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It wasn't a lie and I didn't need to have Uncle
Jean pointed out to me. He hadn't changed very much from the young man in the photos, and he was, as Lyle had described, the best-dressed patient in the cafeteria, coming to lunch in a light blue seersucker sports jacket and matching slacks, a white shirt with a blue cravat, and spotless white deck shoes. His golden brown hair was neatly trimmed and brushed back on the sides. I could see that he still had his trim figure. He looked like someone on vacation who had stopped by to visit a sick relative. He ate mechanically and gazed around the cafeteria with little or no interest.
"There he is," Lyle said, nodding in Uncle Jean's direction.
"I know." My heart began to tap a rapid beat on
the inside of my chest.
"As you see, despite his problem, whatever that
may be," Lyle said dryly, "he remains very concerned
about his appearance. You should see his room, how
neatly he keeps everything, too. In the beginning, I
thought he had a cleanliness fetish or something. If
you touch anything in his room, he'll go to it and make sure you didn't smudge it or move it an iota of
an inch out of place.
"I'm practically the only one he permits in his
room," Lyle added proudly. "He doesn't talk to me as
such. He doesn't speak to anyone, but he tolerates me
at least. If someone else sits at that table, he'll create a
stir."
"What will he do?" I asked.
"He might start beating a spoon on his plate or
he might just scream this horrid, beastlike sound until
one of the attendants comes over and moves him or
the other person away," Lyle explained.
"Maybe I shouldn't go near him," I said
fearfully.
"Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe you should.
Don't ask me to decide for you, but if you want me to,
I'll tell him who you are at least."
"He might recognize me," I said.
"I thought he never saw you."
