"Yes," he replied glumly. "I'm sorry about the officer. It was a lucky punch that caught him above the eye. There was a lot of blood."
"Unlucky, perhaps," Doctor Gulptilil said, "both for you and him."
Francis nodded.
"Now, perhaps you could enlighten me as to why these things happened this day, Mister Petrel."
Tell him nothing! Every word you speak will be thrown back at you!
Francis again gazed out the window, searching the horizon. He hated the word why. It had dogged him his entire life. Francis, why can't you make friends? Why can't you get along with your sisters? Why can't you throw a ball straight or stay calm in class. Why can't you pay attention when your teacher speaks to you? Or the scoutmaster. Or the parish priest. Or the neighbors. Why do you always hide away from the others every day? Why are you different, Francis, when all we want is for you to be the same? Why can't you hold a job? Why can't you go to school? Why can't you join the Army? Why can't you behave? Why can't you be loved?
"My parents believe I need to make something of myself. That was what caused the argument."
"You are aware, Mister Petrel, that you score very highly on all tests? Remarkably high, curiously enough. So perhaps their hopes for you are not unfounded?"
"I suppose so."
"Then why did you argue?"
"A conversation like that never seems as reasonable as we're making it sound now," Francis replied. This brought a smile to Doctor Gulptilil's face.
"Ah, Mister Petrel, I suspect you are correct about that. But I fail to see how this discussion escalated so dramatically."
"My father was determined."
"You struck him, did you not?"
Don't admit to anything! He hit you first! Say that!
"He hit me first," Francis dutifully responded.
Doctor Gulptilil made another notation on a sheet of paper. Francis shifted about. The doctor looked up at him.
"What are you writing?" Francis asked.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes. I want to know what you are writing."
Don't let him snow you! Find out what he's writing! It won't be anything good!
"These are just some notes about our conversation," the doctor said.
"I think you should show me what you're writing down," Francis said. "I think I have the right to know what it is you're writing down."
Keep at it!
The doctor said nothing, so Francis continued, "I'm here, I've answered your questions, and now I have one. Why are you writing things about me without showing me? That's not fair."
Francis shifted in his wheelchair and pulled against the bonds that restrained him. He could feel the warmth of the room building, as if the heat had suddenly spiked. He strained hard for a moment, trying to free himself, but was unsuccessful. He took a deep breath and slumped back into his seat.
"You are agitated?" the doctor asked, after a few silent moments had passed. This was a question that didn't really need an answer, because the truth was so obvious.
"It's just not fair," Francis said, trying to instill calm back into his own words.
"Fairness is important to you?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Yes, perhaps Mister Petrel, you are correct about that."
Again the two men were quiet. Francis could hear the radiator hissing again and then thought that perhaps it was the breathing of the two attendants, who had not budged from behind him throughout the interview. Then he wondered whether one of his voices might be trying to get his attention, whispering something to him so low that it was hard for him to hear, and he bent forward slightly, as if trying to hear.
"Are you often impatient when things don't go your way, Mister Petrel?"
"Isn't everyone?"
"Do you think you should hurt people when things don't go the way you would like them?"
"No."
"But you get angry?"
"Everyone gets angry sometimes."
"Ah, Mister Petrel, on that point you are absolutely correct. It is, however, a critical question as to how we react to our anger when it arises, is it not? I think we should speak again." The doctor had leaned forward, trying to inject some familiarity in his demeanor. "Yes, I think some additional conversations will be in order. Would that be acceptable to you, Mister Petrel?"
He didn't reply. It was a little like the doctor's voice had faded, as if someone had turned the volume down on the doctor, or as if his words were being transmitted over a great distance.
"May I call you Francis?" the doctor asked.
Again, he did not respond. He did not trust his voice, for it was beginning to mix together with a swelling of emotions within his chest.
Doctor Gulptilil watched him for an instant, then asked, "Say, Francis do you recall what it was that I asked you to remember, earlier in our talk?"
This question seemed to bring him back to the room. He looked up at the doctor, who wore a slyly inquisitive look on his face.
"What?"
"I asked you to remember something."
"I don't recall." Francis snapped his reply.
The doctor nodded his head slightly. "But perhaps, you could remind me, then what day of the week it is…"
"What day?"
"Yes."
"Is it important?"
"Let us imagine that it is."
"Are you sure you asked me this earlier?" Francis said, stalling for time. But this simple fact suddenly seemed elusive, as if concealed behind a cloud within him.
"Yes," Doctor Gulptilil said. "I'm quite sure. What day is it?"
Francis thought hard, battling against the anxiety that abruptly crowded past all his other thoughts. Again he paused, hoping that one of the voices might come to his aid, but again, they had fallen silent.