The Thanatos Syndrome

weeding out undesirable patients, charming the desirable ones. She’s already got referrals from her bridge crowd, her Episcopalian book-review group and her big Pentecostal church. The Pentecostals are decent folk, honest and forthright, no crazier than liberal unbelievers and a good deal less neurotic, but perhaps a bit paranoid, given to suspecting godless conspiracies under every sofa. But if I keep them off the couch, don’t mention sex, wear a white coat like a TV doctor, speak to them face to face, take their blood pressure—they tend to hypertension—examine their eyegrounds, they’ll tell me their troubles.
    The telephone is ringing inside. A patient? There is still no Ellen but I needn’t hurry. The answering machine clicks on during the third ring. I can hear my voice and a woman’s which I almost recognize. There is a familiar overtone of hushed urgency.
    Go inside. Play the message.
    It is Mickey LaFaye. She’s not asking for an appointment or even for a return call. She speaks in the hushed-mouth-in-the-phone voice of a woman hearing a prowler and calling the police.
    â€œI’m coming in—now,” she all but whispers. Click. The silence of the machine roars.
    It is as if even the machine could grasp the urgency and reach me.
    Ellen arrives before Mickey. I try to tell her about Mickey, but she’s excited about something.
    â€œThat priest called you at home, said he couldn’t reach you here—” She pauses for an explanation.
    â€œProbably hadn’t arrived. I walked.” I’m not about to tell her about sitting on the porch and flying P-518.
    â€œFor once I think he’s being helpful.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œHe’s got an important referral for you.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œIt may be royalty.” Ellen lowers her voice.
    â€œRoyalty.” Is Princess Di—I almost say, but decide not to joke.
    â€œHe wouldn’t give names—it’s all very hush-hush—but do you know who I think it is?” Royalty really lights her up, and her an American Pentecostal. I’ll never understand it.
    â€œYou know that the new king and queen of Spain are in New Orleans paying a state visit to commemorate Spanish rule in the Vieux Carré—which is in fact more Spanish than French.”
    I am nodding, mystified, more puzzled by the change in Ellen than by the Spanish king.
    â€œThe priest wants you to meet them out there. Tomorrow.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œNow get this,” says Ellen. She’s in her chair and I sitting on her desk in the outer office.
    â€œAll right.” She’s got it figured out.
    â€œHe only gave me three hints. Royalty, a visit, gifts and—a Jewish connection.”
    â€œThat’s four.”
    â€œRight. Now get this. I happen to know that the new queen, Margarita, has Jewish blood—a noble old Sephardic family from Toledo.”
    â€œOhio?”
    â€œAnd you know what?”
    â€œNo, what?” I don’t know what, but I’m pleased to see her so pleased.
    â€œI happen also to know that your friend Rinaldo has a Spanish connection, is highly regarded in certain circles over there—which would account for him being called in in case of some trouble—and I also happen to know that Queen Margarita has a psychiatric history. I think she might be your patient.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œTomorrow morning at eight—why eight I don’t know.” She’s briskly writing down the appointment. “Out there.”
    â€œVery good,” I say as briskly, frowning to keep from smiling. “Why don’t you call him and tell him I’ll be there.”
    â€œDon’t you worry.” She’s already on the phone.
    What Father Smith has told her and she me without knowing it is that he needs me tomorrow morning. Milton must be sick again. It’s a little code. Neither of us likes to upset Ellen. Tomorrow is the Feast of the Epiphany. A Jewish girl, a visit from royalty. Gifts.
    â€œHe says fine.” She’s pleased. “I think it’s a valuable connection for you.”
    â€œYou may be right.”
    In blows Mickey LaFaye, brushing past me and Ellen in the outer office without a word, headed for the sofa in the inner office.
    Ellen and I exchange looks, shrugs. She’s still pleased.
    Mickey’s back on the couch as she used to be, facing the window. No Duchess of