Exley, p.22
Exley, page 22
Doctor’s Notes (Interview with J.)
No, no one at school believed M. when he said his dad went into the army; no one believed him when he said his dad went to Iraq.
Because he didn’t know anything about it. He didn’t know what division his dad was in or anything like that. He didn’t know anything you would know if your dad was in Iraq. He just didn’t.
It’s hard to tell if M. knew no one believed him. He can be a weird kid, you know? But yeah, I think he probably knew. That’s why he brought in a letter. It was supposed to be from his dad, and it had all these underlines and it didn’t make any sense to me.
I guess it’s possible M. wrote it himself. Like I said, he can be weird.
Yes, only one letter.
I don’t know anything about any other letters. He only brought in that one.
Yeah, I saw the guy in the hospital. That was weird, too. M. didn’t seem to know what was wrong with the guy or when he was coming home from the VA hospital or anything like that. And they didn’t exactly look like each other, either. The guy seemed like he could have been anyone. But Mrs. C. was talking to M. like it really was his dad. And she let M. go see him, too. I don’t think she would have done that if he wasn’t really his dad. That’s Mrs. C.’s job, mostly: to make sure no one sees a patient unless they’re related to him.
No, I didn’t look at his bracelet. You don’t just walk up to a kid in your class’s dad in his hospital bed and look at his bracelet. Who does that?
Well, no wonder they kicked you out.
No, I’d never seen his dad before. My mom told me he’s a famous Watertown alky. But I don’t think she’s met him, either.
Because that’s what people mean when they say someone’s famous: that they haven’t met him.
I met his mom a couple of times. Parent-teacher nights, I think. She seemed nice.
She said hi when we met, and then said it was nice to meet me when we said good-bye. That’s what I mean when I say she seemed nice. Plus, she was there, at least, meeting his teachers and stuff. His dad wasn’t. From what my mom says, they don’t seem like they should be married to each other. Then again, my mom shouldn’t have married my dad, either. She’s said so herself.
He’s my stepdad. I call him my dad because my dad isn’t around anymore.
I don’t really want to talk about it, OK?
No, I didn’t believe M. when he first told us his dad went to Iraq, either.
I don’t know. I still don’t really believe him. But Mrs. C. seems to believe him. (Long pause) I guess I don’t know what to believe.
I guess we’re friends. We’re friendly, at least.
What do you mean, he likes me?
What do you mean, do I know a K.? Who’s K.?
That’s gross. He’s only a little kid. Why would you say something like that?
Anyway, like I said: he can be weird.
No, he’s not a bad kid. (Long pause.) He probably just reads too many books.
Would I be mad if I found out he lied about his dad going to Iraq? I guess so. It’s not something you should lie about. My dad would be mad, for sure.
Dad! This psychiatrist wants to talk to you!
A mental health what?
Whatever. I have to go back to school.
Yeah, I know H. I have gym class with him this afternoon.
Why would you want to go to my gym class?
OK, I guess. I’ll wait outside while you talk to my dad. But hurry up. I don’t want to be late, OK?
He lost his legs when he stepped on a bomb.
Thanks. I’m sorry, too. He’s sorry. My mom’s sorry. Everyone’s sorry.
Does my dad seem different since he got home? He doesn’t have legs anymore. So yeah, he seems different.
Doctor’s Notes (Interview with J.’s father)
Yeah, I met him. Quiet kid. A little nerdy. Laughed at my joke. Outside the hospital he said me and his dad have been . . . J., what is it? (Pause.) Right: he thinks America has incapacitated us. That’s bullshit. She also thinks he might be lying about his father even being in the army. That’d be bullshit, too. That’s so bullshit I don’t even believe it’s true. But him thinking America has done something to me and his dad is believable. Bullshit, but believable bullshit. It’s like those protesters.
Out by Fort Drum. With their bullshit bullhorns and their bullshit signs, thinking they know everything about me and guys like me when they don’t know. They don’t. They sound like your little patient, except all grown up and with bullshit bullhorns and bullshit signs. They’re what your little patient’ll be like in twenty years if he’s not careful.
Well, you know, I might just try to show him that. I might just. I’ve got nothing to do and that special van just waiting for me to drive it. The army paid for it, and it didn’t cost me nothing except for my legs.
Because I thought joining up was the right thing to do.
I still think it was the right thing to do. But I wish I hadn’t’ve done it. I shouldn’t have done it. But fuck me if I’m going to let anyone else say so.
Doctor’s Notes (Entry 21)
I must now emerge from the cocoon of my interviewing, Notes. For it isn’t just any gym class to which J. allows me to accompany her. It was the gym class everyone dreaded in my day, and I assume, by the looks on all the juveniles’ faces, the class they still dread. I know from talking with some of my patients—some of my patients are in therapy because of their parents, some of them because of their siblings and friends, but all of them are also in therapy because of their gym classes—that normally in physical education the boys occupy one half of the gym and the girls the other. But today is the day they all come together and square-dance.
“Bow to your partner,” says the voice on the tape player. Coach B. (I recognize him from M.’s description) has pushed its Play button and, that feat accomplished, stands off to the side, talking with an adult female, who must be the girls’ gym coach. I don’t know what Coach B. is saying to her, but she looks most unmoved as she stands there, sweat-suited legs far apart and white Reeboked feet rooted to the shiny gym floor, twirling her whistle and masticating her gum. I leave J.’s side—to be true, before I leave her she leaves me to talk to H., who frantically waves her over when he sees us enter the gymnasium—and walk over to the coaches. I suspect that if I tell the truth and say that I am M.’s mental health professional and not H.’s, the coaches will not permit me to speak to H. So I lie and introduce myself as H.’s mental health professional and ask if I might have a talk with him. Other than the accelerated twirling of her whistle, the girls’ coach doesn’t respond to my presence or my words. But Coach B. nods and says, “There’s your stick figure, Doc. You can have him, for all care.”
I look over and see H. looking lost and forlorn and without a partner. Everyone else is paired up. I do a quick count and find that there is one more boy than girl. M. has told me that he and H. are in the same gym class, and so I assume he would be H.’s partner if he were here. So I take M.’s place. I walk over to where H. is standing. H.’s eyes get large and “freaked out” when he sees me walking toward him, and no wonder—his lip is still engorged and scabbed from where “Exley” struck him, and since I first introduced myself immediately afterward, he must associate me with that day, that blow, that wound—and so to put him at ease, I bow. To my surprise, H. bows back. His is a formal bow. He puts his left hand across his stomach and his right hand across his lower back as he completes his move. I look at all the other students: all they do is lower their heads a little. But Harold is very serious and proper about it. I laugh at him because I am certain that’s what M. would do.
“What?” he says. “That’s how you’re supposed to do it.”
“Bow to your corner,” the voice on the tape player says.
I turn to my corner. My corner is J. She does not bow but instead glares at me. Perhaps this is just a manifestation of her hatred for square dancing. In any case, I bow at her like H. bowed at me. I hope this might cheer her up and she might laugh at me like I laughed at Harold. But she doesn’t laugh at me; on the contrary, her glare only intensifies, so deep is her dislike for this particular dance.
“Swing your partner,” the voice on the tape player says. I turn away from J. and back to H. I can feel a crazy grin washing over my face. Because I, too, was often stuck with other boys for partners when I square-danced in gym, and the one good thing about having a boy for a partner is that you could swing him as hard as you could and not worry about hurting him or having him think you were a “goon.” I hook my arm in H.’s, and as I do I notice a look of absolute terror on his face, but I do not have sufficient time to consider it before we commence swinging. Of course, I am bigger than H. and so end up doing most of the swinging. In order to keep up, H. is forced to sprint. At one point, I swing H. harder than I mean to, and his feet leave the ground for a second and I hear him shriek. Then I hear the female coach’s whistle. I look over and see Coach B. press a button on the tape player. The square-dance music and calling stops, and Coach B. starts to yell at a girl and a boy who, evidently, weren’t swinging properly. “You’re not supposed to be doing the Lindy,” Coach B. tells them.
“So I didn’t think we were,” the boy says, and I know from that “so” that he is M.’s classmate L.
“We weren’t doing the Lindy,” the girl confirms. “I don’t even know what the Lindy is.” I can’t help noticing that the girl is pretty: when it’s the day when there’s just one gym class and you have to hold their hands, all the girls are pretty. But this girl is especially pretty, freckled, with long white legs coming out of her gym shorts. Coach B. wipes his palms on the sides of his shorts, then smiles eagerly at the girl. The girl glances at the female coach, but she is still too consumed by her whistle, her gum, to notice. Coach B. puts out his hands—presumably to show her what Lindy swinging is, and then to show her how square-dance swinging is different—and the girl places her hands in his because she has to. It is hard to watch, and so I don’t. Instead, I turn back to H. He seems even more terrified than before and even puts one hand in front of his face before saying loudly, “Please don’t hit me again!”
“Pardon me?” I say. Just then, the music begins again, but none of us can remember what we were doing before the coach pushed Pause. “Swing your partner,” Coach B. says. But before we can start doing that again, the voice on the tape player tells us, “Swing your corner.” I turn to J. I offer her my arm, but she does not take it. Instead she says angrily, “I thought you said you were a doctor.”
“I did,” I say. “I am.”
“You’re not a doctor,” she says, louder now, loud enough to be heard over the fiddles and the calls of the tape recording. “You’re a drunk asshole who hit H. in the face”.
“H. told you that?” I ask.
“Allemande left,” says the voice on the tape player. Everyone stops what they’re doing and just stands there. Because no one can ever remember what it means to “allemande.” Coach B. stops the tape. “Allemande left,” he repeats, as though that will help clear things up for everyone. The left part I understand, at least. I turn to my left, away from J. and to H. His Adam’s apple is way out and quivering.
“Why do you think I’m going to hit you?” I say. “Again?”
“Because you hit me in the face once already!” he yells, certainly loud enough for others in the gymnasium to hear. I can sense the coaches looking in our direction, can sense waves of athletic male and female aggression in the air between them and us.
“Whisper,” I whisper. “I did not hit you. Where did I hit you?”
“I told you,” H. whispers. “In the face.”
“No, no,” I say. “When did this happen? In what context?”
“In front of the Crystal,” H. says. “I was there with my friend M.”
“What?” I say. “You’re referring to Exley. Or someone who M. mistakenly thought was Exley. He’s the one who hit you.”
“Are you kidding me?” H. says. He squints at me now, like he knows I’m lying to him but can’t tell yet for what reason, to what end.
I assure him I am not. “You and I met that day, but later, as you were fleeing the Public Square. I gave you twenty dollars. Remember?”
H. nods now like he does remember. “You wanted me to keep an eye on M.”
“Yes, yes,” I say. “I still do. In fact, one of the things I’d like you to do is to make M. realize he should give up on his quest to find this Exley.”
“You want him to stop trying to find the guy who hit me?”
“No, no,” I say, and begin to understand something of M.’s frustration with H. “The guy who hit you is not Exley. For Christ’s sake, I already told you that.” And then I hear what I’ve said to H., hear that name—Exley—and those words—Christ’s sake—ringing in my ears, and I think but do not say, Oh no, oh no. “Why did you think I was the man who hit you in the face?” I ask.
“Because you look just like him,” H. says.
“Is there a problem here?” Coach B. asks. He is standing right in front of H. and me with his hands on his hips. His biceps are quivering like Harold’s Adam’s apple was a minute earlier. No one in the gym is dancing. The tape player is off. Everyone is looking at us. J. is to my right, and I can sense her staring at me. My right ear feels like it is on fire.
“A problem?” I say.
“Yes,” Coach B. says. “It seemed like you two were having a problem. It seemed like it might have something to do with you hitting our H. here.” There is a fierce, proprietary sound in his voice, as though I’ve violated the contract stating that Coach B., and Coach B. alone, is allowed to abuse H. I know there is no way I can talk my way out of this situation, especially since I cannot clear my head, cannot stop thinking of what H. has now made clear to me—I look like the guy who looked like Exley; I look like Exley—and so I think once again of what I know about H. from M. and what M. would say in this situation, and then I say, “Harold here was telling me why they call it square dancing.”
Coach B. looks at H., who looks at me. Please, I say with my eyes. And just in case “please” doesn’t work, I rub my thumb, index, and middle fingers together, to remind H. that I’ve already given him twenty dollars and so far have had no return on my investment. H. sighs, which I take to mean he understands my meaning. “They called it square dancing because it was done in the town square,” he says. “If there’s no town square, there’s no square dancing.” Then H. raises his hands to his shoulders, palms up, and looks around, as though to ask, Where is the square?
Coach B. takes a step toward H. “You know . . . ,” he growls. Then he draws in a big breath, releases it, and says, “I suppose you’re going to tell me what we’re doing is gym dancing and not square dancing at all.”
H. nods. “That does sound like something I would say,” he says.
Authorized Personnel Only
After the VA hospital, I went home and got out the phone book to look up the number of the bus company. While I was at it, I looked up Exley. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this before. There were no Exleys—not in Alexandria Bay, not in Watertown, not anywhere. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything: Exley spent half his book sleeping on other people’s davenports, living in other people’s houses, talking, I guess, on other people’s phones. Just because he wasn’t in the book didn’t mean he wasn’t in Alex Bay. I’d just have to ask around once I got up there. Anyway, I found the number for the bus, called it, and found out there were no buses from Watertown to Alex Bay. I was trying to figure out what to do next when someone started blowing a car horn outside the house. I opened the front door and there was J.’s father, in the driver’s seat of his white van.
I walked over to the van. “Hello, Mr. S.,” I said. I guessed S. was his last name, since it was J.’s.
“Don’t call me that,” he said. I didn’t know why not. Maybe he was one of those guys who didn’t like to be known as mister anything. K. had said that my dad always told his students to call him Tom, not Mr. Le Ray and that he always made the corny joke about Mr. Le Ray being his father. “Get in.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I have to figure out how to get to Alexandria Bay.”
“I’ll drive you to Alex Bay,” he said. “Get in.”
I didn’t exactly believe that Mr. S. was going to drive me to Alex Bay. But I didn’t want to call him a liar, either. It’s hard to call a guy who has no legs a liar. It’s also hard to say no to a guy with no legs. So I got in the van.
“Come on,” Mr. S. said, and pounded the steering wheel. His seat was higher than a normal car seat, and the dashboard was more complicated and busier than a normal dashboard. Mr. S. stepped on the gas by pushing on a lever with his hands and said, “Let’s go make some noise.”
Mr. S. drove northeast on Pearl Street for a long time, where I didn’t see anything worth thinking about until I saw a sign for Fort Drum, and soon after, a huge wire fence, and on the other side of the fence, tall pine trees. The road we were on ended there, and another one started. It followed the fence to the left and the right. We took a right and drove for a long, long time. I didn’t know there was that much fence in the whole world. Finally, we came to a vehicle-sized hole in the fence and a small cabin next to the hole. I could see someone in the cabin. He looked like he was wearing a helmet. Above the hole and the cabin was a sign that said FORT DRUM: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Under the sign there was a road. There was a big white wooden arm across the road and two soldiers wearing helmets on either side of it. They both had rifles, which they held diagonally across their chests. We kept driving.
