The Blood of the Lamb by Peter de Vries

Author:Peter de Vries [De Vries, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, pdf
Publisher: University of Chicago Press

nine

I was visiting my father one Sunday afternoon in late spring when, the intermittently shining sun having appeared to come out to stay, he rose from the window chair in which he had been dejectedly slumped and said, “Let’s go for a walk.” I bundled him into a coat, and we were released into the open air by an orderly with a set of keys.

I was pleased to find this turn of mood in my father, who had for months been so steeped in depression that no show of interest in anything could be excited in him, least of all a walk. The sanitarium grounds were pleasant, cool in the shadows but warm enough in the sun to which we kept, and as we coursed among the glimmering shrubbery he began to brighten further, even to the extent of greeting a few of his cronies, likewise promenading in the company of dear ones.

The novelty of the walk having worn off, my father resumed those protestations and complaints which were often all that ever broke his silences. They came on in familiar waves, to which one need not lend more than half an ear. His head ached, there was this “sour feeling” in his legs, his back killed him. He had a chest cold for which nothing did any good; cough medicine made him cough. Racking his memory for names was more than he could bear. My own back was killing me, truth to tell, after two nights in a motel with beds that were nothing to brag about. “I’ve got spots in front of my eyes,” he said.

“I can see them,” I answered, which was not as heartless as it may sound.

As we traversed what remained of a lane leading toward the women’s building, looking for a vacant bench in the sun, I saw, a short distance ahead, a couple whom I recognized. They were Mr. and Mrs. Wigbaldy. I had not seen them since my return from the West, since I neither attended church nor frequented any other circles where our paths might cross. The meeting was rather awkward. As they inquired about my father—receiving no dearth of answers for their pains—I appraised them, wondering who was visiting whom. While both had aged a little, neither visibly bore the scars of disturbance or hospitalization. As we talked, my father spotted an inmate who had recently left his ward and whom he was eager to see, and he darted over to greet him. I took the moment to ask:

“What brings you two here?”

They turned simultaneously and indicated a solitary figure seated on a bench behind them. It was a moment before I recognized Greta, or acknowledged that I did. She had lost considerable weight, and her face wore the expression of utter listlessness that one often encounters in such an environment, not to be confused with more aggressive depression such as my father’s. She had on a kind of housedress, over which was an unbuttoned coat. One hand lay, palm up, in her lap.

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