The WWII Collection. William Wharton

back to Sergeant again. I can’t believe it! Weiss still hasn’t caught on that Birdy thinks he’s a canary! Dumb shit!

      ‘He was always perfectly normal, sir. Like me, poor but from a nice family. He lived in a big three-story house with lots of grounds around it. He was good in school, not a genius, sir, but he was in the academic curriculum and usually got B’s. Could you tell me, sir; what happened to him? It must’ve been something awful to make him like this.’

      Let’s see him squirm out of it this time. He lifts the papers one at a time. I don’t think he’s looking at them, reading anything, I mean; he’s stalling for time. Maybe he’s hoping my question will go away. He might know something and not want to tell me, or, more likely, he doesn’t know any more than Renaldi.

      ‘I’ve spoken to his mother and father. They came down to verify the identification. He’d been reported as missing for over a month. They recognized him but there was no recognition from the patient. At that time, if anyone came near he would go into frantic jumping and twisting activity, falling to the floor. It was almost as if he were trying to escape.’

      ‘That doesn’t sound like him at all, sir.’

      He can’t be that stupid. He’ll catch onto the bird business soon. I wonder if Birdy’s old lady and old man told about Birdy raising the canaries. They probably wouldn’t think it meant anything. But they’d sure as hell tell about Birdy and me running away that time.

      ‘Sir, perhaps I should tell you, it might be important; the patient and I ran away. It was when we were thirteen; we went to Atlantic City and then to Wildwood in New Jersey.’

      ‘Yes.’

      Yes, yes, yes. Yes, fathead, we did it all right. He’s interested now. I figure I’ll feed him a bit at a time. He looks down at his papers. He’s reading something from a yellow sheet.

      ‘Yes, Sergeant, I have that right here. There’s a police report as well. It says here you were accused of stealing some bicycles.’

      Now isn’t that the shits. There’s no sense saying anything about it. Fatass Weiss isn’t going to believe anything I say. After all, he has it right there before him in black and yellow.

      He leans across the desk toward me now. He’s wiped the smile off his face. He’s practicing his concerned look. I lean forward, too, and try to look as if I’m sorry for being alive. That’s not too far from the truth.

      ‘Tell me, Alfonso. Just between us, do you of ten get the feeling that people aren’t being fair to you? Do you think people are out to “get” you?’

      What is this creep, a fucking mind reader? He looks down at his papers again, then looks up at me, stern, serious but very understanding.

      ‘This report on that incident at New Cumberland indicates you were in the army only five days at the time; is that true?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘It says you knocked out eight of the non-commissioned officer’s teeth and broke his nose.’

      I keep my mouth shut. What the fuck’s this got to do with Birdy?

      ‘Was he being unfair to you, Alfonso? You’re a noncom yourself now. Looking back on it, do you think you might have been over-reacting? Would you do the same thing now in the same conditions?’

      I stick with my ‘bad little doggy’ routine. ‘We all make mistakes, sir. He was probably only trying to do his job like the rest of us.’

      I didn’t know I could be such a good bullshitter. Maybe I’ll be a used car salesman. I’m enjoying fooling this asshole. It’s something like making some big bastard cry when you’re hurting him only it doesn’t take so much effort.

      He’s catching on. His eyes disappear behind the clean glasses. He takes the papers, stands them up on end, bangs them edgewise against the desk a few times, then gets the folder and slips all the papers into it. He sits back.

      ‘Well, Sergeant. I guess it can’t hurt if you spend another day with the patient. It could happen all at once. Do you have any other ideas; anything you can remember about the past? If you do, let me know.’

      That’s when I bring up the baseballs. I can never just let things go.

      ‘Sir, there’s one thing. Maybe it sounds crazy but it’s something I know has always bothered the patient. You see, he lived just over the left-center field fence of our local baseball park. Whenever anybody hit a ball over that fence for a home run, his mother used to keep the balls; wouldn’t give them up. Everybody hated her for it. The patient felt terrible about this. He used to apologize to everybody and swear he’d get the balls back. He kept lists of all the people his mother had taken balls from. He promised to get them back for everybody some day. He spent hours looking for them in his house, in the attic and in the garage, everywhere. Maybe if you could get his mother to send those balls down here it would help. I know it would take a big load off his mind and it might be just the thing to help him remember.’

      Weiss is looking at me as if I’m completely bananas. Then he realizes I couldn’t make up a thing like that. Sergeants are notorious for being unimaginative. He takes the folder back out. He starts writing in it. He looks up.

      ‘How long ago was this, Sergeant?’

      ‘Oh, it went on for years, sir. Seven years at least. There must be an awful lot of baseballs in that collection, sir.’

      He’s writing and mumbling to himself. I’m biting my tongue to keep from laughing.

      ‘All right, Sergeant. If you come up with any more ideas like this be sure and report them to me. If you notice anything in his behavior here at the hospital you think I ought to know about, tell me that, too. In general, keep talking to him about the past. You might hit on something that’ll bring it all back.’

      This time there’s no kidding around with the psychiatrist shit. He stands up. I stand up, too, and salute. He gives me a fair enough salute; I spin around and walk out, past spitface and outside into the sunlight.

      I’m actually anxious to get back with Birdy. I’m beginning to feel he knows I’m there. Talking about all this stuff with him helps me more than anything. I’m wishing Birdy’d come back and we could have fun working over Weiss together. Weiss is the kind of person brings out the worst in me. I should be around him some more and try practicing self-control. It’s either that or I’ll wind up one of the meanest shits in the world, myself.

      I walk across the hospital grounds and into the building where Birdy is. I’m still laughing to myself about the baseballs. I’ll shit my pants if she still does have those balls and ships them down here. I can just imagine Weiss’s telegram:

      PLEASE SEND ALL THE BASEBALLS. STOP. NEED THEM IN TREATMENT FOR YOUR SON. STOP. MAJOR WEISS.

      I can see it, two hundred used baseballs in a big box being shipped air freight, maybe even on a special military plane. Birdy’d love this.

      I see Renaldi and tell him about the session with Weiss. He laughs when I tell him about the baseballs. I have to tell somebody. He says Weiss will sure as hell send for them.

      Renaldi opens the outer door. Birdy swings around and looks at me when he hears the noise. I get my chair from out in the corridor and set myself up. Renaldi says he’ll see me at lunch.

      I sit there for a while trying to think of something to say. Then I remember.

      – Hey Birdy! How ’bout that time we went ice skating up the creek? Remember? The time they closed the school ’cause all the pipes froze up. Remember?

      I know he’s listening now. He looks at me sometimes and he gives the Old Birdy spaced-out smile there once. I keep on talking.

      It was about zero degrees and when we got to school they sent us all back home. Even the water in the toilets was frozen. Five of us walked home from school together and decided we’d go ice skating. We said we’ll meet down at the edge