by Jon Bassoff
“Well, thank the Lord, your father was watching the whole time. And when he saw that bastard reach for my tit, Henry grabbed a pool stick and marched across the room. He called out Paul’s name and then swung that stick like Joe DiMaggio swinging a bat. Got him right in the temple, and Paul went to the ground like a pile of shit.”
Baby laughed again, and for a moment, just a moment, Scent thought that maybe she wasn’t so crazy, that maybe she was just a woman who missed her true love so very much.
“Henry didn’t say a single word to me. He just stuffed a five-dollar bill in my tip jar and walked out the bar.”
Scent felt her throat tighten. She pictured her father, handsome, so handsome. “Is that true, Mama? Is that really how you two met?”
“Honest to goodness. I threw off my apron and followed that boy into the parking lot, and we went for a long drive and talked about things that don’t matter much, and then two months later we were married.”
The rain kept pounding, and now the curtained window lit up with lightning. Scent glanced up at the doorway in anticipation…
“It’s a sweet story, Mama. It really is.”
“I know you never met him, Scent, but he was a wonderful husband and would have been a wonderful father. He never said a mean word to me, not a single time. He used to play guitar and sing Roy Rogers songs. He got up every morning and went to work. He was a hard worker. We were going to have such a wonderful life together, Scent.”
“But?”
“But he lost his job at the rendering plant. It wasn’t his fault. They wanted cheaper labor, and he’d been working there for too long. He looked for work, but it was hard to find. He wasn’t a thief, Scent. He wasn’t a murderer. But sometimes you gotta do the things that are necessary…”
“I know that, Mama.”
“He didn’t have nothing against Mr. Baxter, even though Mr. Baxter was the reason he’d lost his job. He just got a tip, is all. A fellow Henry worked with—who also got fired, by the way—knew somebody who worked for Mr. Baxter. Said he kept a whole lot of money inside his office in that safe. If a fellow was able to get into that house, maybe put the fear of God in Mr. Baxter, then maybe he could get that money, live on Easy Street for a while.”
Baby stopped talking and Scent saw her eyes were becoming moist and her hands were wringing a handkerchief.
“And Dad got the money.”
“Yes, Scent. He got the money.”
“Why’d he kill Mr. Baxter then?”
And now Baby’s face shifted to that familiar expression of blissful unawareness, mouth tugged up in a smile, eyelids batting open and shut. “Oh, darling, he had to do it. He had to kill the man. It was self-defense. He was no murderer. He was no thief.”
And now the rage returned for Scent. Any empathy she’d felt for the old woman disintegrated like a doctor’s humbug pill. An ugly scowl, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet and harsh.
“Sure he wasn’t a murderer,” she said. “Sure he wasn’t. And now I need you tell me where you hid the money. C’mon, Mama. It’s your last chance.”
Another smile and more eye batting. “I’ve told you, darling. It’s a secret. Not until he returns. And he will return.”
“You’re gonna be sorry, Mama. You’re gonna—”
And at that moment, as the rain pounded the tin roof, as the lightning flashed and the thunder crashed, there was hollow knocking at the door. Baby’s eyes opened wide. She believed in wonderful miracles, Baby did, and she believed her long-lost love stood behind the door, getting soaked in the rain.
But Scent knew better.
“I’ll get it,” she said and rose from the couch. Her mother also rose, and for a moment, as she stood there in her wedding dress, a plaintive expression on her face, Scent thought she looked beautiful.
She opened the door. Dr. Freeman and his idiot assistant stood in the shadow of the streetlights, the rain gusting through the junipers and cottonwoods.
A grunt from the idiot and a bow from the doctor. “Scent, my dear. So nice to see you.”
Scent didn’t respond but took a step out of the way so the men could enter. Freeman removed his hat, leaned on his cane, and entered the house. Edgar followed behind, that blank expression on his face.
Baby, meanwhile, took a couple of steps backward. She could now clearly see that Henry remained missing, and she was fearful of these strangers. Her right hand began moving up and down, as if she were carrying a knife.
“Scent?” she said. “Who are these men?”
A thin smile from Dr. Freeman. “Ms. Wallis. My name is Dr. Walter Freeman. Perhaps you have heard of me? And this is my assistant, Edgar Ruiz.”
“They’re here to help,” Scent said.
“What? But…”
Dr. Freeman moved forward, his left leg dragging behind his right. He looked haggard—his thinning hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot beneath the round spectacles. His suit was rumpled and speckled with blood.
“I only intend to talk to you, Ms. Wallis. I’d like to find out what is tormenting you so.”
Baby crossed her arms and tilted her head upward. “It’s Mrs. Wallis. My husband will be returning any day.”
“I’m sure he will. Now if you’d just let me—”
But as Freeman neared Baby Wallis, she extended her left hand and swatted at the doctor’s face, knocking his glasses to the ground.
“Liars!” she shouted in a shrill voice. “They’re not here to help. I know who they are. Scent. Make them leave at this instant. Please.”
Freeman went to the floor, grasping for his glasses, unable to find them. Scent and Edgar both stood there, unmoving.
“The sheriff! I’ll call the sheriff. He’ll help. Scent. Please. Help your poor old mother. Grab the phone and call the sheriff’s office. I’ve seen these men before in my dreams. Don’t you see? These men are here for the money. They aim to kill me!”
Scent wanted to slap the bitch. “No, Mother! They’re here to help. He’s a doctor. Just look at his leather bag. They don’t want the money. They just want to help. Dr. Freeman is famous. Honest he is. They painted a portrait of him.”
Edgar stood there rocking back and forth, back and forth. The rain pounded on the tin roof and soon Edgar covered his ears and began humming a song from his childhood, “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks.” Freeman finally located his glasses and pressed them to his face, but then Baby came charging toward him, temples throbbing red, eyes glazed with fury. As Freeman tried rising to his feet, Baby kicked him once, twice in the leg and then the stomach. Cursing from Freeman, screaming from Scent, humming from Edgar. And the roof sounded like it would collapse.
Freeman doubled over and his Upjohn bag dropped to the ground and fell open, medical equipment spreading on the floor. A stethoscope, a needle, a bandage. A hammer and an ice pick.
Scent and Baby spotted the ice pick at the same time. Scent made a lunge for it, but Baby was closer. She grabbed the sharpened tool and waved it around, screaming like the madwoman she was.
“Henry, Henry!” she wailed. “Death for you, my sweet!”
Freeman tried rising to his feet, but Baby grabbed at his legs and he came toppling to the floor. Eyes blinking wildly, she raised the ice pick and came down hard, tearing through his jacket and drawing blood. While Edgar Ruiz stood there rocking and humming, making no move to protect his master, Scent grabbed her mother’s arm and twisted it back, causing the ice pick to clatter to the ground.
Baby lay spread-eagle on the floor. Freeman, the back of his jacket badly torn and now soaked through with blood, pulled out of her grasp and staggered to his feet. Lightning flashed, thunder only a moment behind. Baby tried flipping over, but Scent dug her knee into her back. Then she grabbed a chunk of her iron-gray hair and yanked up her head. With a blank expression, she slammed her mother’s face onto the floor, once, twice, three times.
“Please!” Freeman said. “Enough. You’ll kill her.”
Scent looked up
, eyes blasted through with rage. She blinked a few times, then released her grip on her mother. The old woman just lay there, shoulders heaving, blood from her nose staining the floorboards.
Freeman bent down and picked up his bowler’s hat and placed it on his head. Then he grabbed his cane and limped across the room, stood over the prone body. Breathing heavily, his own wound worsening, Freeman nodded his head at Scent and said, “If you’ll hand me my ice pick, please, I will begin the procedure.”
Chapter 26
An hour later, after the procedure was completed with more than a little drama (during the initial incision into her tear duct, Baby began bleeding heavily from her eye, forcing Freeman to apply pressure for several minutes), the four of them sat in the living room, just like a happy family would, watching The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet.
Scent had cooked up some pasta and ragù, and Edgar and Freeman were both leaning over TV trays, sucking the noodles down. Baby watched the television through swollen eyes open to slits. Scent, meanwhile, sat in the wooden rocking chair, her lips pursed, her fingers positioned to strangle, glaring at her mother. Every ten or so minutes, she would rise from her chair, get her face real close to Baby’s and ask her the same question over and over: “Where’s the money, Mommy?”
And each time, her mother would blink a few times, shake her head slowly, and whisper, “Only Henry can know.” Then Scent would go sit down again. The same cycle, over and over again.
They finished eating. Edgar, mouth and shirt red from the sauce, asked for more food, but Scent didn’t respond.
“She’s not cured,” Scent said, shaking her head. “She’s the same old sick bitch she’s always been.”
Freeman dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “My dear. The cure isn’t always instantaneous. Sometimes it takes days or even months.”
“I ain’t got months.”
“I understand it’s difficult. But you must be patient.”
“You made promises,” Scent said through clenched teeth. “Promises about what the lobotomy could do. You’re a fraud and a liar.”
Freeman placed his liver-spotted hand on his chest and grinned caustically. “Such bitterness isn’t good for your complexion, dear. Please, Scent. Understand me. I’m a straight shooter. I don’t deceive. It’s not my style. As far as the lobotomy: all cases are different. All brains are different.”
As Scent studied Freeman, then studied her mother, the laugh track echoed eerily against the empty walls. Edgar asked for more food. Still ignoring him, Scent again rose to her feet and strode to where her mother watched the program, static damaging the picture.
“Last chance, Mom. The money. I ain’t fooling. Where is it, goddamn it?”
That same blinking, the same shaking of the head. And now the same words. “Only Henry can know.” Soon, after speaking, her jaw became slack. That’s the way it was with all of them.
“Goddamn bitch!” Scent screamed and slapped her across the face.
“Please!” Freeman said. “The poor woman is recovering from brain surgery. Slapping her face is hardly the type of treatment I would recommend.”
Scent bowed her head and closed her eyes. “It sure is rotten being alive…”
Time passed and the TV changed from I Love Lucy to Gunsmoke to Father Knows Best. Still the rain pounded on the tin roof, a deluge, and still Baby kept the location of the money a secret.
“He’s coming, dear Lord, he’s coming,” she said, and though she spoke more slowly, her belief seemed as strong as ever.
Scent gripped Freeman’s wrist and said, “Don’t you see? She’s just as crazy as ever.”
“Time, my dear,” he said. “Give it time.”
“I already told you! Time is something I don’t have!”
“Yes. Well, then. I’m afraid,” Freeman said, “it’s time for us to leave. Perhaps I could follow up if—”
“No follow-up. Fuck. The surgery didn’t work. It’s obvious. A failure. You’re a failure.”
Freeman rose to his feet and Scent grabbed his arm again, this time tighter. “Please don’t go, Doctor. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Only, there must be a way…”
“I don’t think I can help you,” he said. “The human brain is a tricky thing.”
He pulled away from Scent’s grip and limped toward the front door. That’s when she called out a name. “Sylvia Prentiss.”
Freeman turned around, smoothing his goatee with his thumb and forefinger. “A name from long ago,” he said.
“So you remember her.”
“Yes. A former patient. Terrible paranoia. Felt the government was watching her. Felt like they’d bugged every room she entered. Felt like they’d implanted her brain with a chip, allowed them to see all of her thoughts and dreams.”
“I went to the library,” Scent said. “I found some medical journals and I read about her. And what interested me is how she had multiple lobotomies. Three in fact.”
“Yes. That is true. Three.”
“Well?”
A thin smile from Freeman. “There is data that suggests such operations are sometimes worthwhile in patients who relapse after the first lobotomy. An additional incision in the orbitomedial quadrants is looking quite promising for those patients with affective, psychoneurotic, and schizophrenic disorders. And for those with hallucinations, a second or third incision into the frontotemporal connections can be quite beneficial…”
And now Scent once again grasped Freeman’s hand, but this time she rubbed his loosened skin with her thumbs. Pulling out all the stops, she batted her eyes and spoke in a little girl’s voice: “Well, can ya give it another try, mister? Me and my mom would sure appreciate it.”
Freeman gazed into those eyes for a long time while behind him Edgar remained frozen, still staring at the door. “My dear, when we perform a second operation, we wait months or even years. It would be unheard of to perform multiple lobotomies in the same day.”
“Look at her!” Scent said, her voice rising to a squeak. “Just look at her! She’s sick. She’s suffering. And, not only that, she knows where that money is. Maybe that’s what this is about? You wanting a piece? I’ll make it worth your while, Doc. Of course I will. How much is it worth? Five thousand? Ten?”
But it wasn’t about the money. It never had been. Freeman removed his glasses and steamed them with his mouth before wiping them off with his sleeve. His lips curled into a little smile. “Yes, then. We will try again, my dear. But I will not be bribed. That would be quite unethical of me. All I ask from you is once you see the magic of the lobotomy that you spread the good news from valleys below to mountains up top. From sea to shining sea…”
And so it was that they laid the old woman out on the floor, and this time she didn’t fight or protest, still anesthetized from the last surgery. As Edgar and Scent looked on—Edgar with that blank expression and Scent with a certain giddiness—Freeman once again got to work. Whistling a nameless tune, he inserted the ice pick and got to hammering not as gently as one might imagine. He went much deeper this time, attempting to sever as many nerve passageways as he could in the frontotemporal. And the whole time, he asked Baby questions, asked her what it felt like, asked her about her favorite childhood memory, asked her who was going to win the World Series. A few times she opened her mouth, but she never did speak.
“You’re doing just fine, madam. Just a little bit deeper. Memories will be intact, but neurosis will be defanged.”
Much smoother than the first time with almost no bleeding. He handed his tools to Edgar, who placed them back in the bag. He wiped perspiration, drool, and blood from her face and then helped her to a sitting position. After a few minutes of Freeman gently pouring water down her throat, he summoned Edgar and Scent to carry her back to the couch. Her body didn’t seem to work at all, frozen in arthritic angles. But she was very much alive and now wore a tiny grin that revealed the knowledge of the truly peaceful.
Freeman spoke to her in a
gentle voice, asking her simple questions. When he asked her where she lived, she managed to slur, “Purnlood.”
“Yes, yes,” Freeman said. “You live in Burnwood.”
So much for taking things slow. Scent, mouth scowled, eyes narrowed, descended upon her mother and said, “You remember me, Mom?”
A long pause and then: “Bent.”
“That’s right. Scent. Now tell me, Mother. Where’s the money? You’ve got it hidden somewhere. I need to know. Where’s the money?”
Eyes dead. Mouth closed. No answer.
“Again, darling, we must be patient. Perhaps if you ask her another time…”
“The money! I need that money!”
And now Baby’s mouth opened and she spoke, words so difficult to understand. “Mloney,” she said.
“Yes,” Scent said excitedly. “Money. Where is it?”
A long blink. Blood streaking down her cheeks. “Mloney,” she said again.
“Tell me. Please.”
Baby’s head bobbed up and down for a few moments and she jutted out her lower jaw, suddenly looking barely human. “Mloney,” she said for the third time. “Clat fur and the loon.”
Scent leaned in close. “What did you say?”
Freeman used a towel to wipe the blood from his brow. “I believe she said ‘cat fur and the moon.’ Her speech will improve over time.”
“Cat fur and the moon? The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps a riddle? Or perhaps it’s just that her thoughts are now unformed. That happens from time to time.”
A big grin from the old woman. “My blacelet is puvered in flour.”
“Her bracelet,” Freeman said, “is covered in flour.”
“Jesus,” Scent said. “Mother. Focus. I need that money. I need it in the worst way. So I don’t have to keep whoring myself. So I can get us a new house. So I can take care of you. I know you know where the money is. Tell me. Just tell me and I’ll let you be.”
