“Nevertheless.” the guide says, “we are trying to be thorough, and if all the pieces of this fit together as in the exquisiteness of an expensive puzzle, then Katherine too must be adjudged. The trouble is that we simply do not have the information at this time to do so.”
“I want to see the boy’s room,” the albino says to his mother. “You promised me we would see the boy’s room. Can we go in now?”
“Wait,” the mother says. “We’ll get there soon. This is very interesting.” And indeed it is apparent that she has selected a new posture, her hands and lips folded in concentration, her head at an intense angle leaning forward. Somehow she has managed to convince herself, I gather, that the tour is “educational” and since it is almost over she can come to terms with knowledge.
“Well, then,” the guide says, “so much for Katherine.”
“Did she get along well with her parents?” the heavy man says. “What kind of relationship was it?”
“Much more equable than might be thought under the circumstances. Most of the obvious tensions were directed toward Michael and to the displaced idea of ‘other,’ somehow lower-class people who in some way menaced the Westfields’ position, without ever menacing it to the degree that they were visible. Unfortunately, the level of ironic insight in this family was low and Mr. and Mrs. Westfield did not, perhaps, see that fine discrimination between the real enemy and the construction which we, in these more advantageous days, have been able to. In any event Katherine got along rather well and there does not appear, in any of the extant documents, to be any indication of dislocation, argumentation or neurosis. It is indicated that she might have withdrawn into herself to some degree, and it is similarly indicated, perhaps, that the girl was able to contrive an identity for herself as seen apart from the style of her life, and this might have been her salvation. I use the word ‘salvation’ loosely, of course, since we do not know where she is today or what she is doing. So be it. May we please now go into Michael’s room? This way, please,” and he leads us with a brisk wave of the hand in that direction, emerging through the gate and our huddle without visible discomfiture and moving at some high posture of attention through the hallway.
As we shuffle to follow him I try to intercept Joanne and say something to her, but apparently she does not see me, is seized in a kind of concentration of her own which sends her out in pursuit of the guide with an intensity and focus similar to that which she acquires during sexual intercourse. I was able to graze her elbow unsatisfactorily and whisper, “You okay?” but other than an absent shake of the head which manages to simultaneously conceal and reveal an extremity of feeling she says nothing at all; and feeling somehow useless and slightly shamed I sink to the bottom of my purposes, following the crowd at a good remove, and enter my room, seeing once again that familiar cubicle, so small that the guide must motion all of us to stand outside as once again he vaults the gate and confronts us. My room is even smaller than the bathroom, although, perhaps, the decor is more individual, the objects slightly more various. Still, it is only a bed, a chair, a small lamp table which could be contrived into a desk for writing (but which never was) and a couple of photographs of historical figures on the wall, these photographs having been given by a distant relative as a house present at some time and having been hung in my room because there was no place else to put them where they would be both on display and very much out of the way. It is these photographs to which the guide points first.
“These portraits of Abraham Lincoln, Aaron Burr, Jefferson Davis and Winston Churchill,” he says, “are one of the most interesting aspects of this room. The prominence of their display and the obvious care with which they have been framed indicates that Michael Westfield was somewhat of a historical enthusiast who projected himself into the life and times of well-known political figures and who, by hanging their portraits on his wall for easy confrontation, probably obtained a good jolt of identification with them. Exactly why these portraits were selected is unknown, for aside from their prominence these men have little ideologically in common; but the suggestion has been advanced by several scholars that what they did all share was power and a certain sense of their consequentiality, and Michael Westfield was probably prone to power fantasies, which gives the clear link. At any rate. There is very little else to see here; the room is far more functional than the others, as you will note, and in fact is only functional; it contains a bed, a table supporting a lamp and a shelf full of books which upon inspection show an astonishing eclecticism and superficiality. It has been theorized that Michael Westfield had certain ambitions to be a writer, but if this is so we have been able to discover nothing that would support this thesis; certainly the room is not that of a writer, but only that of a person who tried to display the minimal contact possible with his surroundings, and it is indicated that a good deal of his waking time was spent away from his home. Perhaps his sleeping time as well, although no relationships have been verified.
“Michael is what the scholars have called ‘the dark Westfield,’ and although this is a rather dramatic way of putting what I take to be a rather dull issue, I think that this is understandable. ‘Dark’ not necessarily in terms of personality or configuration—although gloom would have been his natural posture as fully as that of any of the other members of his family—but ‘dark’ in the sense that so very little is known of him. It is apparent that he grew up in this house, interacted with it, lived through all of the great issues of the family, and yet the extent of his reactions is undetermined, the amount of direct written testimony to his experiences is almost nil. It has been suggested by one of the curators that Michael might have been a borderline schizophrenic operating toward the catatonic range, and that the reason so little is known of him is because there was so little which he evidenced; indeed these experiences, the life in the Westfield home might have had only a marginal effect upon him. It is interesting to speculate upon Michael in this fashion, as to whether what he went through in these corridors had any long-lasting, individual effect upon him or whether, by reasons of genesis or coincidence, he was of a certain personality fix which would have turned out the same way in any environment. If this latter would be the truth there is certainly irony here! Indeed there is irony because the life of the Westfields was so right, so provocative, so metaphoric and so indicative that it is strange to realize that it may have had no real effect upon their only son. Not because of lack of attempts, of course. Michael’s present whereabouts, as well as those of Katherine, are unknown; it is suggested that he might be living and working somewhere in the Midwest. There has been no word from him, however, since the time of the restoration. No word from Katherine either. These siblings have certainly attempted to cut their roots and who—consider this carefully now before you make the easy answer—who can blame them?”
“Indeed,” murmurs the scholar. He seems to be fascinated and for the first time that day uncontentious. “Indeed, indeed. Who can blame any of them?” His companion strokes his shoulder, mutters something.
“We have one interesting artifact however,” the guide says, opening the drawer of the lamp table and producing a sheet of typewriter paper folded in quarters. “As I say, there are certain internal indications and evidences that Michael Westfield might have had aspirations to being a writer and we have here a piece of literary composition which, although still not officially accepted as by his own hand, is probably his. The curators have been unable to make a final decision and this piece is therefore considered to be contestable, but there are certain indications in the writing and in the plot of this piece which suggests the family life of the Westfields and which might well render it authentic. In any event, I will be happy to read it to you; it is quite short, probably written somewhere in the mid-teens of the boy, and you may find it of interest.”
Indeed the typewriter paper—if it is what I think it is—is authentic, and if it would not bring all kinds of calumny and difficulty upon me, I would probably raise my hand and establish it as such for the guide, for indeed he seems to be taking more of a personal interest in this than in any of the other objects he has shown us all day. A small chuckle bloats his cheek, his glasses seem to gleam as he removes them from an inner coat pocket and sets them uneasily upon his head. “Aha,” he says and opens the sheet, “here we are. You are all interested in hearing this, I presume? It is something of a highlight since, even unauthenticated as it is, it exists as one of the few possible pieces of writing actually emanating from the family.”
“Yes,” Joanne says and pats the guide on the wrist, a strangely offensive gesture, at least to me, but it seems to please the guide no end and his cheeks puff again. “Yes, let’s hear it by all means.”
“Ah,” says the guide, “ah, yes,” and reads to us:
THE DARKNESS AND THE TEMPER TORRENT
A novel by Michael M. Westfield
Chapter One: The Locus
Oh, lost! Oh, lost and by the sands wept, walking and walking in the eternal darkness! The unspeakable torment of the womb, the sun-greeting sunshine as it comes upon the infant’s face. Ripped free and pent-tossed! Lost and not alone! Oh, spectre which may never come again! For who of us may ever know his father’s touch, who can ever hear his mother’s cry? Yet we struggle and struggle and in the end there is understanding. A madness. A cartharsis built upon a fine chain of tumult. Indeed, indeed.
The tall man turned and looked at the short one in the hallway. Both of their faces were strained but the short man’s face was more strained than that of the tall man.
“It’s a boy,” he said.
“Really?”
“A boy. Seven pounds six ounces.”
“Oh,” the short man said. “A cigar?”
“Pleasure.”
“It’s my first son.”
“Really now?”
“Yes. It is. Was it an easy birth?”
“It was a fine birth.” The tall man’s face wrinkled. He was a doctor. Around his neck hung the tools of his instrumentation, the instruments of his flight.
“A fine, fine birth.”
“Everything is fine?”
“Yes, everything is fine.”
“I will have to do something for the boy when he gets a little older. I am a father now and must do something for my son. Does this hospital seem very warm to you?”
“Yes, it does,” the doctor said. “It seems to have a great deal of warmth. Of course it is July.” They did not have air-conditioning then. It was about fifteen years ago.
“I will see you soon,” the doctor said. “I must check on my patient.”
“Yes, do that and tell me how she is. When may I see her? My wife.”
“When she is cleaned up you may see her with the baby. I know how you feel,” the doctor conceded. “I had a son too a year ago. I hope I can do right by him. Every father wants to do right by his son.”
“Yes, he does.”
“Yes, he does. I will see you then.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.” The doctor walked away.
