〃Elvis fell apart with grief when Gladys died。 He fondled and petted her in the casket。 He talked baby talk to her until she was in the ground。〃
〃Klara's funeral cost three hundred and seventy kronen。 Hitler wept at the grave and fell into a period of depression and self…pity。 He felt an intense loneliness。 He'd lost not only his beloved mother but also his sense of home and hearth。〃
〃It seems fairly certain that Gladys's death caused a fundamental shift at the center of the King's world view。 She'd been his anchor； his sense of security。 He began to withdraw from the real world； to enter the state of his own dying。〃
〃For the rest of his life； Hitler could not bear to be anywhere near Christmas decorations because his mother had died near a Christmas tree。〃
〃Elvis made death threats； received death threats。 He took mortuary tours and became interested in UFOs。 He began to study the Bardo Th？dol； monly known as The Tibetan Book of the Dead。 This is a guide to dying and being reborn。〃
〃Years later； in the grip of self…myth and deep remoteness； Hitler kept a portrait of his mother in his spartan quarters at Obersalzberg。 He began to hear a buzzing in his left ear。〃
Murray and I passed each other near the center of the room； almost colliding。 Alfonse Stompanato entered； followed by several students； drawn perhaps by some magnetic wave of excitation； some frenzy in the air。 He settled his surly bulk in a chair as Murray and I circled each other and headed off in opposite directions； avoiding an exchange of looks。
〃Elvis fulfilled the terms of the contract。 Excess； deterioration； self…destructiveness； grotesque behavior； a physical bloating and a series of insults to the brain； self…delivered。 His place in legend is secure。 He bought off the skeptics by dying early； horribly； unnecessarily。 No one could deny him now。 His mother probably saw it all； as on a nineteen…inch screen； years before her own death。〃
Murray； happily deferring to me； went to a corner of the room and sat on the floor； leaving me to pace and gesture alone； secure in my professional aura of power； madness and death。
〃Hitler called himself the lonely wanderer out of nothingness。 He sucked on lozenges； spoke to people in endless monologues； free…associating； as if the language came from some vastness beyond the world and he was simply the medium of revelation。 It's interesting to wonder if he looked back from the führerbunker； beneath the burning city； to the early days of his power。 Did he think of the small groups of tourists who visited the little settlement where his mother was born and where he'd spent summers with his cousins； riding in ox carts and making kites？ They came to honor the site； Klara's birthplace。 They entered the farmhouse； poked around tentatively。 Adolescent boys climbed on the roof。 In time the numbers began to increase。 They took pictures； slipped small items into their pockets。 Then crowds came； mobs of people overrunning the courtyard and singing patriotic songs； painting swastikas on the walls； on the flanks of farm animals。 Crowds came to his mountain villa； so many people he had to stay indoors。 They picked up pebbles where he'd walked and took them home as souvenirs。 Crowds came to hear him speak； crowds erotically charged； the masses he once called his only bride。 He closed his eyes； clenched his fists as he spoke； twisted his sweat…drenched body； remade his voice as a thrilling weapon。 'Sex murders；' someone called these speeches。 Crowds came to be hypnotized by the voice； the party anthems； the torchlight parades。〃
I stared at the carpet and counted silently to seven。
〃But wait。 How familiar this all seems； how close to ordinary。 Crowds e； get worked up； touch and press—people eager to be transported。 Isn't this ordinary？ We know all this。 There must have been something different about those crowds。 What was it？ Let me whisper the terrible word； from the Old English； from the Old German； from the Old Norse。 Death。 Many of those crowds were assembled in the name of death。 They were there to attend tributes to the dead。 Processions； songs； speeches； dialogues with the dead； recitations of the names of the dead。 They were there to see pyres and flaming wheels； thousands of flags dipped in salute； thousands of uniformed mourners。 There were ranks and squadrons； elaborate backdrops； blood banners and black dress uniforms。 Crowds came to form a shield against their own dying。 To bee a crowd is to keep out death。 To break off from the crowd is to risk death as an individual； to face dying alone。 Crowds came for this reason above all others。 They were there to be a crowd。〃
Murray sat across the room。 His eyes showed a deep gratitude。 I had been generous with the power and madness at my disposal； allowing my subject to be associated with an infinitely lesser figure； a fellow who sat in La…Z…Boy chairs and shot out TVs。 It was not a small matter。 We all had an aura to maintain； and in sharing mine with a friend I was risking the very things that made me untouchable。
People gathered round； students and staff； and in the mild din of half heard remarks and orbiting voices I realized we were now a crowd。 Not that I needed a crowd around me now。 Least of all now。 Death was strictly a professional matter here。 I was fortable with it； I was on top of it。 Murray made his way to my side and escorted me from the room； parting the crowd with his fluttering hand。
16
This was the day Wilder started crying at two in the afternoon。 At six he was still crying； sitting on the kitchen floor and looking through the oven window； and we ate dinner quickly； moving around him or stepping over him to reach the stove and refrigerator。 Babette watched him as she ate。 She had a class to teach in sitting； standing and walking。 It would start in an hour and a half。 She looked at me in a drained and supplicating way。 She'd spoken soothingly to him； hefted and caressed him； checked his teeth； given him a bath； examined him； tickled him； fed him； tried to get him to crawl into his vinyl play tunnel。 Her old people would be waiting in the church basement。
It was rhythmic crying； a measured statement of short urgent pulses。 At times it seemed he would break off into a whimper； an animal plaint； irregular and exhausted； but the rhythm held； the heightened beat； the washed pink sorrow in his face。
〃We'll take him to the doctor；〃 I said。 〃Then I'll drop you at the church。〃
〃Would the doctor see a crying child？ Besides； his doctor doesn't have hours now。〃
〃What about your doctor？〃
〃I think he does。 But a crying child； Jack。 What can I say to the man？ 'My child is crying。'〃
〃Is there a condition more basic？〃
There'd been no sense of crisis until now。 Just exasperation and despair。 But once we decided to visit the doctor； we began to hurry； to fret。 We looked for Wilder's jacket and shoes； tried to remember what he'd eaten in the last twenty…four hours； anticipated questions the doctor would ask and rehearsed our answers carefully。 It seemed vital to agree on the answers even if we weren't sure they were correct。 Doctors lose interest in people who contradict each other。 This fear has long informed my relationship with doctors； that they would lose interest in me； instruct their receptionists to call other names before mine； take my dying for granted。
I waited in the car while Babette and Wilder went into the medical building at the end of Elm。 Doctors' offices depress me even more than hospitals do because of their air of negative expectancy and because of the occasional patient who leaves with good news； shaking the doctor's antiseptic hand and laughing loudly； laughing at everything the doctor says； booming with laughter； with crude power； making a point of ignoring the other patients as he walks past the waiting room still laughing provocatively— he is already clear of them； no longer associated with their weekly gloom； their anxious inferior dying。 I would rather visit an emergency ward； some urban well of trembling； where people e in gut…shot； slashed； sleepy…eyed with opium pounds； broken needles in their arms。 These things have nothing to do with my own eventual death； nonviolent； small…town； thoughtful。
They came out of the small bright lobby onto the street。 It was cold； empty and dark。 The boy walked next to his mother； holding her hand； still crying； and they seemed a picture of such amateurish sadness and calamity that I nearly started laughing—laughing not at the sadness but at the picture they made of it； at the disparity between their grief and its appearances。 My feelings of tenderness and pity were undermined by the sight of them crossing the sidewalk in their bundled clothing； the child determinedly weeping； his mother drooping as she walked； wild…haired； a wretched and pathetic pair。 They were inadequate to the spoken grief； the great single…minded anguish。 Does this explain the existence of professional mourners？ They keep a wake from lapsing into ic pathos。
〃What did the doctor say？〃
〃Give him an aspirin and put him to bed。〃
〃That's what Denise said。〃
〃I told him that。 He said； 'Well； why didn't you do it？'〃
〃Why didn't we？〃
〃She's a child； not a doctor—that's why。〃
〃Did you tell him that？〃
〃I don't know what I told him；〃 she said； 〃I'm never in control of what I say to doctors； much less what they say to me。 There's some kind of disturbance in the air。〃
〃I know exactly what you mean。〃
〃It's like having a conversation during a spacewalk； dangling in those heavy suits。〃
〃Everything drifts and floats。〃
〃I lie to doctors all the time。〃
〃So do I。〃
〃But why？〃 she said。
As I started the car I realized his crying had changed in pitch and quality。 The rhythmic urgency had given way to a sustained； inarticulate and mournful sound。 He was keening now。 These were expressions of Mideastern lament； of an anguish so accessible that it rushes to overwhelm whatever immediately caused it。 There was something permanent and soul…struck in this crying。 It was a sound of inbred desolation。
〃What do we do？〃
〃Think of something；〃 she said。
'There's still fifteen minutes before your class is due to start。 Let's take him to the hospital； to the emergency entrance。 Just to see what they say。〃
〃You can't take a child to an emergency ward because he's crying。 If anything is not an emergency； this would be it。〃
〃I'll wait in the car；〃 I said。
〃What do I tell them？ 'My child is crying。' Do they even have an emergency ward？〃
〃Don't you remember？ We took the Stovers this past summer。〃
〃Why？〃
〃Their car was being repaired。〃
〃Never mind。〃
〃They inhaled the spray mist from some kind of stain remover。〃
〃Take me to my class；〃 she said。
Posture。 When I pulled up in front of the church； some of her students were walking down the steps to the basement entrance。 Babette looked at her son—a searching； pleading and desperate look。 He was in the sixth hour of his crying。 She ran along the sidewalk and into the building。
I thought of taking him to the hospital。 But if a doctor who examined the boy thoroughly in his cozy office with paintings on the wall