This story is in response to a Golden Apple Challenge to write a story about a meeting between the Roman Emperor Commodus and Hercules. (Please note that after a great deal of debate, I have decided to use the Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary version of the Emperor's name.) I am also using this story to answer a question that has always haunted me, and that TIIC never answered, as to what happened to Hercules after he killed Zeus in GOD FEARING CHILD. The Hercules and Iolaus characters in this story (who go by multiple names) do not belong to me; I only care for them and try to keep them safe and warm, something the folks at Renaissance have not been wont to do.
There is a mental health facility in Athens, Ohio with a high-tech bathtub and photographic art on the walls. Many of photographs were taken by B. Linhardt who is one of my beta readers. All other references to this facility and the staff are my own creation. THE THREE CHRISTS OF YPSILANTI was written by Milton Rokeach in 1964 and published by Alfred A. Knopf. Dr. Rokeach died in 1988 and was one of my college professors. As far as I know, there is not a Noah's Ark Test used in any form of psychological treatment.
Thanks to those who have helped me with this story, your advice, even if not taken, has helped improve this work.
Athens, Ohio, 2001
After masquerading as September for almost three weeks, November had come with vengeance to the hills of southern Ohio. Dr. Ellen Bradshaw pulled her raincoat tightly around her blocking the wind that gusted across the parking lot carrying with it brown oak leaves. 'Tomorrow there is a good chance that it could be snow.' She thought to herself.
She smiled at the photographs of giant flowers on the wall outside her office that gave the hall the feeling of perpetual spring regardless of the weather outside. A portion of the construction budget for the facility had been devoted to the purchase of artwork. The photos taken so close-up that you felt you could reach out and touch the dew or the ants. They seemed to give you a sense of forced intimacy; you never really got that close to a flower.
'With winter so late this year, maybe spring wasn't that far in the future.' She thought. 'You have to keep positive in this job, or you will . . go crazy. Crazy people create crazy thoughts.' She laughed. If she didn't want to deal with crazy people, what was she doing here, and why had she been working in this field for almost twenty-five years ending up here in a maximum-care, lock-down psychiatric facility? 'Maybe it was because of the art.'
She picked-up the memo from the top of the large stack of files on her desk and glanced through it for pertinent information. Meeting 10:30 AM, Conference Room 3; it was another author from Columbus with another book possibility. 'Why did authors always want to write about disturbed people? Why did these books sell? Weren't people's lives complicated enough without taking on other people's psychological problems?' Ellen was good at going through the motions with writers and researchers; sometimes she thought she was better at that than actually dealing with the patients.
She glanced through the accompany memo and was privately amused at what she saw. The author had located three men who all believed themselves to be the Greek demi-god Hercules. One of them was located here at the Athens facility. Despite her name on the file, she had no memory of ever dealing with the patient. The man, now in his seventies, had been housed in the facility heavily drugged since its opening ten years before. The process of putting people claiming similar identities together had been tried several times over the past 50 years, ever since the famous THE THREE CHRISTS OF YPSILANTI. Even though that book made great reading, she doubted if much could be learned from another attempt.
ROME ITALY,
192 AD
The gladiator was impressive. He was tall, young, and massively built, with close-cropped dark hair and beard, piercing black eyes and the clothing made from the skins of wild animals. Even unarmed, with chains around his legs and his arms cuffed behind his back, he looked dangerous, as if it were only a matter of time until the metal succumbed to muscle. Emperor Commodus was duly impressed. He would like to see this man take on something big, something impressive, an Asian Tiger maybe, or those huge white bears from the very far north. He wanted to see him fight. He wanted to see him die. Not only because watching it would be exciting, but also because he needed him dead. This man claimed that he was Hercules. That man couldn't be Hercules, because he, Lucius Aelius Aurelius Commodus , Emperor of Rome, Son of Marcus Aurelius and his wife Faustina, was really Hercules.
"Alania, "Commodus addressed his animal keeper, "How is my stock of Rhinos?"
"Six. Just enough for your fight next week. There are more on the way from Africa. We had news with the last ship that fifteen were ready to be transported once our ships were properly reinforced. No word recently however."
"White bears?"
"Three of them right now, but expect more shortly. I wouldn't mind getting rid of them. They're picky eaters. If the fish isn't fresh they turn and eat the smaller animals, even the black bears." Alania liked most the animals under his care, except for the white bears. They looked far too cuddly for being the meanest animals in the inventory.
"OK then, save the rhinos for my fight, and we will schedule this Hercules guy to fight the three white bears. I'll show him a thing or two."
Commodus left the animal pens and joined his cadre of six guards. While he had no fear of the animals, his subjects were a constant source of concern. Assassination attempts had become far too common. It was only with the animals that he felt comfortable and secure.
After the Emperor and his guards had left, Alania threw a few fish to the white bears and continued down the passageway under the coliseum past pens of other animals. He hated to see animals penned up like this, waiting for the inevitable fight to the death. Alania liked to try to keep the animals mean and edgy so they might have a fighting chance; but, because of the high quality of the Emperor's challengers, it was rare for an animal to win.
Before entering the very small final pen, he dipped a cloth in a barrel of rainwater and rang it out. He opened the door carefully and stepped inside. Huddled in the corner was an old man with long white hair and eyes almost blind in the darkness. He was naked except for soiled rags clinging to his loins. Alania carefully washed him; speaking soft words he was not sure were understood.
With tears running down his face, Alania handed him the wineskin and helped him squirt fresh water into his mouth. It had been over a week since he had eaten, but again he threw the small pieces of bread and cheese Alania offered him onto the filth covered floor. At least today he was quiet, there were days when he was almost uncontrollable and Alania feared he would be heard over the animals. He had been hiding the man from the Emperors for as long as he had been the animal keeper, he had been hiding him from others for over 100 years. Before he left, he held the man close again, and planted a kiss on his forehead. He wiped away the inevitable tears from his eyes and went back to the world of lions, tigers and bears.
Outside, Athens Greece
@ 40 AD
"And tell me again why I should make you a god, Iolaus." The God of War looked down on the short blond man with a look of total disdain.
"I don't want to be a god. I just need to be immortal. Someone needs to take care of Hercules."
"Why should I care that someone takes care of HIM?" He wanted to bellow; yet there was something in Iolaus's eyes which told him that he wouldn't be asking if it were not for him the most important thing in the entire world. Despite his annoying alliance with Hercules, Iolaus had never asked Ares for anything.
"Your brother is quite mad. He can't take care of himself. He's been this way for thirty years and I am getting old. When I am gone, who will take care of him? I am sure you don't want him to come and live with you."
Ares shook his head. He had not seen his Hercules much during those thirty years. Ever since that day when Hercules had taken the life of their father Zeus, the once heroic figure had begun to deteriorate. The act of patricide, even when performed for the most noble of reasons, had caused his heart and soul to decay. His body and mind were next. Iolaus had always been faithfully at his side, realizing that the love he had for the man would carry him through to his death. However, Hercules had not died. Even when he didn't eat for months, he continued on in a nether state. Iolaus had finally concluded that when Hercules had taken Zeus's life he had assumed his immortality. Hercules would live forever, even though he, more than anything else, wanted his friend to die.
"I only have one piece of apple left. I'm saving it for Xena. There is still a chance that she might take me up on my offer to make her a goddess. Join me ruling Olympus. Have my child."
"Dream on Ares, Xena is dead. She's not going to come back. That apple can be put to much better use if you give it to me. I'll never bother you again. I'll go far away and take care of Hercules for you. He is your brother."
"Half-brother."
"And he is mad. I can't think of anything more threatening to a god than a mad half-god. If I take him away, you can live in peace."
"Whatever." Ares sneered and threw him the small piece of apple. Iolaus looked at it carefully, still wondering if what he felt he had to do was the right thing to do, and popped the tasteless morsel into his mouth.
Athens, Ohio
Present time
"But how do you know about the patient at this facility?" Ellen asked after John Rogers had explained to her about the other two Hercules patients he had located.
One was an Hispanic gang member who had been in a juvenile facility for the past three years, during which time he had spent eight to ten hours a day in the gym and developed massive body size. Supervisors at that facility became fearful as to what would happen when he was released on his twenty-first birthday and had finally found someone who had drawn up commitment papers. The man could be transferred to the Athens facility upon twenty-four hours notice, much to the relief of his current caregivers. The second man was a former state legislator, once successful small businessman, who had spent most of his earnings on cocaine with resulting paranoiac delusions. The Hercules persona was the last in a string that had included Christ, Napoleon, and Bill Gates. Ellen doubted if either candidate was really interesting enough to add much to the world of psychiatric history. She wasn't looking for new patients or a book collaboration.
"I was told by my contact that you were the person to see. Given your name specifically to deal with this man."
"I'm sorry, I think there has to be a mistake. I may have briefly treated this man, looked over his medications, but I remember nothing special about him. He's an old man who probably would be better off in a nursing home. I think the days of us treating his delusions are long past. Now we just try to keep him comfortable."
"But my contact.. .
"And who is your contact?"
"A man called Arthur Jamison. One of your colleagues?"
"We have no Dr. Jamison. . . wait a minute. Arty Jamison, he's a custodian. Works down in the ward where. . . I'm sorry Mr. Rogers, but I think you have been had. You've done a lot of preliminary legwork which just one phone call would have shown you to be unnecessary. Despite what Mr. Jamison says, I am sure that there is no public or scientific interest in a study of this man. I certainly am not about to waste my time helping you."
"Please, just look through the file. I've included the notes from my conversations with Mr. Jamison. I honestly believe there is something here. He tells a great story."
"So he is a custodian with a very, very active imagination."
The patient was smiling. Art Jamison liked it when he smiled. Perhaps he was only remembering a humorous incident that could have happened anytime in a long past, but Art always held out hope that today was going to be one of those days when his friend could communicate with him.
"How you doing, big guy?" He spoke softly. "You've got to drink something." He held the cup of ice water with two flexed straws up to his lips. "You don't want them to make you have to use a sipper cup." The patient shook his head and took a draw on the straws. "Good. You know, if you don't drink they will hook tubes up to your arm and get fluids in that way." He drank a little more. It was a good day.
"What's that? Do you want me to push you over so you can see out the window? Not much to see this time of year?" He was delighted his friend wanted to look at something; most of the time he just sat like a stone. The southern Ohio countryside did not have a lot to offer in November, just brown ground and bare trees. The man shook his head and pushed at the arms of the wheel chair, shuffling hard against the metal foot rests. "Up" It had been years since words had crossed his lips.
"Careful big guy, don't know if those legs can hold you." Jamison knew he should get a nurse's aid or an orderly to help him, but was afraid that if he took the time, his friend could possibly slip back into his usual, almost catatonic, state. Sharing a few minutes of cognition was worth the risk of being discovered. He put both the man's arms on his shoulders and stood straight as his friend pulled himself to full height. He towered over the smaller Jamison, though years of inactivity had taken away most of his musculature. Slowly, the two of them walked together out of the room and into the hall, where the patient stopped and looked at framed photographs of fields of flowers.
Jamison watched as looks of recognition and pleasure moved across his friend's face. There was something in those flowers that was triggering remembrances. He had not seen those looks for years. It was a very good day. He spent almost fifteen minutes slowly walking the hall, standing and looking at each photograph for a few minutes and then moving on. Jamison wished he could take him to other floors and show him even more photographs, but he felt it would only be a matter of time until someone else on staff would find them in the hall. He steered the patient back to the room.
Seating the patient in the visitor's wing chair rather than his wheelchair, he noted the strength he seemed to radiate that morning. "Have you eaten? You seem so strong today?" Usually food was eaten only under the threat of a feeding tube. He looked at the uncollected food tray and saw a substantial portion of the oatmeal and applesauce was gone.
"Very good, buddy. See, you ate the food and were strong enough to walk in the hall. Very, very good." He hated talking to his friend like he was a child, but he wasn't sure he even understood the language they were forced to speak. "What's that? You want a bath. Sorry, Herc, no can do." Baths could only be arranged at night, and only on nights when a certain nurse was on duty. She had an arrangement with Art, he would bring her European cigarettes and watch the hall while she slipped out and smoked them in return for which he could take his friend to a room with a special institutional bathtub. The nights when cognition and opportunity occurred on the same shift were few and far between, but Jamison was extremely happy that his friend could actually ask for a bath. Things might be looking up, but this afternoon wiping his face with a washcloth would have to suffice.
"What's with you, Herc, seem really frisky today?"
His friend pointed to the waste paper basket by his bed and the wads of tissue inside it. Reaching over Jamison unrolled one of the wads and found four pills wrapped inside.
"No pills." His friend said softly, with the biggest smile Art Jamison had seen in years. "I'm going to try it with no pills."
Dr. Bradshaw read through the official file on the Athens Hercules and the notes John Rogers had included from his conversations with Arthur Jamison. The file contained very little other than a long history of confinement, inability to live in any type of half-way house facility, and a string of medication changes that seemed to have produced no results worth noting. Even such items as a birth certificate, social security number and last known address were missing. There wasn't even a clear indication of his age. As far as the state of Ohio was concerted, the man named Herman Adams had been in its care for over thirty years; other than that, there seemed to be nothing.
The notes on the Jamison conversations seemed to add a little light to the subject, but Ellen wondered how much of what the custodian said was true and how much was just a product of his imagination. He described Adams as having once been a strong man, an outstanding athlete, a warrior. . . 'Which war?' she asked herself. There should have been military records. 'Maybe he should be moved to a V.A. hospital?' The part of the file that indicated that the patient was institutionalized after killing his father seemed to spring directly from the mind of the custodian. She was certain that any history of that kind of violence, and subsequent legal action, would have been noted in the hospital files.
To her, putting this man in contact with the individuals described in the other two files for Rogers's project would be pointless and dangerous.
ROME
The noise emanating from the animal pens was not a good sign. That kind of uproar was only produced by massive unrest. He was not anxious to see what had happened. The lion paced in its pen and the three black bears were huddled together in the corner. The floor to ceiling bars separating the white bears from the next pen appeared to have been pulled apart. He grabbed a whip and hurried down the aisle between the pens. On the ground in the pen he saw three dead bears. They did not look like they had been gored by a rhino; they looked as if their necks had been snapped.
The rhinos were pressing their bulk against the bars. He looked inside and saw his friend holding a newborn rhino near to him.
"The bears wanted to kill her. So I killed the bears. Please take her back to her mother."
Alania took the small animal from his friend. Today Herc would eat, he was sure of that. He always ate when he had done something good. Another animal would have to be found to fight the "fake Hercules" because today the real one had come out of his stupor for just enough time to rid the Emperor's menagerie of its entire stock of white bears.
"What happened to my white bears, Alania?" Commodus billowed at his animal keeper.
"They attacked the baby rhino and the herd turned on them and killed them. Can't say I am sad to see them dead. Of all the animals, I hate them the most."
"Your job is to care for the animals, keep them alive. I don't care how much you hate them. Now what is our fake Hercules going to fight? Look, even the lion looks pathetic, not that I would let him fight a lion, and the black bears are huddled in the corner."
"You could fight the lion and he could fight a rhino."
"No way, I eventually will fight the lion, but I am waiting for the proper time. The proper dignitaries to impress. I want to kill the lion and wear his mane around my shoulders, to show the world that I am Hercules."
"How about if you do the ostrich thing again. People went crazy when they ran around the arena without their heads.
"People want something different. How about a wild boar?"
"Sounds good to me. I'll stop his food today and he'll be mean and hungry by next week." Fighting a boar also meant fresh meat for the gladiators and their guards.
"And I am going to fight all the rhinos -- including that newborn one. I can just see the fire in the mother's eyes when I kill her baby. It will be wonderful. Fitting for Hercules."
Alania hoped the emperor's boast was not heard in the far end of the animal pen. He could not imagine what his friend would do if he learned the baby rhino was going to die in the arena. A tragic meaningless death, done to convince the world that the Emperor was Hercules.
Athens, Ohio
"Got some wonderful news for you, Herc. Nurse Angie is on duty tonight and you are going to get that bath you want so badly."
Eating even the soft hospital diet had made it possible for him to walk the halls with the assistance of a walker and even meet with the physical therapist. The nurses shook their heads over the change in the patient and decided that it had to have been the fact that the doctors had found the combination of medications that finally worked. They hadn't. He had.
"Can you walk, or do you want to ride in the chair."
"I can walk. Are there more pictures of flowers down there?"
"Yes, there are. But you can't spend a lot of time looking at them. I only have the bath for a half hour."
The special bathroom in the institution was a sight to behold: a small, windowless, tiled room with a technical looking stainless steel contraption filling most of it. A heavy door with rubber gaskets allowed the patient to walk into the tub then sealed it watertight so it could be filled with warm water for soaking. Once seated, the patient was strapped in place and special jets could be directed to wash certain "problem areas" of the anatomy. Herman liked to soak, but didn't complain when the jets were turned on softly. Most of all he liked it when Art would wash his long hair and rinse it with the hand held shower jet. Art never told him that these jets could also be set on "strong" and the water set to cold to subdue a patient who was out of control. His friend seemed calm and alert as he soaked in the bubbling water.
"There's a doctor who is going to be talking to you. She's going to ask you to participate in an experiment for a book. Do you understand?"
Herman nodded his head. It had been decades since he seemed this lucid. Art knew that this probably would not be a permanent thing, and without the help that certainly did not seem to be there even after almost two thousand years, his friend would slowly return to his madness.
"She's going to introduce you to two other men who say they are Hercules. Remember like Commodus and that gladiator. They are going to let you talk and see what happens."
"What happens. Why should anything happen. I'm Herman Adams. I'm not Hercules."
Art Jamison had been totally unprepared for that response.
ROME
Alania stepped out of the dark of the animal pens and gazed at the spectacle before him. A huge crowd had already filled the Coliseum. Flags of numerous bright colors flapped in the light wind highlighted against the bright blue sky. It was a day to celebrate. Emperor Commodus was ready to take on the rhinos, Pseudo-Hercules would take on a boar, and a substantial portion of Rome was here to watch.
'Chicken shit,' Alania thought. The arena had been divided into two sections. In one section the Pseudo-Hercules would fight a huge wild boar recently captured in the northern highlands. Sharp tufts of black bristly hair grew along its back and shoulders, and six-inch tusks curled from its mouth. Alania figured its meat would be very tough, but non-the-less tasty. The other half of the arena was used for the special construction that Commodus had developed for himself. A raised walkway and special fencing allowed him to circle that section of the arena, kill each rhino with one thrust of his sword, but still protect him from any actual risk of injury from the rhinos. It would not be a fair fight, not really a fight at all, more like a ritual slaughter.
A fanfare of horns announced the beginning of the day's activities. First there were some preliminary fights: an ancient black gladiator made short work of a mountain lion, two gladiators as a team fought a pack of wolves and a novice gladiator was severely injured fighting a black bear. The crowd was ready for the main event that was preceded by another volley of horns.
Pseudo-Hercules was introduced first. Alania shook his head as he heard talk about Hercules supposed immortality and how he was the son of the Roman god Jupiter. The large man looked confident and flexed his huge muscles probably to release the stiffness caused by weeks of shackles. Commodus walked to the center of the arena, still safely on his protected walkway and hailed the crowd. Everyone was screaming as the animals were released.
Alania diverted his eyes from Commodus and watched the "Hercules" gladiator. The boar was very angry and pawed the ground with his front hoof. It almost looked like smoke came from its nostrils as it snorted so loud you could hear it above the noise of the crowd. The gladiator charged forward with his pike several times, but the boar kept avoiding him. In frustration the gladiator dropped the pike and drew his sword.
'Stupid move' Alania thought. 'You've not shown you can reach him with the longer pike. To get close enough to use the sword you could be in real danger.'
Commodus had already killed one male rhino with one sharp sword thrust to its heart. The crowd cheered loudly.
Hercules charged the boar again. The boar was much quicker than its size would falsely indicate, and it was getting frisky. Instead of just retreating, it would charge the gladiator, putting him on the defensive. Alania was sure the gladiator wished he had his pike now, and he seemed to be trying to lure the boar in the direction of the discarded weapon, perhaps to retrieve it.
Commodus killed the second rhino in the same way. Alania knew it was his plan to kill the three male rhinos first, then the baby, and then kill the three females, saving the baby's mother for last. In an open arena fight, if you liked that kind of violence, it might actually be interesting to watch a battle like this, but here it was just the usual Emperor Commodus show. The third male was lying dead on the arena floor when Alania heard the crowd gasp.
Somehow in trying to retrieve his pike, the gladiator had fallen. The boar had charged, cut him badly with his tusks and seemed to be stomping him with all four feet. The massive gladiator was being reduced to a mass of bloody pulp on the dirt floor of the arena. Women turned their heads. Alania knew this would make the emperor unhappy as it distracted from what he thought would be his most "interesting" kill of the day.
The baby rhino had not strayed far from her mother. Even with the expanse of the arena in which it might frolic, the crowd noise seemed to petrify her. The mother kept her ears folded back and seemed to instinctively keep to the center of the arena. Commodus knew that he had to get closer to kill the baby. Perhaps he would have to leave the walkway. The other two rhinos were on the opposite side of the arena so the only real danger came from the mother. He was quick enough to avoid her. After all he was really Hercules.
Alania watched as the Emperor climbed down a short set of steps and walked across the arena floor. His sword was sharp and powerful, with one slash he cut the head off the baby rhino. He wasn't sure how many people saw it, as most were still watching the boar kill the huge gladiator. Commodus was quick in avoiding the mother and returning to the walkway. He raised his sword over his head and focused on the final three kills.
He was totally unprepared for what came next. Alania only noted it out of the corner of his eye and it was too late to do anything. Along the walkway, from the entrance to the underground staging area came a figure. A tall man with flowing white hair, dressed only in rags and brandishing a long handled axe charged the Emperor. Commodus never even saw him coming. The man threw the axe that cut deeply into Commodus' chest as he fell over the railing and into the arena. The rhinos saw it, however, and charged toward him.
Guards seemed more interested in helping the Emperor than chasing the would be assassin. Alania quickly left the spectator area and returned to the animal pens. While the crowd watched in silence he gathered the man under one arm, covered him with a cloak which hung from a peg on the wall, and directed him out the back way.
"Walk slowly." There was no point in forcing the old man to run. He couldn't outrun anyone and dressed as he was he could walk unnoticed through the crowd. By the time anyone came to look for him, they would be gone. They were going to travel north, travel far. Alania had been considering a move to Britannia or maybe even further to the land of the Danes. However far they went, it probably wouldn't be far enough.
In a way, that day, the man who had been calling himself Alania, was fortunate. His mind was on getting out of Rome and finding a new home for himself and the man in his care. He did not have time to ponder the secondary issue of that afternoon, whether the world would believe that the hero Hercules had been stomped to death by a wild boar.
Dr. Bradshaw was surprised to find Herman Adams was sitting in the wing chair. During all previous visits with the man, her notes had indicated that he had been bed ridden or confined to a wheelchair. Today he sat in the chair with a tartan lap robe covering his body. A nurse's aid had brushed his hair and used two braids to pull it out of his face. He didn't look much like Hercules, but he might pass as the north wind.
"Hello, Mr. Adams." She spoke softly to him. "I am Dr. Bradshaw. How are you doing today?"
The old man smiled. She was surprised that not only did he still have teeth but that they seemed straight and white. There was no indication of dental care ever being performed on the man. He must have some sort of really good dental genes. She also noticed his pale blue eyes.
Not waiting for further response, she continued. "We are interested in updating our information on you, Mr. Adams. I am just going to ask a few questions, and if you don't feel like answering, you can nod your head, or just indicate that I should go on. The nurses tell me that you have been talking a bit lately, so maybe if you don't like my asking questions, we could just chat."
"Go on." She was surprised at the almost authoritarian quality in his voice.
"Your name is Herman Adams, correct?"
"Yes."
"Date of birth."
"I don't remember."
"OK, that's all right. Do you remember your mother's name."
"Alcmeme." He smiled again.
"Last name." He shook his head.
"Father?"
"My father is dead." He scowled.
"Do you remember where you were born?"
"Thebes."
Ellen wrote it down and assumed that Thebes was a small forgotten town in the hills of southern Ohio, probably not far from Athens.
The questions she asked about his family, schooling, past hospitalizations and treatments produced only nods or negative shakes of his head. Ellen wrote extensive notes about virtually nothing. There was nothing interesting about this man, if you discounted the looks that sometimes came on his face when she asked questions. He seemed to have long ago lost touch with the reality of the world in which he lived.
"Just one more question, Mr. Adams. I have been told that you believe you are Hercules."
"I'm not Hercules. I am Herman Adams. Arty sometimes calls me Hercules, but I think he is joking with me, or else he just makes mistakes. He's as old as I am you know."
Ellen was just about to close the file when Adams made the last comment about Jamison. Art Jamison looked like he was in his late-thirties or early-forties. She made a note to look up his age on the employment record and closed the file.
The old man looked directly in her eyes. "Thank you Dr. Bradshaw. Please, I am Herman Adams. If I am Hercules, I don't want to remember." He closed his eyes and began to slump forward in his chair. Ellen immediately summoned two aides who helped him to his bed.
The doctor called John Rogers and explained to him that there was no way Herman Adams could participate in any group dynamic experience with two other patients who also thought they were Hercules. The man was far too frail and not nearly coherent enough to add anything to a therapy group. He remembered very little besides his name and clearly believed his name to be Herman Adams. The Athens facility would not take part in this project; so if Rogers wanted to continue, he would have to find another Hercules. Ellen made a note to continue with the present treatment.
"What did you do to him?" Art Jamison was standing outside the patient's door. His mop and rolling bucket were blocking her entrance to the room.
"Pardon me, I am a Doctor. I am here to see my patient."
"Your patient who was up and about yesterday but is now back in bed, semi-conscious. What did you do to him?"
"Your job, Mr. Jamison, is to make note of the condition of the floors in this wing, not the patients. I know you have made friends with this man, but what you are saying about him both to him and to others can be very dangerous. You had absolutely no business talking to John Rogers in Columbus about Mr. Adams. You should never, ever discuss patients outside this hospital." Her tone was belittling and condescending.
"I just have to take care of him. I would like to see him get better. He has been sick a long time."
"The taking care of him you do is making sure his floor is clean. Understand."
"I am afraid it is you who don't understand, Dr. Bradshaw." The custodian assumed a tone that Ellen was not used to hearing in employees. "I have been caring for this man a long, long time."
"You've been here since the facility opened. I noted that. You said you were 42 years old then, you certainly have aged well Mr. Jamison."
"Listen, Doctor, this is not a conversation that I want to have here in the hall with a mop in my hand. It is serious. Very serious. I suggest you look in on my friend. See how he is doing. Talk to him and convince him that you are not going to hurt him. My shift is over at 3 PM today. I'll meet you someplace, either your office or a lounge and tell you about him. Bring your notebook. Bring his file. Bring an open mind Dr. Bradshaw. A very open mind."
His bright blue eyes had been cold. Ellen had heard that most of the employees really liked this little man who seemed to bring joy to the halls. Today there was certainly no joy; however, she sensed a powerful concern and maybe an additional hit of madness. "OK, Mr. Jamison. Please come up to my office. I keep my files, notebooks and open mind there."
"Make sure you have read all his files, doctor, not just the current one."
Dr. Bradshaw sent through a second request for files on Herman Adams, and much to her surprise a second, older file appeared in her office. It indicated that Herman Adams had come to Athens after three failed placements in less restrictive settings. In all three halfway house/nursing home facilities the man had refused to eat or drink for long periods of time requiring hospitalization. Strangely enough, all three facilities reported short periods of improved behavior, usually when the patient had also refused to take his prescription drugs. Prior to these facilities Mr. Adams had been a patient at the Columbus State facility since . .
Her eyes glanced at the glaring mistake. The date of admission was listed as 1911. His age was listed at 52. Schizophrenia had been the diagnosis. It appeared to be the only thing that was correct.
She didn't get a chance to read more of that file because Art Jamison was knocking at her door. She opened it to see that the small man had cleaned up very well. He was wearing a pale blue fleece top, probably from Old Navy, and a pair of faded jeans. He had even tried to comb his unruly blond hair. He didn't look much different than the guys you would see in bars, once you left the confines of the college town of Athens.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Bradshaw. I usually don't snap at doctors. I am just very concerned about my friend. He was doing so well the past few days. I haven't seen him this well in a long, long time."
"Sit down, Mr. Jamison, we need to talk a bit about your relationship with this man. You call him your friend, yet you are just someone who works in his hall. What makes you think he is your friend?"
The man leaned forward, placed an elbow on her desk and rested his chin in his hand. "It is going to be a long story, Doctor. I see you have been reading his file."
"Quite some story. It says he was admitted to Columbus State 90 years ago. What do you think of that?" She wanted to see the reaction on the man's face when he realized that the 'file' he held in such high regard was almost as crazy as the stories he was telling her.
"And before that, Doctor Bradshaw, he spent a short time, maybe 30 years in a private home in Chillicothe where a kind old woman took care of him while I worked for the railroad. It was hard work, but I got a pension. You know what, they pay that pension until you die. I just can't figure out why someone hasn't questioned the fact that Art Jamison has been receiving a pension for over 90 years. You'd think someone would investigate to see if I am dead. Maybe they have." He flashed both palms at her and smiled in a spooky sort of way. "But it's obvious that I'm not."
Dr. Bradshaw shook her head. The man was not only insane, he was criminally insane.
"Before that, well he had one of his really good periods. We lived in Wyoming, hunted buffalo and in California, panned for gold. It was great. He loved the west. We came back east to fight in the American Civil War, for the North of course, he really hated slavery. Then I had the bright idea to go south and work for Reconstruction. Didn't work. The entrenched racism drove him crazy again. That is when we moved to Ohio."
"Listen Mr. Jamison, I think you have missed your calling. You should have been a novelist or at least a television writer. Maybe that was what you were trying to do with John Rogers. You have a wonderful imagination. Your verbal skills are noted, but your math sucks. Are you trying to tell me that you and Mr. Adams are both hundreds of years old."
"Not hundreds, thousands."
"What do you think I am?"
"Someone who may be able to help him. I've waited a very, very, very long time. I want my friend back. Maybe you don't understand what it is like to lose someone you love. He had such good intentions. Just didn't think about what it would do to him. He's had to pay all these years."
"I don't understand Mr. Jamison. What did he do?"
"He killed his father, Zeus. Except you can't prove that one. His friging brother messed that one up with the myth writers. They got it wrong. Lost in history. But I'll give you one to look up. Look up Emperor Commodus of Rome. He thought he was Hercules, too. Would have fit right in with Mr. Roger's little chat-group. You will read about his fondness for gladiator battles and exotic wild animals. It will tell you he was assassinated. What it won't tell you is that he was assassinated by a tall, white-haired, very mad man, a man we both know Dr. Bradshaw."
"I'm afraid I've listened to enough tall tales for one day, Mr. Jamison. For your information, Mr. Adams was much better this afternoon. He asked to sit up in bed. I think his setback was just temporary. But if you know what is good for you, I'd stay away. I don't think you can live too long on that . . what would it be? . . $3 a month 1911 railroad pension."
'The damn doctor was being condescending again. Doesn't she know they adjust for inflation.' "Just check the records, Dr. Bradshaw."
He turned and left her office. She glanced down at the file again. The residence listed for Herman Adams at the time of his admission at Columbus State was with Mrs. William Brown, Chillicothe, Ohio. She wondered how Mr. Jamison would have known about that entry.
It was an interesting scenario if you looked at it objectively without all the mythological undertones. You had a man who killed his father. The questions was "Was he insane when he killed his father or did the act of killing his father make him insane." Art Jamison seemed to indicate that it was the second. Before the act, the man was strong, healthy, well focused, and caring. In fact, Jamison indicated that he had killed his father to protect the unborn child of a friend. While not legally self-defense, at least his reason was noble.
She continued finding time for weekly meetings with Jamison, who often filled her time with stories about the heroic Hercules. It was very difficult listening to these stories and still keeping your mind focused on the feeble man she had been treating. She couldn't allow her mind to believe that he could be Hercules. She couldn't even allow her mind to believe that there was a Hercules. She instead focused on the relationship between two friends, not really sure which one had a looser hold on reality.
"Were you lovers?" She asked him with a clinical disdain.
"Knew you would ask me that. This isn't a sex thing. Believe me."
"I need to know. Interpersonal relationships change a lot if sex is involved."
"Got to remember the times. We fooled around some when we were kids. But we both got married. He was married a couple of times. I loved him. I still love him. But our love is much deeper than sex."
Ellen wrote "What times. . 1930's, 1960's" on her notepad and circled it. The two men were of different ages. They were never "kids" together. More likely an adult Art Jamison had had sex with an older but infantile Herman Adams and called it "kids play."
"The woman whose baby he was trying to protect was one of his lovers, too. She was a bitch. Played mind games on me from the day we met. Tried to get me to betray him, to kill him even. He, however, saw something deeper. He befriended her. Became her sometimes lover. Every once in a while she would come up with something good that would help us out, but most of the time she was off getting into her own trouble."
Ellen realized he was opening up an entire new area of conflict they hadn't covered in previous talks. Did this woman actually exist or was she another figment of the imagination? She wasn't sure what time period he was talking about. She was still trying to pin down the relationship between these two men. Her mind wandered as Jamison continued to talk. What was she doing talking to him anyway? He wasn't a patient. The facility paid for him to be there to clean the floors; no funding was received to figure out his delusions. She would be in serious trouble if someone found out that she was spending anywhere from a half-hour to two hours every week talking to a custodian about one patient. She felt unused wheels in her brain start to move.
Before she had become a psychiatrist, or even studied clinical psychology, she had been exposed to the world of the social psychologist. While that medium had moved almost exclusively into the study of social ideas and prejudices, not the treatment of patients, there was something about the THREE CHRISTS that kept lingering in her mind. Rokeach had looked at the central, or primitive, beliefs a person held, like who he was. If that belief was challenged or perhaps even changed, the effect on the patient could be profound. But how could you look at the primitive beliefs of a patient such as Adams who remembered so very little of his past, and what if the problem was with Jamison's core beliefs and not Adams? She thought about it all for a while. Art Jamison was well liked by all those who worked with him. He was friendly, dependable and a very hard worker. Since Adams seemed to be doing better, it didn't seem worth upsetting the inner workings of the facility just to test out some unused Social Psychology theory. The drugs seemed to be doing their job.
"Ready for physical therapy, Mr. Adams?" The tall, heavy-set female orderly talked quietly to him as she moved him to the wheelchair. The soft caring of her voice belied her physical appearance. Maybe that was why she often perceived the patient as other than a frail old man. She continued a stream of consciousness ramble about her activities the past week, shopping in Columbus, decorating her apartment for Christmas, and baking cookies and fruitcake. She only stopped when they entered the hallway where the photographs had been hung at the eye level of a patient in a wheelchair. Herman loved to look at the art, and she always took her time pushing him down that hall.
"All available staff to Room 315 for assistance with a patient." Came over the loudspeaker.
They were only a few doors away. The orderly left Adams to look at the photographs and raced down the hall. In the fury of excitement she did not notice the small girl who was also standing on tiptoes trying to view the pictures.
"Here, let me help you. I think you can see better from here." Almost effortlessly, Herman Adams wheeled his chair the few feet to the girl and lifted her to his lap. Holding on to her with one hand, he maneuvered the chair to the end of the hall where there was a picture of daisies growing through a white picket fence.
"My friend, Gabrielle, always liked daisies. Simple flowers." The next was a mixed field of wildflowers. "Kirin liked those flowers. She was a princess, but loved the simple flowers."
The little girl, used to being ignored as her parents tended to the needs of her grandmother on their hospital visits, listened intently to the old man. She stroked his white beard and fiddled with his long unkempt tresses.
"Do you know Santa Claus?" she asked. Herman had been called that name before, usually by children. "He brought me a bear. With a red hat, and a sweater. I'll go get him and show you. He's in my granma's room."
The little girl ran down the hall, leaving Herman sitting next to a photograph of purple coneflowers - echinacea. He knew the Greek name. They reminded him of his mother and her healing herbs.
The little girl returned, holding a giant bear in front of her. The bear's size blocked her view of the look of terror and anger on the old man's face. "Here isn't he cute?" She handed the white bear to the man, who in a fit of uncontrollable rage, ripped off its head and threw it to the floor. The little girl's screams alerted her parents and hospital staff, who quickly wheeled Herman Adams back to his room, where he was injected with a sedative.
The fact that the night nurse was not smiling seemed to tip Art Jamison off that something wasn't right. Why wouldn't you smile when you saw your janitor wearing a red Christmas sweatshirt and a Santa hat?
"You can't go in there. He's sleeping. He had a very, very bad day." She said.
"What? He's been doing so well. Did he fall in physical therapy?"
"Never got there. Attacked a little girl on the way. Carla left him in the hall by the photographs and when she got back he had snapped the head off her . . .
"Her bear. A white polar bear. Right?"
"How did you know?" Art slowly walked away, that was one of the disadvantages of his getting better. Art would see things that would set him off, but others, who did not know the whole story, couldn't monitor his surroundings. They did not know of the small little things that could suddenly turn huge.
"Here," he spun around and walked back to the nurse. "When he wakes up, give this to him." He handed her a large package loosely wrapped in Christmas paper. It was remarkably soft for its bulk.
"It's an afghan, a Christmas afghan. I crocheted it myself. Did you know that he taught me how to crochet."
The nurse laughed. Her grandmother used to crochet. She couldn't imagine either man working crafts with yarn.
Dr. Bradshaw returned from her December holiday break physically and mentally refreshed, but unprepared to face the work that had piled up in her absence. She looked through several files of patients who could benefit from her time and expertise before reading the Adams file. Her first thought was to ask herself whether any action on her part could have helped to foresee or prevent the attack on the little girl, or more precisely, on her polar bear. She did notice that the transport mandates now forbade the man from being left alone, regardless of the situation, which should help avoid further problems. She knew Jamison would be there that afternoon with his own personal slant on the situation.
As much as she had tried to avoid thinking about work during her vacation, the Adams problems kept popping into her head at odd times. She had decided to tell Jamison that she would have to stop wasting her time meeting with him discussing Mr. Adams. The Rogers book was not going to happen, and she had spent far too much time already with a patient for whom she could see no future improvement.
"He'd been doing so well, Dr. Bradshaw. I know you are concerned, but it was not unexpected. He has a past with polar bears. A most unpleasant past." Jamison argued when he stopped by her office.
"I suppose you were Arctic explorers." She was not in the mood to talk nonsense with Jamison.
"No. Goes back to that Commodus story. Did you ever check that out?"
She shook her head. "Too busy. Not really relevant to his treatment."
"Unless he starts attacking certain stuffed toys."
"Got me there. My error."
"Honestly, I don't know why they make toy polar bears, or use them to sell Cola, they are very nasty animals. If you ever encountered them in real life . .
"I had a friend who went to Churchill on a bear watch, she says the same thing, but that doesn't give him license to attack children's toys."
"It's just. . .
"He's doing a lot better now, Mr. Jamison," she broke him off before he could continue. "The care he is receiving seems to be working. I would like to continue with the physical therapy and his current protocol of medications. I don't know if he is thinking any more clearly, but he does seem to feel a lot better. "
"Thanks, Doc. I know he appreciates it. There are just some things I haven't told you, when you hear the whole story. . .
"I'm sorry, Mr. Jamison, but that's not going to be today or anytime in the near future. The State of Ohio does not pay me to spend this much time with one patient, and definitely not with one of his 'friends'."
"But doesn't that bear attack lend some credence to the story I have told you? Isn't there something you can do to check it out?"
"Tell you what, I know a psychologist from Columbus who does this test with animals. Mostly with children, but since I agree I may have missed something by not checking out your animal story, I will contact her and have her test him."
"I think you will find the results most interesting, doctor, most interesting."
In her field of "play therapy" Kay Macmillan was used to working with children; but Ellen Bradshaw had requested that she perform a complete "Noah's Ark Test", not on a child, but on an elderly male patient. The test, which had been developed to measure comprehension, recognition and classification skills, had been used in recent years to indicate hidden aggressions and possible links to childhood abuse. Kay had always been skeptical of the test as a diagnostic tool and seriously wondered why Dr. Bradshaw had suggested it.
The old man was both fascinated and confused with the test. He appeared not to know the story of Noah, and she had to explain several times about the flood and loading the animals on the ark. "Two by two," the old man explained, "was an inefficient way of handling breeding stock because one male animal could service a number of females." She was grateful that children never made that correct observation.
Kay worked with several different groups of animals, beginning with the most common animals, pets such as cats, dogs and rabbits, with which the children were most likely to be familiar and comfortable. The first part of the test also included more exotic, but sometimes frightening, pets like ferrets and boa constrictors, farm animals, and wild animals seen in suburban backyards. A series of normal reactions to such animals had been developed. Deviations from these norms would provide therapists openings into areas to explore further.
They moved on to the wild animal/zoo animal section of the test. Kay had really wondered about this portion of the test, especially with children. It was unlikely that a child's perceptions to these animals would be different than the societal norms. Certain animals were liked by society, both adults and children, and certain animals were vilified. It was extremely unlikely that a patient would have had an encounter with a wild/zoo animal to cause differing perceptions without it being noted on the file.
Kay continued the test with Mr. Adams going through box after box of miniature animals. She carefully placed aside any of those that produced any reaction: a wild boar, a lion, a black bear, a tiger, a wild cat, and a lion. The man seemed to like large wild animals. She was surprised when he added a rhino to his reactive group and by his laughing reaction to the ostrich. She had barely placed the two polar bears on the table when he grabbed them, broke off their heads, and threw them across the room. She had not been prepared for such a reaction. Ellen Bradshaw who had been watching from behind the two-way mirror had been and snapped on the video camera.
"Why did you do that to those bears?" Kay asked her patient.
"Bad bears. They tried to kill the baby rhino."
Kay shook her head. Even in zoo settings the rhinos and the polar bears were never together. She wondered if he had worked at an exotic game farm or for an illegal wild animal dealer at some time in his life. Interesting, but not therapeutic.
Dr. Bradshaw, who had expected this very reaction from Herman Adams, began to wonder if some of what Art Jamison might be telling her was true. She ejected the videotape and walked back to her office, unsure as to whether she should study it or erase it. 'Was she going crazy? She had to be, to even think of believing the story she had been told the past few months.'
Thus, there was no record of what happened next. Herman Adams insisted on helping Macmillan sort the animals and put them back in their respective boxes. His large, age-stiffened fingers had difficulty placing them in the small slots. In an attempt to placate his frustration, Kay pulled another set of "toys" out of her bag.
"Here, play with these." She handed the man a sack of six-inch action figures that she sometimes used with boys to get them used to playing with the dolls she used in testing. G.I. Joe, a spaceman, a cowboy, and Tarzan were carefully inspected by the old man. He seemed interested in weapons, clothes, and even non-existing body parts. It was as if the old man had never seen that kind of a doll.
At first she thought he was going to snap the head from the Ares, god of war, doll the same way he had decapitated the polar bears. His anger seemed to subside just as he was about to break the doll. The Hercules and Iolaus dolls produced a smile. He handled the toys lovingly and attentively.
"That's Hercules, he was a great hero, and his friend Iolaus." Dr. Macmillan commented to the patient.
"Hercules is a hero? He is still a hero?" Adams said, really to himself.
"Oh, yes, there was even a television show about him." The old man smiled.
Kay Macmillan did not know about Art Jamison's claims that Herman Adams was really Hercules. It would have taken a very active imagination to see any resemblance between the muscular action figure and the old man, especially if you were not looking for it. If she had known Art Jamison, perhaps the resemblance would have been easier to see, but there was no reason for a visiting play therapist to meet a janitor.
While Kay finished packing the animals, Adams continued to lovingly play with the two dolls and seemed reluctant to part with them. She considered her options. The dolls were old, the television show had been canceled for several seasons, and children she worked with no longer recognized them. What harm would it cause to let the old man keep them? He had worked through the boredom of a long Noah's Arc test, why not let him keep the dolls?
He refused to take the Ares doll. She put it in her bag and returned home to Columbus.
Despite its reputation for excellent care, there were few in the hospital who noticed the minor day to day changes in long term patients. The kitchen staff, if they had ever looked, might have noticed that meal requests had suddenly started to be filled out by Herman Adams. The old man, who had mostly rejected applesauce and oatmeal, was now requesting fresh fruits, vegetables, meat, cheese and olives. No one looked at the physical therapists notes that indicated that the old man pushed to the sessions in a wheelchair had progressed from one to twenty-five pound weights. Perhaps even more impressive changes could be noticed in his leg muscles, but Herman kept those covered with the afghan Art Jamison had given him for Christmas. Nurses should have noticed that the only pills he seemed to take in their presence were the multiple vitamins. But no one did.
Ellen Bradshaw stopped meeting with Art Jamison. She took the time to read through the results of the Noah's Arc test and agreed with Kay Macmillan that it had been a waste of time. Neither she nor Dr. Macmillan connected the animals that produced reactions with those used in Roman gladiator battles. Maybe she was also protecting her own sanity by not delving further. Henry Adams's current file was marked "Continue with Care" and the old "fictitious" file sent back to storage.
Even Art Jamison had not paid a great deal of attention to the changes in his friend. They had sat and talked many nights, and he was aware that these conversations had grown more complicated and personal. To him just being able to talk with Herman was enough.
It was not until one night in late February when he found his friend busy with two small toys that he was aware of what was happening.
"What do you have there?" He asked, not really looking.
"Do you realize that people still think Hercules is a hero. They even make dolls of him for kids to play with. They even have a doll for you, Iolaus."
As he handed the doll to Jamison, the afghan he had been using to cover the bulking muscles in his upper body slipped off. His friend gasped at the changes in his body.
"I'm changing back to Hercules again." Then his voice grew lower, more cautious. "We have to go. It's time. We need to get ready to be heroes again."
"You don't know how long I have been waiting to hear that, Herc. You just can't believe." He wanted to hug his friend, but instead tucked the blanket around him so that others on the staff would not see the changes in his body.
It would be the first time in centuries they would be moving ahead, not fleeing discovery. Art was very excited. There were steps that had to be taken carefully. The money was there; he had carefully saved and invested the railroad pension. The biggest problem was going to be getting his friend away from the hospital and then to someplace far away and safe.
Because time was of the essence his first two choices to relocate, New Zealand and the Seychelles, had to be abandoned and a site accessible by automobile chosen. Rental cars had to be obtained in a variety of locations and under different names, to make the trail harder to follow. The fact that they would be looking for an old man would make it easier, for when Herman's white hair was cut he was certain it would grow out to his natural light brown color. He quickly implemented carefully thought out plans he had been hoping to use for decades.
Ellen Bradshaw looked up from the file she was reading and picked up the phonecall that her secretary announced was from John Rogers.
"Just checking on your Hercules. One of mine is due to be released this weekend and the other one I just learned has committed suicide. Unfortunately the one being released is our gang member."
"Figured that."
"How's yours?"
"Mine? He's not mine. He's just here. Just a crazy man in here . . .forever." Ellen fought the secret thought that the people of Ohio might be paying for the care of Herman Adams, or whatever name he chose to call himself next, for eternity. Even when an Internet check had indicated that the Roman Emperor Commodus had been strangled in his bathtub, she found part of her mind doubting the authenticity of the report. Jamison had said some of the facts had been changed. As much as she didn't buy the Hercules story, there was something naggingly immortal about Herman Adams.
"Well, keep him there then. The world is not ready for two Hercules out at the same time."
Ellen glanced down at her "Continued Care" files and noticed that the Adams file was missing. He probably had been transferred to the caseload of one of the new doctors at the facility. She was grateful to have him gone.
The two men ran barefoot in the white sand of southern Mexico. The sun had lightened their hair, darkened their skin and increased their thirst for blue agave tequila and cold Mexican beer. Jesus and Juan, two obvious pseudonyms, were now well known in the small coastal town. Despite the threatening poses of iguana lizards, there was no need to fear polar bears here. Black-eyed Mexican women, both young and old, whispered among themselves about the two men who lived in the cottage by the sea, while their fathers, husbands and boyfriends just muttered about the two gay gringos who had taken up residence.
Back in Ohio, Ellen Bradshaw looked out through the frosted windows at the snow-covered ground. Six new patients had been added to her caseload; six more files to read and evaluate. Spring was late in coming this year. She had too much work to think about a trip to a warmer place. At least she was fortunate that her hallway contained close-up photographs of flowers.
McJude
January 2002
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