this whole thing can be cleared up with a few words.

I hope so, Mom. I pray to God youre right.

 
Linda felt better than she had in months that night, but she just could not seem to find the proper time to ask Harry if there was anything wrong. But that was all right; there was no need to force it. She would simply wait for the right time and then ask him. In the meantime this hope and resolve helped lift her spirits, and so she continued to wait for the right time.

 
Harry started staying at the office for a couple of extra hours at night, occasionally, until he had to rush to catch the last train. On those nights he might nibble at a little food when he got home, somehow force himself to talk with Linda for a little while, then go to bed.

 
His work seemed to be the only thing that kept him from springing apart, the only thing he could still lose himself in. Day by day he felt himself getting tighter and tighter inside

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and the pressure that seemed to squeeze his body increased until he felt that these forces surely would destroy him.

 
He was having lunch with Walt on a daily basis, not only as a precautionary measure but because in the back of his mind he had the hope that he might be able to talk to him and tell him some of the things that were bothering him, at least enough to relieve some of the pressure. And though he had a deep affection for the man, he just could not say anything. He was afraid, among other things, of jeopardizing his position. When Walt asked him how he was, he treated the question, and answered it, rhetorically and nodded and said all right, for fear that if he said anything, anything at all, he would not be able to stop and all the ugliness that had been festering in the blackness of his mind would come spilling out. And so he remained silent, and the knot got tighter and tighter.

 
At lunch one afternoon, in the Bankers Club, they had just been served their soup when Harrys cuff caught on his knife, and when he lifted his hand, the knife splashed in his soup. Harry started trembling and his head shook so rapidly that his vision blurred to the point of almost disappearing, and he suddenly clasped his hands together and raised them over his head and smashed them into the soup as he screamed, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHH, and the soup splashed over Walt and he raised his hands defensively, For krists sake, what in the hell are you doing? and shoved his chair back and Harry leaned his elbows on the table and grabbed his head with his hands and moaned and started sobbing and the waiter and the maitre d came rushing over, Is there something wrong, Mr. Wentworth? Is Mr. White all right? I dont know, confused and bewildered. What are you doing, Harry? Come on, help me with him. Walt put his arms around Harry and helped him to his feet and with the aid of the waiter and maitre d they took him to an office. Harry and Walt were left alone. Harry sat and Walt stood in front of him. They were silent. . ..

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After many minutes Walt offered Harry a glass of water. Harry shook his head. Wentworth held the glass in his hand and continued to look at Harry, who was holding his head in his hands and leaning his arms on his knees. Walt was concerned. Beyond business matters he had a personal affection for Harry. He stood, silent, and waited.

Eventually

Harry raised his head and shook it slightly. Im sorry, Walt. I don't know what....

Walt shrugged awkwardly. You all right, now?

 
Harry shrugged his shoulders and looked up at Walt with a lost expression on his face. Walt looked at him for a moment, then tapped him gently on the back. Come on, lets get cleaned up.

 
Harry was as indispensable as a man could be to the firm. He was a brilliant executive, and still in his early thirties, with many productive years in his future, and had probably not reached his full potential yet. And so the firm intended to do everything possible to protect its investment in Harry; and, on a more personal level, Walt was not the only individual interested in Harrys welfare. And so they insisted that Harry go to the Fifth Avenue Hospital and get the finest medical attention available.

 
When everything had been analyzed and evaluated by the specialists, the diagnosis was that he was suffering from the results of strain and anxiety but that there was nothing organically wrong. So an appointment was made with one of the most respected psychiatrists in the city.

 
While in the hospital Harry nurtured a secret hope that they would find something wrong with him that would explain those strange feelings he had and the need he had to do what he did. He was disappointed when he was given a clean bill of health though relieved at not having a venereal disease.

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If only they could have found a brain tumor that was creating pressure on his brain that would explain everything. And then all they would have to do would be to cut it out and everything would be all right. But no tumor existed. No malfunctioning of the central nervous system. No excessive pressure of the spinal fluid. Nothing. Just him. Nothing.