ANOTHER STEP WAS GAINED THE NEXT DAY. WITH THE aid, again, of Pentothal and sympathetic conversation, Dr. Hope was able to draw out from Bob a connected, lucid account of his recent past life. Bob was still slightly dazed, but his slowed movements were now nearly at normal speed and, best of all, he spoke with ease. In answer to Dr. Hope’s questions, and a few by Cherry, he rapidly said:
That he had attended Oberlin College, majored in the sciences, and had been graduated from there in a certain year. That his home was in Ohio. That only last week, before the accident to his leg, he had been working temporarily in Hilton for a traveling circus as a roustabout. Bob even named the circus, the Sells-Zotos Circus, and said, “They’re almost through with their summer tour. Right now, they’re probably winding up the season at St. Louis.”
All of this rang true. He was a changed man! Cherry felt so happy and excited at his new, sure recall that it took all of her self-control to sit there quietly during the interview.
Dr. Hope’s face as usual was a friendly mask. But he must feel encouraged, too. As they were about to leave their patient, Bob said:
“Would you do something for me? You’re investigating about me, aren’t you?” They nodded. “Then would you try to find out what it is—what I—why I—feel so anxious?” He tried not to stammer. “I know I have something urgent—difficult—to attend to—On my conscience. But I can’t remember what.”
Dr. Hope reassured him that the three of them together would discover that, too.
Dr. Hope led the way into an unoccupied room where he and Cherry could talk. “Poor fellow. It’s bad enough to have to face a known danger. But it’s the unknown that really terrifies and overwhelms. Well, we’ll check on these new statements of his as quickly as we can. We need facts.”
“Yes, Dr. Hope,” said Cherry. She had already reported to him the gist of her meeting with the detective. “What can I do now to help?”
“See the hospital social worker and ask her to write—no, wire or telephone Oberlin College. What can we do to check with the circus?”
“St. Louis isn’t so far away,” Cherry said eagerly. “My friends and I could drive over there this weekend.”
“That’s great!”
As soon as she finished her nursing duties on the ward, she went to see Mrs. Leona Ball in the social worker’s sunny, plant-filled office with its open door. Mrs. Ball admitted Cherry ahead of others when Cherry sent in a note: “Amnesia patient—sort of an emergency.”
“Oberlin College.” Leona Ball wrote this down. “But how are we going to ask the college to trace its records for a man whose right name we can’t tell them?”
A description of Bob; a snapshot; science major; year of graduation; these things the hospital could give the college. Leona Ball promised Cherry that she’d try to get an answer by Monday. She’d explain the urgency of the case and ask the college to wire collect.
That weekend Cherry and Sue and Bill Pritchard drove to St. Louis. At the city’s outskirts they located the Sells-Zotos Circus, which had played Hilton. The circus manager looked at them in disbelief when they showed him Bob’s snapshot and inquired about a man who had worked as a roustabout.
“Look, kids,” he said, “I’ve never seen this man in my life. Who told you such a tall tale?”
“But the circus was in Hilton a week or two ago?” Cherry asked.
“Yeah, but we haven’t hired any outside men this whole year. Naw, I never saw any fellow like the one you’re looking for.”
Cherry was stunned. Was Bob lying? Cherry didn’t like to think so. From the very beginning, Bob had impressed her as a serious, responsible young man, despite his present state. Still—
On Monday morning the social worker brought in the reply Oberlin College had wired her. The college had no trace of a former student or graduate who fit Bob’s statements and description.
“Of course,” Mrs. Ball said, “with such scanty information, and the snapshot not like his earlier appearance, Oberlin may not have been able—”
“Don’t blame the college,” said Cherry. “The circus never heard of him, either.”
When Dr. Hope arrived, Cherry reported these two failures. The psychiatrist was more interested than surprised.
“No, Miss Cherry, I don’t think Bob told us lies. Not lies, but fantasy. There’s one species of amnesia which is falsification of memory, and it generally occurs early in treatment. The patient weaves together things which actually happened—such as Bob’s noticing the circus was here in Hilton—with things he only imagines happened. Or—correction—events which possibly did happen in his past. For example, Bob probably attented a college, though it wasn’t Oberlin. Part of his memory disturbance.”
“He said his home was in Ohio,” Cherry remembered. “But his other statements proved false, so perhaps his thinking Ohio is his home is false, too.”
“Perhaps or perhaps not. Let’s go talk to him.”
They told him, without blame, that his memories of the other day had proved to be fantasy, not fact. Dr. Hope explained that he told Bob this only in the expectation that he would try harder and do better.
“I will,” Bob said. “It’s strange. While I’m telling you things, I’m never quite sure whether it’s the story of my personal experiences, or other people’s that I half remember, or even a movie I’ve seen somewhere. Or maybe just something I’m making up. I don’t honestly know.”
Dr. Hope said there was nothing alarming or surprising here. Bob’s subconscious mind developed these stories to meet the needs of the moment, and to cover up the actual situations which he found too painful or shameful to remember.
“But I want to remember. And I’m sure I did go to college.”
By means of free association of ideas—encouraging the patient to talk freely at random, so that one idea or memory led naturally into another—Bob recalled a good deal more. The first names of two classmates at college; a chemical formula they had argued about all one term; his dream last night of someone’s spaniel; a green-walled room in his grandparents’ house where, as a child, he had enjoyed his first Christmas tree. However, these recollections shed no light on Bob’s central problem, and, as Dr. Hope pointed out, Bob “selectively left out” the family members at the Christmas party. His mind blotted out whatever was really important.
“Why a chemical formula, Bob?” Cherry asked. “Did you major in chemistry?”
He thought hard. “Biochemistry, I believe.”
“Whose spaniel was it?” Dr. Hope asked.
“Heaven only knows! We never had a dog at our house. My mother doesn’t—” But he stopped.
Later that afternoon, after Dr. Hope had gone, a man named Westgaard came in, asking to see Bob Smith. He said he was a local farmer, and had seen Bob’s photo with its “Who Am I?” caption in the newspaper. Today was the farmer’s first chance to come to town. He stated that a man who might be Bob had done odd jobs for him last summer for about two weeks. Cherry warned Mr. Westgaard that Bob was ill, then took him into Bob’s room.
“That’s the fellow that worked for me,” the farmer said. “Nope, I don’t know nuthin’ about where he come from. He worked pretty well but he was strange. Wouldn’t say boo to anybody. Peculiar, dreamylike.”
Bob did not recognize the farmer.
Cherry talked a little to Bob about the farmer and gradually jogged his memory. He recalled that he had wandered and had different jobs at different places.
“Some of them escape me. I walked endlessly. Must have been fourteen, sixteen hours a day, some days. I never begged, though, so far as I know. You can almost always get a job at some restaurant as a counterman or dishwasher. There was one restaurant man in particular who’d always help me out. What’s his name? Can’t think of the town, either. He’d always feed me, and let me wash windows if no other work was available.”
“Mr. Field?” Cherry suggested. “In Glen Rock?”
“Field? Maybe that was it.”
Cherry was excited when the detective showed up at the hospital late the next afternoon, bringing Mr. Field. The restaurant owner was a plump, kindly man with a shrewd glance. Cherry showed the two visitors into the staff office where Dr. Hope was working with Bob’s tape recordings.
“Why, sure, I know Bob Smith,” the restaurant man told Dr. Hope and Cherry. “Is it all right if I go in to see him?”
“Just a minute, please,” the psychiatrist said. “We’ll go in with you, and I think it may do Bob good to see you. But first, Mr. Treadway probably has something to tell us, privately, if you don’t mind.”
Cherry showed Mr. Field into an anteroom and said, “We’ll just be a few minutes. Would you like to look at a magazine?”
“Ah—thanks. Miss Nurse? Bob Smith isn’t that boy’s real name, is it? He stumbled all over himself when I asked him his name.”
Cherry explained about his loss of memory.
“Ah! So that’s it! Well, let me tell you, he’s an awfully nice boy. I don’t care if he’s been in trouble or prison or whatever—I don’t ask questions of the men who come to me hungry and ragged and in need of work. They’re unfortunates, and entitled to a chance to work.”
Here, Cherry thought, was a compassionate man. She told Mr. Field they did not really know what had happened to Bob, and excused herself.
She returned to the office, where Dr. Hope was telling the detective what little the hospital people had learned from Bob during the past week. They had waited for Cherry to be present for Mr. Treadway’s report.
“Not that there’s much to report,” said the detective. “The Missing Persons Bureau sent nothing but a negative report, so far. I sent Bob Smith’s fingerprints to all the armed services, and they report no record.”
“So he’s accurate about never having been in the service,” Cherry murmured.
“Mr. Field couldn’t supply any leads, either. But I thought you’d want to talk with him. Now, Doctor, I have to say something I wish I didn’t have to say. This is as much help as I’m authorized to give you. I’m a city detective, and there are a number of other cases waiting for me, and I can’t put them off any longer.”
Dr. Hope did not hide his disappointment. “Honestly, Mr. Treadway? Can’t the Hilton Police Department let us have your services for a week or two longer?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. If I get any more replies on these inquiries I sent out, I’ll send them to you. And I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for anything about your patient.”
The detective bowed out, leaving them feeling rather helpless.
“Well,” said Dr. Hope, “let’s see what Mr. Field knows.”
In the anteroom they counseled the restaurant owner that his visit with Bob had best be brief. Cherry went ahead to tell Bob that Mr. Field was coming, then the psychiatrist brought Mr. Field in.
“Hello, Mr. Field,” Bob said, and held out his hand. “I’m glad to see you. Miss Cherry, this is the man I told you about—the man who always could find some job for me.”
No doubt about it, he recognized Mr. Field and even better, remembered himself in connection with this man.
Mr. Field pumped Bob’s hand. “Well, well, well!” he said, a shade too heartily. “What happened to your leg? We’ve missed you around the restaurants. Yes, sir, we certainly have.” He swallowed hard.
Bob answered something vague and polite. He looked in Cherry’s direction for help, and Cherry wondered how much he remembered of the restaurants or the people there. He smiled anxiously at Mr. Field from his bed.
“Well, Bob, you look to me as if you’re in better shape physically, and in a whole lot better spirits—except for the leg, I mean—than the last time I saw you a few weeks ago.” This much improvement was the first fruit of the hospital’s efforts. “Yes, indeed, Bob, whenever you’re ready for a job again, you come right back to me!”
Mr. Field was started on another booming speech. Dr. Hope touched his arm, and suggested he say good-bye for now.
In the anteroom Mr. Field mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. The visit to Bob had shaken him.
“I never realized the boy had lost his memory. I could see when he came around several times asking for work—anybody with eyes in his head could’ve seen—that the boy was hungry and unhappy and in some kind of trouble. But I never guessed—”
“Amnesia isn’t an easy thing for a layman to recognize,” Dr. Hope said.
“He was secretive,” Mr. Field insisted to Dr. Hope and Cherry. “He didn’t talk any more than he had to, to anyone. A nice boy, though. It struck me at the time—maybe you’ve noticed this, too?—that he has abilities far above his present situation in life. This Bob Smith is no tramp, he’s an educated man, courteous, has a sense of duty toward other people—”
“Yes, Mr. Field,” said Cherry. “We’ve noticed that, too.”
“Though to be exact, we’ve had no chance to observe his sense of duty,” Dr. Hope said.
“Well, I’ll give you an example—Say, I clean forgot to show this to the detective fellow! My wife reminded me this morning. Hal Treadway’s left, hasn’t he? Too bad.” Mr. Field dug in his pocket and took out a pawn ticket. “This will show you how conscientious Bob is.”
Once last summer, when he was unable to repay a small loan from Mr. Field, Bob gave him the pawn ticket. So far as Mr. Field remembered, it was for Bob’s watch. Mr. Field never redeemed the pawn ticket. When Bob wandered off, he saved it to give back to him in case he returned.
“Now I guess I’d better give it to you hospital people.”
He handed the pawn ticket, which came from a Glen Rock shop, to Dr. Hope. The psychiatrist remarked on its date, last summer, and handed it to Cherry.
“I have a heavy caseload at the University Hospital, so I haven’t time to look into this matter. Miss Cherry, can you take care of it?”
“This young lady can drive back to Glen Rock with me right now,” said Mr. Field. “I could drive her to the pawnshop. Then she could catch the bus back to Hilton.”
“That’s kind of you,” Dr. Hope and Cherry said in unison, then grinned at each other.
Since Cherry had completed her ward duties before Mr. Field’s and the detective’s visit, she was free to drive to Glen Rock now. Mr. Field turned out to be a chatterbox. Cherry managed to listen with one ear, but she was speculating about Bob. How had he managed, confused as he was by amnesia, not to beg but to find and hold odd jobs? Basically he must be a self-respecting, steady sort of man. His habit of responsibility toward others must be ingrained in him, too, to continue even in his time of stress.
After a half hour’s drive they entered the tree-lined streets of Glen Rock. In a rather shabby section of the town, Mr. Field stopped the car in front of a pawnshop. It looked dingy, but respectable enough. Mr. Field was obviously in a hurry to be at his restaurants before suppertime. Cherry thanked him and said good-bye to him, entering the pawnshop alone.
She had no trouble in redeeming Bob Smith’s ticket. The man behind the counter handed over, without comment or questions, a man’s wristwatch. It was a good, standard American watch, in a stainless steel case, and with a simple leather wristband. Cherry waited until she was out on the street to examine it carefully. The wristband showed wear, and the watch did not look new. Unfortunately, there were no initials on the case.
“But there is a lead here!”
Cherry brightened as she remembered that every watch bears the manufacturer’s name and a serial number. On the bus ride home to Hilton, she managed to pry open the back of the case with a hair pin. She found some letters and numbers, but they were too small to see clearly on a moving vehicle at twilight. At home she borrowed her father’s magnifying reading glass and tried that. Yes, the manufacturer’s name and the serial number were clearly visible.
Cherry copied them down. She would ask Mrs. Ball to write at once, on the hospital’s letterhead stationery, to the watch manufacturer. This was a large firm in New England. With any luck at all, the manufacturer should be able to supply the name and address of the retail shop where Bob’s watch had been bought. Then, by writing there, it might be possible to learn who—
“Cherry!” her mother called from the dining room. “Aren’t you coming in to dinner? Dad is ready to serve you.”
“Are you nursing or sleuthing out there all by yourself?” Charlie asked.
“Both, you might say,” Cherry replied, and she came to take her place at the family table.