Et cetera. You Nattered On to fill the time; your mind was Nervously Elsewhere. The Doctor’s too, you Would Have Thought — though he mouthed his dead cigar and regarded you as entomologically as ever. It was his afternoon to fish, but the day, indeed the approaching weekend, looked to be another stormy one, and he was chagrined. Presently he said, as confidently and acidly as ever in 1953: “Merde Homer. Blank attracts blank. You are In Love with Pocahontas. You would be Better Off Paralyzed.”

You were Entirely Startled. Indeed, you Blushed. But you Could Not Deny what till then you’d Not Acknowledged even to yourself: that Ambrose Mensch’s ex, the blonde Medusa who froze even limber Tombo, somehow moved your Heart — if not to Love, at least to a Surprising Sympathy. It Seemed Likely to you, however, that this unlikelihood was in some measure another aspect of Der Wiedertraum: Marsha Blank’s miscasting (as the high school teacher you’d Bedded Cavalierly in Wicomico in 1953) had occasioned your Reviewing both herself and “Peggy Rankin” in a new, more compassionate light. Sixteen years after the fact, you Wished you Had Been Less Cynical with Ms. Rankin; and you Dared Say Pocahontas had her reasons for being bitchy.

Genug, the Doctor ordered: your Balls, such as they were, were your Own, to Lose as you Would, but kindly Spare him the smarmy sympathetics. He did not regard you as Prepared for a Genuine Emotional Engagement — you Recalled perhaps that he’d advised against it in 1953 as well, vis-à-vis the late Rennie Morgan? — but neither did he regard you as Capable of one. If your Feeling for Marsha Blank helped keep you Alive and Mobile, the rest was your Funeral.

Der Wiedertraum itself he still considered dangerous, both to the mobility of its principals and to the security of the Farm, which he did not want jeopardized so near to his retirement. What was more, he didn’t understand the timetable. The novelized version of the original trauma corroborated his own recollection: that Mrs. Morgan’s abortion and death had occurred in late October 1953. Wherefore then “Saint Joe’s” ultimatum that she be redreamed, reborn, by Labor Day, which would fall this year on the 1st of September? More important, whatever Morgan’s dramaturgical calendar, how could the reenactment imaginably have a positive outcome? It was a time bomb, and unless (what the Doctor could not conceive) you Had Some Possible Strategy for defusing it, he was resolved to move it off the premises before it blew.

What Struck you as Odd about this colloquy was that for all his customary hauteur the Doctor appeared, for the first time in your connection, to be consulting you. He was asking your Advice! Moreover, he seemed now not only superannuated but impotent, at least far from omnipotent. It Occurred To you, irrelevantly, that by the rules of B-movie dramaturgy he was as of that moment a dead man. You Were Not Surprised when thunderstorms crashed as if on cue immediately thereafter, and a tornado watch curtailed the evening’s show. That the twisters spun off Lake Erie, not into Ontario, but into New York State across the way (and wrecked specifically the Chautauqua Lake locations that Prinz and Mensch had just done filming) underscored the portent. And if you Did Not Quite Assume — when after the abbreviated entertainment the Doctor declared an end to Der Wiedertraum, gave two weeks’ notice to Casteene, Morgan, and the draft evaders to begone from the Farm or be removed therefrom by the provincial police, and forbade the film company ever to return (Bea Golden excepted, whose family’s patronage was still prized) — that it was his own termination notice the Doctor thus pronounced, it is because you Doubted Fate was such an artless hack.

You Were Not Displeased at his ultimatum, only A Touch Anxious that Morgan might now attempt whatever he had in mind by Independence, rather than by Labor, Day. The prospect of Casteene, Morgan, and the hippies gone, yourself and Marsha Blank still here — not displeasing, not displeasing. But no one was perturbed by the Doctor’s orders; no one made the least motion either to protest or to accede. July 4 came, birthday of Louis Armstrong, Calvin Coolidge, Stephen Foster, Nathaniel Hawthorne; with a final muttered warning that They’d better be packing when he got back, the Doctor went fishing. Another tremendous Friday P.M. storm promptly exploded on Lake Erie. Among the 200 Feared Missing thereafter: il vostro dottore, no trace of whose body or boat has as of this writing been found.

You Miss him. A Little.

The Remobilization Farm moves on, under altered management. Tombo X continues as Resident Physician and Chief of Physical Therapy, yourself (who Can Account for nothing) as General Accountant, Monsieur Casteene as Prime Mover — and Saint Joe as Progressor & Advisor, with whom this afternoon, ☌♀☽, you Recommenced your Weekly Interviews, Reviewing your Schedule of Therapies and Der (likewise altered) Wiedertraum.

Suppose — Mister Bones had Inquired of Mister Tambo in effect and in desperation at the Minstrel Show — Rennie Morgan were by some miracle restored to him by 9/1/69: What then? Why, sir, rejoined Mister Bones (while Monsieur Interlocuteur beamed upon us all), the dream will take its course: she will reacquiesce to your Seducements or not, reconceive or not, rechoose abortion or not, et cetera. And why 9/1? Asked Bones. Can it be, added M. Interlocuteur, for the reason that on 31 August 1953—Day 44 or thereabouts of your original Hundred Days — after a month of horseback-riding sessions during which Jacob Horner Learned of Joseph Morgan’s passionate rationalism and Played Devil’s Advocate thereto with hapless Rennie, the two equestrians happened to espy upon return at twilight from their latest session that same Morgan, solo in his study, simultaneously masturbating, picking his nose, and speaking nonsense syllables to his reflection in a mirror? And that that (for her) shocking revelation of her husband’s less than absolute rationality can be said to have led, in the plot of that novel at least, to her initial infidelity on Day 46, Nine/Two/Fifty-three?

Not impossibly, Tambo acknowledged. Not impossibly.

Then why, pressed M.I., is not Nine Two rather than Nine One our deadline? By your own chronological abstract of the novel based upon Mister Bones’s Account of this adulterous connection, nothing happened between said espial and said consummation save Horner’s Quarterly Visit, on Day 45, to the Doctor, to Report his Progress and Receive Advice. N’est-ce pas, Mister Bones?

That is how it is, you Affirmed, in that novel.

And see here, Casteene went on: ought we not to consider, for the edification of Mesdames et Messieurs our audience, such matters as the double paradox of Joseph Morgan’s unreasonable rationalism and Jacob Horner’s reasonable irrationality, which, in that novel at least, surely accounted for their mutual attraction? What of Morgan’s complicity — the term is not too bold! — in his own cuckolding? Eh? I mean his proposing those riding lessons in the first place, to divert his wife with Horner’s Company whilst he completed his dissertation? His deliberate and foolish trial, as it were, of her fidelity? I do not even mention his insistence, when the adultery came to light, that she reenact it, on Nine/Eleven and Nine/Sixteen, to “clarify her motives”—which reenactment may feasibly have led to her impregnation? Eh? Eh?

Those are all matters to be considered, Joe agreed: every one.

It was here, you Believe, that the tornado watch supervened and the Doctor issued his futile directives, before you could Point Out that (in that novel, at least) there was no proof that Rennie ever conceived, by you or Joe or anyone else, that fall! Not that it mattered, morally and ultimately, perhaps; but still. And was it in that abortive Minstrel Show or in this afternoon’s paralyzing knee-to-knee in the P & A Room that your Sixteen-Year Penance was reviewed, from your Voluntary Sterilization to your Hornbook and other Scriptotherapeutic Disciplines? There, there, there was the sticking point, declared your new Advisor; and he would come to explaining why, in time. But not just now. For just now, he and Monsieur Casteene had cause to believe, you had a More Pressing Concern, antitherapeutically distracting beyond doubt, and which too might call for some alteration of Der Wiedertraum’s timetable.