someone in the hallway.
In walked Phil, with an expression that confessed he had little idea why he was there. He sat and watched uncomfortably as his father unbuttoned his jacket with a flourish and turned around before settling in his own chair, as if to adjust the room to his grand size.
“I think I know my job here,” Polly began. “But in addition to serving this organization, I’m a parent like you, Garth. Claudia. I could waste a lot of time pontificating on what duty is, what parenthood is, what’s in and what’s out, and what’s up and what’s down for that matter, but that would defeat the purpose of this discussion because of the urgency of the case at hand.”
Mr. Hamlet nodded. “Then let’s get to it.”
Polly went on in a tone of smug expertise. “I think we can all agree that recently your daughter has been acting irrationally. Some people say it’s all relative, the line is finer than we think, physicians need to heal themselves, the inmates are running the asylum.” He raised his voice and held his hands out sermon-like. “There’s no telling who’s rational and who’s not in this world. But let’s put all that in perspective, and look at the obvious. Crazy is crazy—crazy is as crazy does, no one knows what crazy is but they know it when they see it. Like pornography.” Dr. Claudia and Mr. Hamlet started. “But that’s another subject.”
Mr. Hamlet cut in. “Polly, can you skip this, this…”
“It’s not easy for me either, Garth. But when you see the case I’ve compiled, you’ll be thankful I prepared the ground instead of…” The analogy was too much. “I’m not a farmer,” he said as if countering some insult. “I was at, I was at—”
“Dana’s gone crazy,” Dr. Claudia prompted him.
“Yes, thank you very much. Since we’re done with a statement of the problem, let’s move on to the cause. I think we can agree that every effect has a cause,” he said as if craving a concession from a couple of fools. “Every effect has a cause, and so does every affect, to use a psychiatric term. But affect, effect, it makes no difference what we call it. So let’s call it something very specific: my son.” He flipped open a binder he had brought in and unclipped a sheaf of papers. “These were on my son’s computer. They’re e-mails from Dana. Love letters, or love e-mails, call them what you will.”
“From Dana?” Mr. Hamlet said. “You’ve got them?”
Phil suddenly looked sick.
“My son is sixteen years old,” Polly said. “His inbox is not private. Don’t worry, no one else has them but me.”
“What. You—” Mr. Hamlet reached across in front of Phil and tried to nip the papers away from Polly.
“They go back several months. I’ll show you.” Polly held one out. “‘Phil, you are the most beautiful’—Hm. I don’t remember this one. How she ends after she starts by calling a boy ‘beautiful.’ ‘Handsome’ is the word I would have used. Let’s see, let’s see, yes. ‘The most beautiful person in my life, inside and out. Your heart is so pure, and every time you look at me I’m struck still. So lithe is your smooth, brown body—’” He shot an uneasy glance at Phil. “My son is tan. We don’t need to hear every word.”
Mr. Hamlet flailed an arm across Phil’s chest again. “How many of these messages did you read? What sort—?”
“Oh here, wait!” Polly said. “Listen to this one. Some of them really do sizzle. ‘When the ocean runs dry—When heaven falls down—When the earth stops turning—My love will endure.’ Rhythm but no rhyme. I think real, quality poetry is beyond her. So, here, she switches to prose: ‘I can’t write songs like you, so let me put it this way. Their thundering about God and guilt irritates me beyond anything, because I already know how bad my mind is. I can’t possibly take it to heaven. Is heaven sterile, I wonder? But thoughts of you banish all thoughts, all fears, even these.
In walked Phil, with an expression that confessed he had little idea why he was there. He sat and watched uncomfortably as his father unbuttoned his jacket with a flourish and turned around before settling in his own chair, as if to adjust the room to his grand size.
“I think I know my job here,” Polly began. “But in addition to serving this organization, I’m a parent like you, Garth. Claudia. I could waste a lot of time pontificating on what duty is, what parenthood is, what’s in and what’s out, and what’s up and what’s down for that matter, but that would defeat the purpose of this discussion because of the urgency of the case at hand.”
Mr. Hamlet nodded. “Then let’s get to it.”
Polly went on in a tone of smug expertise. “I think we can all agree that recently your daughter has been acting irrationally. Some people say it’s all relative, the line is finer than we think, physicians need to heal themselves, the inmates are running the asylum.” He raised his voice and held his hands out sermon-like. “There’s no telling who’s rational and who’s not in this world. But let’s put all that in perspective, and look at the obvious. Crazy is crazy—crazy is as crazy does, no one knows what crazy is but they know it when they see it. Like pornography.” Dr. Claudia and Mr. Hamlet started. “But that’s another subject.”
Mr. Hamlet cut in. “Polly, can you skip this, this…”
“It’s not easy for me either, Garth. But when you see the case I’ve compiled, you’ll be thankful I prepared the ground instead of…” The analogy was too much. “I’m not a farmer,” he said as if countering some insult. “I was at, I was at—”
“Dana’s gone crazy,” Dr. Claudia prompted him.
“Yes, thank you very much. Since we’re done with a statement of the problem, let’s move on to the cause. I think we can agree that every effect has a cause,” he said as if craving a concession from a couple of fools. “Every effect has a cause, and so does every affect, to use a psychiatric term. But affect, effect, it makes no difference what we call it. So let’s call it something very specific: my son.” He flipped open a binder he had brought in and unclipped a sheaf of papers. “These were on my son’s computer. They’re e-mails from Dana. Love letters, or love e-mails, call them what you will.”
“From Dana?” Mr. Hamlet said. “You’ve got them?”
Phil suddenly looked sick.
“My son is sixteen years old,” Polly said. “His inbox is not private. Don’t worry, no one else has them but me.”
“What. You—” Mr. Hamlet reached across in front of Phil and tried to nip the papers away from Polly.
“They go back several months. I’ll show you.” Polly held one out. “‘Phil, you are the most beautiful’—Hm. I don’t remember this one. How she ends after she starts by calling a boy ‘beautiful.’ ‘Handsome’ is the word I would have used. Let’s see, let’s see, yes. ‘The most beautiful person in my life, inside and out. Your heart is so pure, and every time you look at me I’m struck still. So lithe is your smooth, brown body—’” He shot an uneasy glance at Phil. “My son is tan. We don’t need to hear every word.”
Mr. Hamlet flailed an arm across Phil’s chest again. “How many of these messages did you read? What sort—?”
“Oh here, wait!” Polly said. “Listen to this one. Some of them really do sizzle. ‘When the ocean runs dry—When heaven falls down—When the earth stops turning—My love will endure.’ Rhythm but no rhyme. I think real, quality poetry is beyond her. So, here, she switches to prose: ‘I can’t write songs like you, so let me put it this way. Their thundering about God and guilt irritates me beyond anything, because I already know how bad my mind is. I can’t possibly take it to heaven. Is heaven sterile, I wonder? But thoughts of you banish all thoughts, all fears, even these.
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