both hands. The problem proved insoluble. Fagots of wood clattered to the floor and B.J. had to dance to protect his feet. When the wood had settled, he swung open the door.
‘I heard there’s a new woman in the ward,’ he told the doctor, dropping to his knees to gather up the scattered kindling. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
Dr Carr was seated at his desk with his notebook open before him and the tip of his pen in his mouth. He had undone the cuff of his right shirt sleeve to allow the free flow of blood to his writing hand. ‘I’ve only had time for the most cursory examination,’ he answered. His eyes were a pale, filmy blue and he blinked them often. The lashes were white and almost invisible. ‘Might be an ecstatic. She makes those meaningless, ecstatic noises, so that’s the direction in which I’m leaning now. I’m going to send for her again after breakfast. Then we’ll see. Anyway, a new patient in January is not too surprising. Lots of people go mad in January. Not as many as in May, of course. Nor June. But January is your third most common month for madness.’
When he had been admitted, late in October, B.J. had been delirious. He had no memory of this, but he had read the notes Dr Carr had made at the time. Tongue coated, breath very offensive, bowels constipated. Intellectual monomania with depression, Dr Carr had concluded. B.J. still spoke rapidly and often appeared to be uneasy, but his physical health was much improved - his digestion was better, his secretions more free - and he was often quite lucid now.
He glanced at the contents of Dr Carr’s desk. The glass office window defined a small neat square of sunlight about the size of a blotter. Inside it, the colors made vivid by illumination, were a slab of obsidian that the doctor used as a paperweight, a letter opener shaped like a golden feather, and his notebook, pressed open to a clean white page. On the edge of the desk, pushed out of the sun, there was an empty whiskey bottle. At the bottom of the bottle, two frogs sat and ignored each other.
‘It’s not mating season,’ B.J. told the doctor. ‘It’s winter.’ He wondered where Dr Carr could have even gotten the frogs. One of them had the pale palm of its hand pressed against the glass, four fingers spread wide. The curvature of the bottle magnified the hand so that it seemed all out of proportion to the frog’s body. ‘Where did you get the frogs?’ B.J. asked.
‘Boston,’ said Dr Carr. ‘I sent away for them. In the big hospitals in the East, where there’s lots of money and the doctors earn big salaries, frogs mate like weasels. There’s never any shortage of frogs.’ His voice had an abused edge to it. B.J. liked the doctor and wanted to make him feel better.
‘Would you like to talk about it?’ he offered.
‘I ordered six. Four of them arrived dead. I’m just lucky a male and a female survived. Count your blessings, right, B.J.?’
B.J. dropped the wood by the fireplace and approached the desk, dusting his hands off on his pants. He had a splinter at the base of his left thumb. He picked at it until it came out, leaving one small drop of blood, which he licked away. ‘Can I see what you’ve got on the new woman?’ he asked.
Dr Carr flipped back two pages in his notebook. ‘Just the observations I made last night when she was admitted. I haven’t gotten back to her yet today.’ He passed it over the desk to B.J. Dr Carr’s lines slanted upward and he had a rounded, feminine hand. His ‘e’s’ yawned from the page like ‘o’s.’ B.J. underlined the words with his index finger as he read.
According to Dr Carr, the woman in black who had appeared so suddenly in the graveyard the night before had the classic facial features of the criminally insane. He cited the work of Cesare Lombroso at some length and included a description of the new woman. Thick black hair, gray eyes, diastema of the teeth with
‘I heard there’s a new woman in the ward,’ he told the doctor, dropping to his knees to gather up the scattered kindling. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
Dr Carr was seated at his desk with his notebook open before him and the tip of his pen in his mouth. He had undone the cuff of his right shirt sleeve to allow the free flow of blood to his writing hand. ‘I’ve only had time for the most cursory examination,’ he answered. His eyes were a pale, filmy blue and he blinked them often. The lashes were white and almost invisible. ‘Might be an ecstatic. She makes those meaningless, ecstatic noises, so that’s the direction in which I’m leaning now. I’m going to send for her again after breakfast. Then we’ll see. Anyway, a new patient in January is not too surprising. Lots of people go mad in January. Not as many as in May, of course. Nor June. But January is your third most common month for madness.’
When he had been admitted, late in October, B.J. had been delirious. He had no memory of this, but he had read the notes Dr Carr had made at the time. Tongue coated, breath very offensive, bowels constipated. Intellectual monomania with depression, Dr Carr had concluded. B.J. still spoke rapidly and often appeared to be uneasy, but his physical health was much improved - his digestion was better, his secretions more free - and he was often quite lucid now.
He glanced at the contents of Dr Carr’s desk. The glass office window defined a small neat square of sunlight about the size of a blotter. Inside it, the colors made vivid by illumination, were a slab of obsidian that the doctor used as a paperweight, a letter opener shaped like a golden feather, and his notebook, pressed open to a clean white page. On the edge of the desk, pushed out of the sun, there was an empty whiskey bottle. At the bottom of the bottle, two frogs sat and ignored each other.
‘It’s not mating season,’ B.J. told the doctor. ‘It’s winter.’ He wondered where Dr Carr could have even gotten the frogs. One of them had the pale palm of its hand pressed against the glass, four fingers spread wide. The curvature of the bottle magnified the hand so that it seemed all out of proportion to the frog’s body. ‘Where did you get the frogs?’ B.J. asked.
‘Boston,’ said Dr Carr. ‘I sent away for them. In the big hospitals in the East, where there’s lots of money and the doctors earn big salaries, frogs mate like weasels. There’s never any shortage of frogs.’ His voice had an abused edge to it. B.J. liked the doctor and wanted to make him feel better.
‘Would you like to talk about it?’ he offered.
‘I ordered six. Four of them arrived dead. I’m just lucky a male and a female survived. Count your blessings, right, B.J.?’
B.J. dropped the wood by the fireplace and approached the desk, dusting his hands off on his pants. He had a splinter at the base of his left thumb. He picked at it until it came out, leaving one small drop of blood, which he licked away. ‘Can I see what you’ve got on the new woman?’ he asked.
Dr Carr flipped back two pages in his notebook. ‘Just the observations I made last night when she was admitted. I haven’t gotten back to her yet today.’ He passed it over the desk to B.J. Dr Carr’s lines slanted upward and he had a rounded, feminine hand. His ‘e’s’ yawned from the page like ‘o’s.’ B.J. underlined the words with his index finger as he read.
According to Dr Carr, the woman in black who had appeared so suddenly in the graveyard the night before had the classic facial features of the criminally insane. He cited the work of Cesare Lombroso at some length and included a description of the new woman. Thick black hair, gray eyes, diastema of the teeth with
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