The Man Without a Shadow (2 page)

In Orion Falls young people may go away—to enlist in the armed forces, to branches of the state university, to nursing school, and so forth; but they all return. Margot Sharpe knows that she
will not return.

Margot has always been curious, highly inquisitive. Her first, favorite book was the illustrated
Darwin for Beginners
which she'd discovered on a library shelf, aged eleven. Here was a book with a magical story—“evolution.” Another favorite book of her childhood was
Marie Curie: A Woman in Physics.
In high school
she'd happened to read an article on B. F. Skinner and “behaviorism” that had intrigued and excited her. She has always asked questions for which there are not ready answers. To be a scientist, Margot thinks, is to know which questions to ask.

From the great Darwin she learned that the visible world is an accumulation of facts, conditions: results. To understand the world you must reverse course, to discover the processes by which these results come into being.

By reversing the course of time (so to speak) you acquire mastery over time (so to speak). You learn that “laws” of nature are not mysteries but knowable as the exits on Interstate 75 traversing the State of Michigan north and south.

Is it unjust, ironic?—that catastrophe in one life (the ruin of E.H.) precipitates hope and anticipation in others (Milton Ferris's “memory” lab)? The possibility of career advancement, success?

It is the way of science, Margot thinks. A scientist searches for her subject as a predator searches for her prey.

At least, no one had introduced the encephalitis virus into Elihu Hoopes's brain with the intention of studying its terrible consequences, as Nazi doctors might have done; or performed radical psychosurgery on him for some presumably beneficial purpose. Chimps and dogs, cats and rats have been so experimented upon, in great numbers, and for a while in the 1940s and 1950s there'd been a vogue of prefrontal lobotomies on hapless human beings, with frequently catastrophic (if not very accurately recorded) results.

Sometimes the radical changes caused by lobotomies were perceived, by the families of the patients at least, to be “beneficial.” A rebellious adolescent becomes abruptly tractable. A sexually adventurous adolescent (usually female) becomes passive, pliant, asexual. An individual prone to outbursts of temper and
obstinacy becomes childlike, docile. “Beneficial” for family and for society is not always so for the individual.

In the case of Elihu Hoopes it seems likely that a personality change of a radical sort had been precipitated by his illness, for no adult male of E.H.'s achievement and stature would be so trusting and childlike, so touchingly and naively
hopeful
. You have the uneasy feeling, in E.H.'s presence, that here is a man desperate to
sell himself
—to be
liked.
The change in E.H. is allegedly so extreme that his fiancée broke off their engagement within a few months of his illness, and E.H.'s family, relatives, friends visit him ever less frequently. He lives in the affluent Philadelphia suburb Gladwyne with an aunt, the younger sister of his (deceased) father, herself a “rich” widow.

From personal experience Margot knows that it is far easier to accept a person ravaged by physical illness than one ravaged by memory loss. Far easier to continue to love the one than the other.

Even Margot who'd loved her “great-grannie” so much as a little girl had balked at being taken to visit the elderly woman in a nursing home. This is not something of which Margot is particularly proud, and so she has begun a process of forgetting.

But E.H. is very different from her elderly relative suffering from (it would be diagnosed after her death) Alzheimer's. If you didn't know the condition of E.H. you would not immediately guess the severity of his neural deficit.

Margot wonders: Was E.H.'s encephalitis caused by a mosquito bite? Was it a particular species of mosquito? Or—is it a common mosquito, itself infected? In what other ways is herpes simplex encephalitis transmitted? Have there been other instances of such infections in the Lake George, New York, region? In the Adirondacks? She supposes that research scientists in the Albany area are investigating the case.

“How horrible! The poor man . . .”

It is the first thing you say, regarding E.H. When you are safely out of his earshot.

Or rather, it is the first thing Margot Sharpe says. Her lab colleagues are more adjusted to E.H. for they have been working with him for some time.

Nervously Margot smiles at the stricken man, who does not behave as if he understands that he is
stricken
. She smiles at him, which inspires him to smile at her, with a flash of something like familiarity. (She thinks: He isn't sure if he should know me. He is looking for cues from me. I must not send him misleading cues.)

Margot is new to such a situation. She has never been in the presence of a living “subject.” She can't help but feel pity for E.H., and horror at his predicament: how abruptly Elihu Hoopes was transformed from being an attractive, vigorous, healthy man in the prime of life to a man near death, losing more than twenty pounds, white blood count plummeting, extreme anemia, delirium. A herpes simplex infection resulting in encephalitis is so rare, E.H. might more readily have been struck by lightning.

Yet E.H.'s manner isn't at all guarded, wary, or stiff; he might be a host welcoming guests to his home, whose names he doesn't quite recall. Indeed he seems at home in the Institute setting—at least, he doesn't seem disoriented. For these sessions at the Institute E.H. is brought from his aunt's suburban home near Philadelphia by an attendant, in a private car; originally E.H. was a patient at the Institute, and then an outpatient; he is still under the medical care of Institute staff. Though E.H. recognizes no one, yet it is flattering to him, how so many people recognize
him.

He seems to have little capacity for brooding, as he has lost his capacity for self-reflection. Margot is touched by the way he pronounces her name—“Mar-
go
”—as if it were a beautiful and
unique name and not a harsh spondee that has always somewhat embarrassed her.

Though Milton Ferris hasn't intended for the introduction of his youngest lab member to be anything more than a fleeting
pro forma
gesture, E.H. takes pleasure in drawing out the ritual. He shakes her hand in a way both courtly and caressing. And unmistakably he leans close to Margot as if inhaling her.

“Welcome—‘Margot Sharpe.' You are a—new doctor?”

“No, Mr. Hoopes. I'm a graduate student in Professor Ferris's lab.”

Quickly E.H. amends: “‘Graduate student—Professor Ferris's lab.' Yes. I knew that.”

In an enthusiastic voice E.H. repeats Margot's words precisely, as if they were a riddle to be decoded.

Individuals who are memory-challenged can contend with the handicap by repeating facts or strings of words—“rehearsing.” But Margot wonders if E.H.'s repetitions carry with them comprehension, or only rote mimicry.

To the brain-damaged man, much in ordinary life must be fraught with mystery at all times—where is he? What is this place? Who are the people who surround him? Beyond these perplexities is the larger, greater mystery of his very existence, his survival after near-death, which is (Margot supposes) too profound for him to consider. The amnesiac with a very limited short-term memory is like one who stands so close to a mirror that his face is virtually pressed against it—he cannot “see” himself.

Margot wonders what E.H. sees, looking into a mirror. Is his face a surprise to him, each time?
Whose face?

It is touching, too—(though this might be attributable to the man's neurological deficit and not his gentlemanly nature)—that, in his attitude toward his visitors, E.H. makes no distinc
tion between the least consequential person in the room (Margot Sharpe) and the most consequential (Milton Ferris); he has lost his instinctive capacity for
ranking
. It isn't clear what he makes of Ferris's other assistants, or rather “associates” (as Ferris would call them:
de facto
they are “assistants”) whom he has met before: another, older female graduate student, several postdoctoral fellows, and an allegedly brilliant young assistant professor who is Ferris's protégé at the Institute and has published several important papers with him in neuroscience journals.

E.H. is slow to surrender Margot Sharpe's hand. He continues to stand close beside Margot as if surreptitiously sniffing her hair, her body. Margot is uneasy, for she doesn't want to annoy Milton Ferris; she knows that her supervisor is waiting for an opportunity to initiate the morning's testing, which will require several hours in the Institute testing-room, even as E.H. in his concentration upon the young, black-haired, attractive woman seems to have forgotten the reason for his guests' visit.

(It occurs to Margot to wonder if a brain-damaged person might be likely to compensate for memory loss with a heightened olfactory sense? A plausible and exciting possibility which she might one day explore, Margot thinks.)

(The amnesiac subject is clearly far more interested in Margot than in the others—she hopes that his interest isn't just frankly sexual. It occurs to her to wonder if the subject's sexuality has been affected by his amnesia, and in what way . . .)

But E.H. speaks to her in a kindly manner, as if she were a young girl.

“‘Mar-
go
.' I think you were in my grade school class at Gladwyne Day—‘Mar-go Madden'—unless it was ‘Margaret Madden' . . .”

“I'm afraid not, Mr. Hoopes.”

“No? Really? Are you sure? This would have been in the late 1930s. In Mrs. Scharlatt's sixth-grade class you sat at the front, far left by the window. You had silver barrettes in your hair.
Margie Madden
.”

Margot feels her face heat. It is just not the flirtation that makes her uneasy but a kind of complicity of hers, as of the others who are listening, in their reluctance to tell E.H. frankly of his condition.

It would be Dr. Ferris's obligation to tell him this; or rather, to tell him again. (For E.H. has been told many times.)

“I—I'm afraid not . . .”

“Well! Will you call me ‘Eli'? Please.”

“‘Eli.'”

“Thank you! That's very kind.”

E.H. consults a little notebook he keeps in a pocket of his khakis, and jots down a note. He holds the notebook at a slight, subtle angle so that no one can see what he is writing; yet not so emphatically an angle that the gesture is insulting to Margot.

Margot has been told that the amnesiac has been keeping notebooks since he'd recovered from his illness and was strong enough to hold a pen in his hand. So far he has accumulated many dozens of these small notebooks as well as sketchbooks measuring forty-eight inches by thirty-six inches; he never arrives at the Institute without both of these. Apparently the notebook and the sketchbook serve different functions. In the notebooks E.H. jots down stray facts, names, times and dates; he inserts columns torn from magazines and newspapers from the fourth-floor lounge. (Male staffers who use the fourth-floor men's restroom report finding such detritus there each day that E.H. is on the premises—that is how they know, they say, that “your fancy amnesiac” has been there.) The sketchbooks are for drawings.

The complex neurological skills needed for reading, writing, and mathematical calculation seem not to have been much affected by E.H.'s illness, as they were acquired before the infection. So E.H. reads brightly from the notebook: “‘Elihu Hoopes attended Amherst College and graduated summa cum laude with a double major in economics and mathematics . . . Elihu Hoopes has attended Union Theological Seminary and has a degree from the Wharton School of Business.'” E.H. reads this statement as if he has been asked to identify himself. Seeing his visitors' carefully neutral expressions he regards them with a little tic of a smile as if, for just this moment, he understands the folly and pathos of his predicament, and is begging their indulgence.
Forgive me!
The amnesiac has learned to gauge the mood of his visitors, eager to engage and entertain them
:
“I know this. I know who I am. But it seems reasonable to check one's identity frequently, to see if it is still there.” E.H. laughs as he snaps the little notebook shut and slips it back into his pocket, and the others laugh with him.

Only Margot can barely bring herself to laugh. It seems to her cruel somehow.

There is laughter, and there is laughter. Not all laughter is equal.

Laughter too depends upon memory—a memory of previous laughter.

Dr. Ferris has told his young associates that their subject “E.H.” will possibly be one of the most famous amnesiacs in the history of neuroscience; potentially he is another Phineas Gage, but in an era of advanced neuropsychological experimentation. In fact E.H. is far more interesting neurologically than Gage whose memory had not been severely affected by his famous head injury—the penetration of his left frontal lobe by an iron rod.

Dr. Ferris has cautioned them against too freely discussing
E.H. outside their laboratory, at least initially; they should be aware of their “enormous good fortune” in being part of this research team.

Though she is only a first-year graduate student Margot Sharpe doesn't have to be told that she is fortunate. Nor does Margot Sharpe need to be told not to discuss this remarkable amnesiac case with anyone. She does not intend to disappoint Milton Ferris.

Ferris and his assistants are preparing batteries of tests for E.H., of a kind that have never before been administered. The subject is to remain pseudonymous—“E.H.” will be his identity both inside and outside the Institute; and all who work with him at the Institute and care for him are pledged to confidentiality. The Hoopes family, which has donated millions of dollars to the University of Pennsylvania's School of Medicine, has given permission exclusively to the University Neurological Institute at Darven Park for such testing so long as E.H. is willing and cooperative—as indeed, he appears to be. Margot doesn't like to think that a kicked dog, yearning for human approval and love, desperate for a connection with the “normal,” could not be more eagerly cooperative than the dignified Elihu Hoopes, son of a wealthy and socially prominent Philadelphia family.