White Noise - Don Delillo [107]
“You’re the only person I know that’s educated enough to give me the answer.”
“The answer to what?”
“Were people this dumb before television?”
One night I heard a voice and thought he was moaning in his sleep. I put on my robe, went into the hall, realized the sound came from the TV set in Denise’s room. I went in and turned off the set. She was asleep in a drift of blankets, books and clothes. On an impulse I went quietly to the open closet, pulled the light cord and peered inside, looking for the Dylar tablets. I closed the door against my body, which was half in, half out of the closet. I saw a great array of fabrics, shoes, toys, games and other objects. I poked around, catching an occasional trace of some childhood redolence. Clay, sneakers, pencil shavings. The bottle might be in an abandoned shoe, the pocket of some old shirt wadded in a corner. I heard her stir. I went still, held my breath.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Don’t worry, it’s only me.”
“I know who it is.”
I kept on looking through the closet, thinking this would make me appear less guilty.
“I know what you’re looking for, too.”
“Denise, I’ve had a recent scare. I thought something awful was about to happen. It turned out I was wrong, thank goodness. But there are lingering effects. I need the Dylar. It may help me solve a problem.”
I continued to rummage.
“What’s the problem?”
“Isn’t it enough for you to know that a problem exists? I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Don’t you want to be my friend?”
“I am your friend. I just don’t want to be tricked.”
“There’s no question of tricking. I just need to try the medication. There are four tablets left. I’ll take them and that’ll be the end of it.”
The more casual the voice, the better my chances of reaching her.
“You won’t take them. You’ll give them to my mother.”
“Let’s be clear about one thing,” I said like a high government official. “Your mother is not a drug addict. Dylar is not that kind of medication.”
“What is it then? Just tell me what it is.”
Something in her voice or in my heart or in the absurdity of the moment allowed me to consider the possibility of answering her question. A breakthrough. Why not simply tell her? She was responsible, able to gauge the implications of serious things. I realized Babette and I had been foolish all along, keeping the truth from her. The girl would embrace the truth, know us better, love us more deeply in our weakness and fear.
I went and sat at the end of the bed. She watched me carefully. I told her the basic story, leaving out the tears, the passions, the terror, the horror, my exposure to Nyodene D., Babette’s sexual arrangement with Mr. Gray, our argument over which of us feared death more. I concentrated on the medication itself, told her everything I knew about its life in the gastrointestinal tract and the brain.
The first thing she mentioned was the side effects. Every drug has side effects. A drug that could eliminate fear of death would have awesome side effects, especially if it is still in a trial stage. She was right, of course. Babette had spoken of outright death, brain death, left brain death, partial paralysis, other cruel and bizarre conditions of the body and mind.
I told Denise the power of suggestion could be more important than side effects.
“Remember how you heard on the radio that the billowing cloud caused sweaty palms? Your palms got sweaty, didn’t they? The power of suggestion makes some people sick, others well. It may not matter how strong or weak Dylar is. If I think it will help me, it will help me.”
“Up to a point.”
“We are talking about death,” I whispered. “In a very real sense it doesn’t matter what is in those tablets. It could be sugar, it could be spice. I am eager to be humored, to be fooled.”
“Isn’t that a little stupid?”
“This is what happens, Denise, to desperate people.”
There was a silence. I waited for her to ask me if this desperation was inevitable, if she would one day experience the same fear, undergo the same ordeal.
Instead she said, “Strong or weak doesn’t matter. I threw the bottle