Pulling Teeth

by Alan Ryker

  "How long ago?" Jake asked.

  "Maybe fifteen minutes."

  "Let me see what I can do." He thought of Michael. Michael would remember the deer soon.

  "Go up and distract Michael."

  Jake looked out the kitchen door. The doe was on its side again. He couldn't tell if she was breathing or not, but she wasn't moving. The calf was almost out. He didn't think it would survive if it didn't get help soon, though. So he went outside.

  The doe didn't move when he opened the door, or shut it. She didn't move as he made his way across the porch, or down the wooden stairs. He crept slowly towards the pair. As he neared, he saw her chest moving in quick, shallow breaths. The calf was covered in slimy mucus, blood and grass. Its back half had worked out, but the mother seemed incapable of pushing any more and it was stuck at the shoulders. Jake grabbed the calf's hind legs and the doe lifted her head and looked at him, but didn't move further. She laid her head back down. He wrapped his hands around the fawn's waist and gave an exploratory tug. It didn't budge. He pulled harder, and harder. The mother lifted her head again and bleated. Jake leaned back and pulled, and the fawn came free. It wasn't breathing, but the mother was moving and Jake jumped back.

  The doe pawed at the ground with her front legs and tried to spin around to the calf, but she wasn't making much progress. Jake moved in and quickly cleared the mucus from the fawn's nose. Prying its small mouth open, he stuck a finger in and scooped out a plug of mucus. The fawn breathed and began moving. Jake sat it in front of the mother and backed away. The mother lurched at him, her eyes rolling, and he ran for the house. From the door he watched her start to lick the calf clean, then lay her head back down.

  "You got the baby out. Thank God." He hadn't heard Susan approach.

  "Yeah, but I don't think the mother's going to make it. I've got to wash my hands." He went over to the sink and lathered up, rinsing his hands over and over.

  "Oh my God. The baby's trying to stand," Susan said.

  Jake looked out into the yard, drying his hands on a dish towel. The baby was pushing itself face-first along the ground, its butt up in the air. Then it got its front hooves braced and stood in a wobbly sprawl. As they watched, it grew more stable. Once it seemed confident in its ability to stand, it wobbled forward, fell, got back to its feet. Then it lay down in front of its mother's nose and began to nudge her. It was amazing, and Jake didn't know if he could take it.

  Then Jake heard Michael stomp down the stairs. "The deer had the baby!"

  "I told you to stay upstairs," Susan said.

  "I did. Then I remembered the deer and looked out the window and saw the baby. What will we name it?"

  "Wild animals don't have names," Jake said. He didn't feel up to the charade he was going to have to put on. He felt hollowed out.

  "But we can keep it and make it a pet. Is the deer sleeping?" The mother wasn't moving. It wasn't licking or returning the baby's nudges.

  "Yes, she's very tired from having the baby," Jake said. Birth and death were too much to cover in the same day.

  "Pooping out a baby would make me tired, too." Michael laughed. Jake knew he'd said it just to get a reaction. "Can I go pet the baby?"

  Then the fawn started bleating. Unable to get a response with its nudging, it stood and began to emit a horrible, high-pitched honking sound. It didn't stop. It continued to make the sound as animal control arrived to remove its mother's carcass. It continued to make the sound as they explained that they couldn't take a live deer, that Jake and Susan had to contact the wildlife rehabilitation center, that Jake and Susan would have to drop the fawn off there the next day, as the center was already closed. Standing in the middle of their backyard, the fawn continued to bleat for hours after its mother was taken away.

  Jake didn't know if a larger dose would do anything, but he took an entire 150mg Effexor pill. He felt a fear he hadn't felt since he'd several years ago admitted that he needed help for his depression and sought treatment. He felt the fear that no treatment or medication would work, that he would get better but still wouldn't be happy, that he would never be happy, because there was something wrong with the world, not his perception of it.

  .

  PSYCHE'S MARK

  All of The Darkest Bean's employees wanted to work Psyche's shift. They knew their take of the tips would be double that of a normal night, because even men who prided themselves on their intellectual depth over-tipped Psyche. She was charming and intelligent, and exquisite. Brian watched her interact with customers, noting that she leaned across the counter and gave the same attentive looks and "oh"s and "mmhmm"s to everyone, that she always put a delicate hand on a customer's shoulder when she laughed, as if to steady herself from the sudden vertiginous effect of an overwhelming wit.

  When Brian managed to draw Psyche's radiant gaze, he fully believed she found everything he said enthralling. Yet, when he watched her with other men, he mocked himself. He fell for the same act, the same light flirtation that, coupled with her beauty, made a night spent serving espressos and lattes with Psyche so lucrative. He hated himself for it, but he desperately longed for Psyche's attention.

  She projected a grace that laid low the defenses of men and women alike. Only shrews who had previously considered themselves beautiful could despise her as they watched their boyfriends and husbands knocked senseless. Brian chuckled at the fury in the eyes of lovely intellectuals, equal parts cerebrum and sexuality in their pea coats, long scarves and low-buttoned blouses, as their men completely forgot them in the presence of an earth-born goddess.

  Along with her physical appearance, Psyche conquered any room she entered with a soul that dominated through kindness and concern. She hovered just above the ground, suspended on ethereal wings. The fragrant, opiate breeze they wafted across Brian's face whenever he held her precious attention intoxicated him so he drunkenly forgot his reserve. How many nights had he lain in bed for hours, cursing himself for revealing some intimate secret that must have reduced him in her eyes? Defenses of towering condescension built from the stones of teenage torment, she turned to rubble with a tempest begun by the beating of butterfly wings. Disarmed from within, he bared himself to her, telling her why he was who he was, as if she cared. She was nothing more than a coworker. They'd never even seen each other outside of work.

  Sometimes, when she wasn't near, Brian returned the contempt he knew she must feel for him. In the dark of his apartment on his cheap, creaky bed, he pressed clenched fists into clenched eyes thinking of how she must laugh at him. He imagined her describing to her real friends how he watched her flit from one enamored customer to the next and still had the naivety to adore her.

  It didn't matter, though. Brian loved her for being the most perfect thing he would ever experience in his sad, limited life. When he tore himself out of the orbit of her gravitational pull every night, he felt a pain that hundreds of her satellites must also resign themselves to. His soul abhorred hurtling centerless through the vacuum, and resented her for awakening him to his sad state. Still, it became more difficult to pull away as he circled nearer, unable and temporarily unwilling to resist the gravity well of her presence.

  What would it be like to have such elegance? To float above a petty, stupid world and remain untainted? In the hollow souls of preening intellectuals, she exposed the starved bits of honesty they still possessed. In the dim basement coffee shop with the low lighting and walls covered with dark paintings and fabrics, and the tables full of people dressed in muted colors as if the world overwhelmed them, Psyche hovered, dressed in whites and yellows and having long, pale Nordic hair. She radiated in contrast with a background that was intended to feel rich, but in her presence weighed dank and dead.

  Brian didn't normally like happy people. He felt disgusted by the shallow, grinning stupidity of the world around him. He worked in the Westport area of Kansas City, and as he left The Darkest Bean, and Psyche, the orgy of idiocy had only begun gearing up in the many surrounding bars.
Bars in Missouri stayed open until three a.m., but Brian didn't linger on those streets any later than he needed to.

  When the decision had been made, Brian knew he no longer controlled himself. He couldn't be blamed because he'd finally been completely pulled into her, become one with her singularity, and he had no further part in the decision. He couldn't blame Psyche either. She may or may not have known she made people love her, but she couldn't know she drove them to madness, that they lay in their creaking beds with their clenched fists pressed into their clenched eyes, wishing they weren't so worthless and ugly, wishing they had anything to offer her. She couldn't know that simply by flitting about, she demolished these souls, leaving a rubble of self-loathing, anger, and desire beyond reason. So, though he knew he was no longer accountable for his own actions, he felt some guilt in asking his pot dealer for Rohypnol.

  "Brian, you've bought from me for a long time. You're not a raver."

  "No."

  "You don't do X. You don't spend your weekends in warehouses waving glowsticks and sucking on a pacifier."

  "Does anybody anymore?"

  "I don't fucking know. The point is, you're not going to take Rohypnol."

  Brian gazed at Timmy silently, marveling at the possibility that a fucking drug dealer might actually refuse to sell him roofies on moral principle.

  "You don't want Rohypnol, Brian. Sometimes they work; sometimes they don't. I mean, they'll fuck you up every time, but that's not why you want them. Let me get you what you want." He went into his bedroom and when he returned, he held three capsules. "These work every time. These are specifically made to wipe the slate clean. It's not a side effect."

  "What are they?"

  "They've got a really fucking long science name I can't even pronounce, but we call them Cupid's Arrows."

  Brian nearly laughed out loud. These stoner philosophers held their pretense of profundity even more dear than did the grad school losers he dealt caffeine to. Well, whatever it took to get them through the day.

  ***

  As Brian watched her tend to customers, he wondered if he could go through with it. He didn't know if he had the courage to even ask her to go out for a drink, but if he managed, could he defile this pristine creature? If she deigned to see him outside of work, how could he repay her generosity with…

  "Hey Psyche, I was wondering if you'd want to go get a drink after work."

  "Around here? Have you seen how many ambulances they keep ready on a Saturday night?"

  "No, not here. There's a much more chill bar I like over on 39th street."

  "Sure. Sounds fun." She didn't even think it over. Was she so agreeable, or did she like him? Feelings of love, fear, and self-loathing threatened to transform him into a stuttering mess. He hoped that her perfection included innocence rather than intuition.

  "You live pretty close to here, don't you?" Brian asked nonchalantly.

  "Yeah, not too far."

  "I'll follow you over to your place so you can drop your car off. No need to take two."

  During the drive to the bar, Brian felt none of the drugged calm Psyche's presence normally brought on. He felt nervous and edgy, but chose not to take those feelings as an indication that he shouldn't do what he was about to do.

  Brian had scouted out the bar on 39th street the previous evening, to be familiar with it. The reasonably hip atmosphere seemed to keep away the worst of the total morons. He led Psyche to a small table in a front corner. If these pills made her crash, he needed to get her to his car without making a scene.

  He drank faster than he usually would have, and began to feel more confident. What she didn't remember wouldn't hurt her, and though things between them would be almost exactly as they were before, his mental state would be much better. After he had her, she wouldn't have a hold on him such that his brain fell out his ear every time she looked at him. Maybe he could even ask her on a real date.

  When she finally said she thought they should leave, he convinced her to have one more drink. Hands under the bar, he palmed the powder he'd emptied from the three capsules. This had to work. A clear, bright line separated success from prison: her ability to remember that evening. He needed to ensure she ended up on the right side of that line. So after he took her rum and coke from the bartender, he dropped the powder in with a pass of the hand, stirring it with the cocktail straw as he walked back to the table.

  She gulped the drink down and seemed okay when they left. So okay that as he drove in the direction of her apartment he thought he might actually have to drop her off and leave, but within a few blocks her chin hit her chest, she leaned forward in the seat belt, and Brian could hear the roar of his pulse in his ears.

  With Pysche sprawled across her bed exactly as he'd dropped her, Brian looked around her room. The building's age showed itself through its construction intended for permanence, with hardwood floors and plaster walls instead of flimsy drywall. Her bedroom displayed a simple aesthetic; a matching set of antique dressers, a white shag rug beside the bed, and a small desk upon which sat a white laptop. Framed prints of some creepy Keane paintings hung on the wall. He took everything in, examining her space as an extension of herself.

  Psyche's mouth hung open slightly. He knelt beside her and brushed his fingers across her plump lips. He leaned in and smelled her breath, sweet with rum and whatever it is that makes a beautiful woman's breath sweet, and then her hair, where her scent concentrated and mixed with the mustiness of smoke, and his heart raced and he was glad he hadn't changed his mind. But once he'd invited her to the bar, the outcome seemed inevitable, as if he couldn't simply enjoy a few drinks and then drive her home. His actions were no longer his to decide. He'd been hexed into starting the affair by her beauty, and then moved along by the inevitability of what must happen. His buying the pills was her taking them; his mind saw no difference between the two.

  He kissed her slack lips and felt his heart rise high into the sky, with only a tether connecting it back to him, sending down electric jolts. Still kissing her, he moved his hand to her breast and began kneading it through her shirt. As he inhaled her breath, her life, straight from her mouth into his own, letting her fill his lungs until they burned at the strain, he heard a sound. Had the apartment not been so quiet he would have missed it: a muffled trickling. He looked up and saw a dark stain quickly spreading across the crotch of her denim jeans.

  He sat stunned. Three pills had been too many. He started to remove her soaked pants when he heard another subtle sound. Looking back at her face, he saw vomit fill and then pour from her slack mouth. He let go of her jeans and leapt to turn her head to the side, to pour out as much of the thin puke as he could. She choked lightly against it at first, then spasmed in seizure, the sharp inhalations popping thickly through the vomit. Then it stopped. She exhaled a last, slow breath, and the chrysalis of her body released whatever was inside her that made her beautiful, and Brian felt something brush lightly past him as it fluttered away. She looked like any newly dead corpse, and his first thought was that she wasn't as pretty as he'd believed.

  Then adrenaline burned away his drunkenness and he knew horrible sobriety. He checked for a pulse, he felt for her breath, but she was dead. He thought of her in the coffee shop, how kind she'd been to him, the most wretched creature living, how kind she was to everyone, how much wonder she brought into people's sad lives simply by being there and by caring, and he began to weep. With all the assholes out there, all the people he hated, all the jerks purposefully making life harder for other people, he'd killed her. Psyche was the only worthwhile person he knew, and he killed her. Sure, he'd only been trying to rape her. He snarled at the sarcastic thought and began pounding his head with his fists, moaning through slobbery, distended lips.

  Eventually, he calmed down and began to consider self-preservation. Should he get rid of her body? They knew she'd been with him. He'd casually dropped to their coworkers, oh so casually, that they were going out for a drink. People would come loo
king for him when she turned up missing. They would find out she'd left the bar with him. People would remember her. Who could forget Psyche? It would come back to him. He gave her all three pills to ensure that he wouldn't go to prison for rape, and by doing so he actually ensured that he would go to prison for murder. He might as well turn himself in.

  He looked at Psyche one last time, but looked quickly away. Her light had faded, and he wanted to remember her as she had been. He left her laying on her bed half-naked.

  Brian found that instead of driving to the police station, he was leaving Kansas City, crossing from Missouri into Kansas. He passed by Lawrence and finally stopped in Emporia, knowing he couldn't go any further that night. His eyes sagged shut and his head lolled as his body crashed from too much alcohol and emotion. He got a room, pulled down the comforter, and drowned instantly in dreamless sleep.

  Disoriented, he awoke in darkness, the heavy curtains holding back the day. Slowly, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then he remembered where he was and why, and the image of Psyche laying dead in her own piss and vomit overwhelmed him. He clamped the heels of his palms into his eyes, as if he could push the gruesome picture out. Eventually, he lowered his hands, and that's when he noticed a dark splotch on his forearm.

  He put on his glasses and turned on the bedside lamp. Looking down at his arm, he expected a bruise but instead found—a butterfly? He slowly touched it, thinking for a moment it might be real, but felt only his own skin. It almost looked real, but it was a tattoo. But Brian didn't have any tattoos. He didn't like tattoos. He felt they were a fake way to buy an identity of rebellion. He looked at the butterfly more closely and decided it was actually a moth. It was so intricate—amazing, really. Where the fuck had it come from?