Does Not Love

by James Tadd Adcox

  Robert hands over the organizational chart for Obadiah Birch Pharmaceuticals. “I’m risking my neck on this,” Robert says. “If it came out that I did something that went against a client’s interests—”

  Jeremy makes calming shushing noises. “This?” he says. “It’s like I’ve never seen you. Oh,” he says, looking with surprise at the document in his hands. “Where did this come from?”

  Jeremy hands him in return a file containing information on the drug that Robert has been secretly giving his wife. “Now that we’re done here,” Jeremy says, “I just wanted to let you know that I despise you. As far as I’m concerned, you stand for the worst of humanity. Hugo, show this man the door.”

  Hugo shrugs and gestures towards the door. “Do you think you can find your way back alright?” Hugo asks.

  “I think so,” Robert says.

  At the bus stop, Robert runs into the same gang of children. He would guess, from looking at them, that most of them are around seven or eight years old. “Are you from the mafia?” they ask.

  Robert laughs. “No,” he says.

  “Are you from the government?”

  “Nope,” he says, smiling.

  One of the children shoves him while two others go for his legs. Robert hits the ground, hard, and the children swarm him. “Hey!” Robert yells. One grabs his wallet. Another gets his phone. A third kid kicks him repeatedly in the kidneys. Then, just as suddenly, it’s over. The bus pulls up and the kids run off before he’s even had the chance to get back to his feet. Robert grabs up, as best he can, the papers that have come loose from the file folder Jeremy gave him.

  “You getting on?” the bus driver calls from the open bus door.

  “Did you see that?” Robert asks.

  “Last bus of the day,” the bus driver says.

  Robert gets on but doesn’t have any money for the fare. “They just took my wallet,” he tries to explain. The bus driver looks at him, blankly. “Look, if you just take me to a bank,” he starts.

  “This ain’t a taxi,” the driver says.

  Robert turns to the other passengers. They stare at him flatly, refusing to help.

  ~ ~ ~

  The self-storage facility is a kind of labyrinth, with hundreds of possible centers. There is no way to orient oneself, once one is out of sight of the metal gates — the rows of doors stretch on seemingly forever — above the doors are numbers, but it is impossible, at a glance, to understand their organization. Behind any one of these, perhaps, might wait the minotaur, in black goggles and fake fur coat, two shining pistols — Is it better to keep wandering through the labyrinth, or try to walk home? It is almost dusk — the sky is the color of sunburnt skin — both options raise, in Robert’s mind, the face of the dead man, fat and red and expiring, running out of breath…

  They didn’t take my car keys, Robert thinks. If worse comes to worse, I can walk back to town — it’s what, five or six miles — that’s entirely possible — Still, he doesn’t like the thought of walking so far through the west side at night. He keeps thinking about the dead man’s red face… He is aware of people all around him, human bodies — for the most part, they do not pay attention to him — he is just another body — From time to time, a pair of glassy eyes takes in his suit, Robert can tell that there is an act of appraisal going on — He thinks, It is vital to look like I know where I am going. But of course he doesn’t.

  Robert finds a place to settle down for a moment, his back against one of the buildings’ cinderblock walls, ass on cold concrete. He looks through the folder that Jeremy gave him. The pills he has been feeding to Viola and himself are being marketed under the commercial name Milamor, but they have previously appeared under different names—Ligatal, Amebgyn, Keratexx, Sartrex, Cryptogest. The true name, the pill’s chemical formulation, is longer and more complex than Robert can pronounce, but its letters seem to hold a power over him, nonetheless. Previous versions, in some cases with formulation and dosage slightly tweaked, have been marketed for military purposes, for the questioning of unwilling sources, a means of instilling trust between interrogator and interrogated…

  Glancing up, he sees a woman who looks very much like Viola. He almost calls out to her, then stops himself. Idiot, he thinks. Of course it’s not her. But her face, her build is so similar — it could be her sister, or Viola in five years’ time. With her is a boy maybe six years old, wearing a knit cap that doesn’t entirely cover his sandy blond hair. Possibly one of the children who attacked me, Robert thinks. As if in response to this, the kid starts to turn. Robert scrambles around a corner, then peers back out.

  He follows the two of them back to their storage unit, keeping as much distance as he can while maintaining a sightline. He has a sense, though, that even if the woman were to see him, she’d look right through him — as though he and this woman inhabited different planes, touching precariously at a single point. If we’d had a child when we first tried, Robert thinks, he might be this age. That could easily be his face. In the storage unit, the door still rolled up to let in the air, the woman takes off the boy’s cap and, crouching down, rubs at his cheeks and nose with a wet-nap. With the cap gone, Robert can see, even from this distance, two horns, or boney protrusions, one above each eye. Robert is filled with sympathy. There is so much suffering in the world, he thinks. Why are we made like this, that we can only feel someone else’s suffering when we can imagine it to be our own? I will become a benefactor, Robert thinks. I will raise up this people from their suffering.

  The woman lights a kerosene stove and uses it to heat the contents of two cans of food, which she then spoons onto a pair of plates. The boy eats ravenously. His mother smiles at him and pushes the food around with her fork. When the boy is finished, she passes her mostly-untouched plate to him. Robert settles down against the side of a storage unit and spreads his sport coat over his legs, a makeshift blanket. He watches the woman wipe off the plates with wet-naps. He watches her spread blankets over the boy and kiss his head.

  ~ ~ ~

  Outside the gates of the self-storage facility, the men in riot gear wait. A signal will come, and they will descend.

  ~ ~ ~

  Robert dreams that he is in a desert, walking for miles, directionless. Each of the grains of sand in his dream is a tiny person. Thousands of tiny people shriek out in terror whenever he takes a step. He feels an overwhelming sense of pity, but tells himself that he’s in the desert, and in the desert one must worry first of all about one’s own survival. At night it’s possible to freeze to death in the desert, he tells himself. I have to keep walking.

  ~ ~ ~

  Then everything is light and noise, and Robert is awake, his heart beating wildly, the dream, even the fact of having been asleep, forgotten. Floodlights surround the periphery of the storage complex. Orange doors pulled up, fought with, thrown open, guinea-piggers stumbling, running, masses of people being pushed forward by other masses, pressing into masses pressing the opposite direction, guinea-piggers falling and being trampled under the feet of other guinea-piggers. And from all sides, increasingly pushing their way in, men in black suits and riot gear, batons held at six and nine, shouting in a single voice MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE, two-handed thrusting the batons forward in unison with each MOVE. The woman who looks remarkably like Viola is screaming out that she has lost her son, and in the next moment Robert has lost track of her in the mob. The feel of so many foreign bodies pressed against his, the stink of it — Robert wants to yell out that he is not part of this, he is something different than this mass, but there is an elbow against his throat, there is a hand on his face, fingers reaching for something to grip find their way into his mouth, into his nose, he presses his eyes shut in fear of having them mindlessly gouged out. It is impossible to say how many people he is in the middle of, it could be a hundred or a thousand, the world seems filled with them and Robert’s options, suddenly, limited to the terrified mind of this press of bodies.

  Now the men in riot gear ha
ve broken ranks and are falling upon them. When Robert chances to look he can see the great arcs of baton above the heads of the mob. Somehow even above the screams Robert can make out the dry crack of wood against a skull. They are being funneled in a certain direction — those who do not move correctly, or who get too close to the outside of the mass, are beaten, and thus the men in riot gear are training this new, corporate body, that they, with their helmets and floodlights, have called into being. Where to? Robert tries to push himself up on the shoulders of the bodies that press against him, and, just before being forced back down by other bodies likewise trying to push their way up, he catches sight of bodies being shoved into black, windowless vans. Going back is impossible; pushing to the side only presses Robert closer to the swinging batons; the mouths of the vans seem inevitable, and Robert can feel himself along with so many others pushing toward what he cannot avoid.

  ~ ~ ~

  Men in orderly uniforms unload Robert and his fellow captives from the back of the van and lead them to a long hallway filled with other bodies sitting in folding chairs. Robert and the others are told to take chairs and wait. From time to time men in orderly uniforms come to lead one of the bodies to the doorway at the end of the hall.

  ~ ~ ~

  Robert is taken by several orderlies to see a doctor, for processing. There are forms for Robert to fill out. “This is an observation period,” the doctor says. “You should understand that we have a legal right to detain you for a seventy-two hour observation period, to see if you represent a threat to yourself or others.” He sits on one side of a shabby desk, in a shabby office. He looks tired. Robert is one in a long line of bodies that the doctor is processing today. The doctor shuffles through some papers. Robert occupies a chair on the other side of the desk. To Robert’s left and his right stand large men in orderly uniforms.

  There’s clearly some misunderstanding, Robert thinks. I have a JD, for Godssake. I am wearing a suit. But Robert’s white shirt is dirty, torn in places. He’s missing his suit jacket. He has been sweating, and pressed against other sweating bodies. “Why do I need to sign the forms if you already have the right to detain me?” Robert says, trying to grasp at whatever he can.

  The doctor sighs and looks up at the ceiling. The orderly to Robert’s left holds Robert’s left arm behind his back and twists it, firmly but without undue violence, until it feels as though it might wrench free from its socket. Robert screams. The orderly to Robert’s right hands him a pen.

  “Here,” the doctor says, indicating the appropriate line on the form. “Thank you. Here, as well, please,” the doctor says. “Initial here.”

  “This isn’t legally binding,” Robert says. “I was under duress.”

  The doctor flips through his forms until he comes to one that affirms the patient has signed all forms free of duress, and the orderly twists Robert’s arm behind his back until he signs it.

  ~ ~ ~

  Robert calls Viola, from the depths of the hospital psych ward. “Viola,” he says to her voice mail, “Viola, pick up. For God’s sake please pick up. I’m at a hospital. I’m not hurt. They’ve taken us here. I was… there were all of these people, who participate in drug testing for money, and the police — or somebody — descended upon them. Upon us. They might have been working for Obadiah Birch. There is a man, he’s trying to organize the guinea-piggers… and there’s rumors of someone else, a man in fake fur and black goggles… but that doesn’t make sense. This sounds crazy. Of course this sounds crazy. There is no way, right now, for me not to sound crazy. Is that why you’re not picking up? Is that why you haven’t called back? But you haven’t even listened to this yet, of course. How could you? I just… I really would like to hear your voice right now. They, they have all of the people from the guinea-pig camp here, they picked us all up and are holding us for a ‘three-day observation period’… except that, I’ve just learned, they found out about my insurance, that my insurance will cover a longer stay, they say that I need someone who can accept ‘responsibility on my behalf’ to come sign, to get me out. This is all illegal, of course, it’s completely illegal. I’ve told them its illegal. They’ve told me… something about an obsession with the legality of things. Monomania. They can make anything fit. They’ve got a certain form, and they can make anything fit into it. Oh, God, I want to hear your voice right now. Please pick up. I don’t… I don’t know what number to tell you to call, if you get this message. There’s a number on the phone, here, but it’s been blacked out, and they’ve taken my cell phone from me. Someone else has taken my cell phone from me. Not the doctors. These kids, at the guinea-pig camp, a group of kids. Of course you’re not going to pick up. None of this makes any sense. Why would you pick up? You haven’t even listened to this yet… ”

  Robert calls again, crestfallen. Crestfallen, Robert listens to Viola’s voicemail message. Robert calls again, and listens to the voicemail message again. If no one came to stop him, he could do this all day.

  ~ ~ ~

  Does it mean something that he’s here, Robert thinks. Is it a kind of penance?

  His roommate at the psych ward steals his shoes whenever Robert takes them off and goes shuffling down the hallway with them in his hands. Robert stops taking off his shoes when he sleeps. One night he wakes up to find his roommate carefully working his left shoe free from its foot. “Fine,” Robert says. “You want the shoes?” He pulls off his loafers and throws one and then the other at his roommate. “Have them! By all means! Enjoy!” His roommate crouches in a corner of the room and cries. Robert lies down, waiting for the orderlies to come, thinking, Shut up, just shut up.

  ~ ~ ~

  It is not a penance. There is only one event happening after another, until Robert arrived here.

  ~ ~ ~

  Robert is in a small room. In front of him is a bright white light. A man is sitting somewhere in front of the bright white light, facing Robert. Between them is a table. “Why does my head hurt?” Robert asks.

  “Because I hit you over the head with the butt of my pistol. You were being uncooperative.”

  “I was asleep.”

  “You were being uncooperative in your sleep.”

  “Why do my ribs and arm and abdomen and chest hurt?”

  “Because once I started hitting you it was difficult to stop.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “I am an agent of the secret law.”

  “Could you turn off that light, for Christssakes?”

  “No.”

  “Could you turn it down, at least?”

  “No. The bright white light has important symbolic connotations: Truth, Justice, Righteousness, Grace, Purity. All of these things are important in our work, the work of the FBI, which is the preservation of National Stability. Is there anything I could get you that would make you more comfortable? A coffee, perhaps? A drink of water? No?”

  Robert shakes his head. Robert’s head feels like it’s stuffed overfull with steel wool.

  “I understand that at first the white light can be disorienting, uncomfortable perhaps, perhaps painful — but in time subjects get used to it. Often, they come to love it. We’ve recorded cases of subjects weeping when we take the light away. May I read you a testimony?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I came to understand, after several weeks, that the white light was the all-encompassing mercy of God Himself, and I, poor sinner, can imagine nothing more joyous than the expectation, as I near the end of my life, of that white light’s return… This from a subject we interrogated in Algeria. I thought he was particularly eloquent, as regards the white light.”

  “What is that high-pitched squeal?”

  “That’s a high-pitched squeal. It has nothing to do with the white light. Here, Robert, let me show you some pictures.”

  “I can’t see anything with that light in my eyes.”

  “You have to hold them at the right angle. There. See? Yes? Clearer, in the white light, than they could ever be
by the light of day?”

  “These are pictures of me.”

  “Of course they’re pictures of you.”

  “At the guinea-pigger camp.”

  “Do you know that we have been investigating a series of shootings? Researchers, shot dead in Indianapolis, all of whom worked for the pharmaceutical industry? Who are you giving that file folder to, Robert?”

  Robert sits for a moment in the glare of the white light. “You can’t possibly think I was involved in the shootings.”

  “Of course we could think you were involved. It would take almost no effort on our part to think you were involved. You were present at the self-storage facility. You have demonstrated guinea-pigger sympathies, as evidenced by these photos of you acting sympathetic towards several guinea-piggers. You had access to records indicating which researchers were engaged in the most harmful and negligent drug trials.”

  “But I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “I know you didn’t have anything to do with it, Robert. Did I say you had anything to do with it?”

  “Thank God,” says Robert.

  “I was only pointing out a certain fact. That fact being, if one were to choose to do so, one could easily make it appear that you had something to do with it. And as far as hard evidence is concerned? Photographs can be modified, film edited, fingerprints, DNA, ballistics, all can be tweaked.”