“She was released in June 1942 on the recommendation of my husband.”
“And was your husband convinced at that time that Mrs. Lasser was legally sane?”
“Legally sane is a meaningless phrase,” Mrs. Mercer said. “It has been forced upon the medical profession by our courts. If you mean did my husband believe Mrs. Lasser was ready to return to her family, yes, my husband believed so. If you mean did he believe Mrs. Lasser would no longer attempt to harm herself or anyone else, yes, my husband believed so. Moreover, this was an opportune time for her to return home. Her illness started when her son left for school, you know. Or at least that was when it first made itself manifest. Well, her son was eighteen and returning home from school that June. My husband’s timing was very carefully calculated. Naturally he had no way of foreseeing what would happen to Tony.”
“What did happen, Mrs. Mercer?”
“Well…have you met him?”
“Yes.”
“He has developed a phobic reaction to the outdoors,” Mrs. Mercer said.
“Which means?”
“Which means he will not leave the house.”
“Will not, or cannot?”
“Cannot, if you prefer.”
“I’m asking, Mrs. Mercer. Is his leaving the house a matter of choice? Or would it be impossible for him to leave it?”
“From what I understand, Mr. Hawes—and I assure you we have not done a follow-up on Mrs. Lasser since, oh, 1945—from what I understand, Tony Lasser has not left that house in New Essex since he returned from prep school in June 1942. That is a long, long time, Mr. Hawes. Are you familiar with the nature of phobic reactions?”
“No, not exactly.”
“A phobia is really—well, how can I put it?—a binding of anxiety. Once the anxiety is bound—”
“What’s anxiety?” Hawes asked.
“Ah, a twentieth-century man who doesn’t know the meaning of anxiety,” Mrs. Mercer said, and smiled.
“Is that bad?”
“If you’ve never experienced it, it’s good,” she answered. “Anxiety is a state of apprehension or psychic tension found in most forms of mental disorders. In Tony Lasser’s case, he has chosen to deal with his anxiety by accepting the symptoms of a phobia instead.”
“But why won’t he leave the house?” Hawes asked.
“Because it would be extremely painful for him if he did.”
“In what way?”
“He might begin trembling or sweating. He might suffer palpitations. He might feel faint or might actually faint. He might experience a sinking sensation in his stomach...” Mrs. Mercer shrugged. “In other words, extreme anxiety.”
“But in spite of all this, could he leave the house if he wanted to?”
“Well…”
“I mean, if the house were on fire, for example, he probably would try to get out, isn’t that so?”
“Probably, yes. Depending upon how strong his phobia is. Generally speaking, I suppose we could say that the real fear of fire, the immediate presence of fire, might be stronger than any phobic reaction in such a person.”
“Then Lasser could have left the house,” Hawes said. “He could have murdered his father.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Mrs. Mercer said, and shrugged. “Possibly. There would have been a great deal of anxiety involved, of course. But possibly he might have risked that if the urge to kill were strong enough.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mercer.”
“I think it’s possible he left the house, Mr. Hawes. I do not, however, think it’s very probable. Tony Lasser is not a patient of ours, so I don’t really know much about the origins and meaning of his phobia. But I do know that the last time he left that house, in 1939, his mother tried to kill herself. It is not very probable that he would try it again.”
“You mean he’s afraid she might try suicide again?”
“Oh, that’s much too surface, Mr. Hawes. If the answer were that simple, I doubt very much there’d be a phobic reaction at all. I would rather suggest that perhaps he would like her to try suicide again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps he wants his mother dead. But he knows that if he leaves the house, she may attempt suicide again. This would grant his secret wish, and the prospect of such a wish coming true is so frightening, and brings on such an anxiety, that he develops a phobia instead.”
“It sounds very complicated,” Hawes said, and sighed.
“Human beings are very complicated, Mr. Hawes. Even welladjusted ones.”
“I suppose so,” Hawes said, and smiled. He rose and extended his hand. “Thank you very much for your time, Mrs. Mercer. I know you’re busy.”
“But must you go?” she asked. “My husband is at a staff meeting right now, but he should be down shortly. We generally have tea at four.” She smiled. “An old Boston custom, you know.”
“Yes, I heard about the party you had there,” Hawes answered.
“Won’t you stay?”
“I was raised drinking tea, Mrs. Mercer,” Hawes said.
“Then join us. I feel terribly guilty somehow. I feel I gave you information that doesn’t help you at all.”
“Well, maybe my partner’s doing a little better,” Hawes said. “In any case, I would be delighted to have some tea with you and your husband.”
Danny Gimp, it seemed, was developing a taste for the great outdoors.
Carella didn’t mind spending time in the fresh air, but he wished that Danny had exercised a bit more judgment in his choice of a location.
“Fiftieth and Warren,” Danny had said, undoubtedly picking this particular corner because it was several miles distant from the precinct. He could not have known, or perhaps he did know and was simply being ornery, that the right angle described by those cross streets neatly embraced an empty lot over which all the winds of January howled and screeched and ranted. Carella, his coat collar pulled high up on the back of his neck, his head tucked in like a turtle’s, his ears numb, his coat flapping around his legs, his hands in his pockets, cursed Danny Gimp and wondered why his father had ever left Italy. In Italy, when the carabinieri met a stool pigeon, it was probably at a sidewalk table in the sunshine. “Buon giorno, tenente,” the stoolie would say. “Vuole un piccolo bicchiere di vino?”
“Hello, Steve,” the voice behind him whispered.
He recognized the voice as Danny’s and turned immediately. Danny was wearing a heavy overcoat, a thick Irish tweed with an enormous collar that covered the back of his head. In addition, he was wearing a woolen muffler and a checked cap, and bright yellow earmuffs. He looked cheerful and well rested and warm as toast.
“Let’s get the hell out of this cold,” Carella said. “What is it with you, Danny? I remember times we used to meet like civilized people, in restaurants, in bars. What is it with this frozen-tundra routine?”
“You cold?” Danny asked, surprised.
“I’ve been standing on this corner for the past fifteen minutes. Listen to that wind. It’s from Nanook of the North.”
“Gee, I’m nice and warm,” Danny said.
“There’s a cafeteria up the street. Let’s try it,” Carella said. As they began walking, he asked, “What’d you get for me?”
“Well, I found out about the game. I don’t know what good it’ll do you, but I found out about it.”
“Shoot.”
“First of all, it ain’t regular, like you said it was. It’s a sometime thing, whenever the urge strikes. Sometimes two, three times a week, and other times maybe only once a month, you dig?”