The Dream of Doctor Bantam

by Jeanne Thornton

  She sat on the steps with Patrice not following her and thought: by their own hand—often by their own hand.

  Ira was sitting in the rocking chair at the base of the porch, studying chess pieces.

  Hey, he shouted. Come play black. What’s wrong?

  Fuck off, Julie said, and she stole his bike and rode away.

  9

  She got home; both cars were gone. She made a cup of darjeeling tea, added four fat scoops of honey, and sat down on the floor of Tabitha’s bedroom with her head lolling back on the bedspread and the cup of tea steaming and untouched beside her.

  She was going to have to stop seeing Patrice. Good; she didn’t want to see Patrice anyway. Patrice was unstable; you didn’t join a fucking cult if you were stable. Maybe there would be a stable day; maybe two, three, seventy. But eventually the crazy would get through. Maybe Julie would make some insulting remark about the leader of the fucking cult, this Dr. Bantam person. Or maybe she’d be cooking and Patrice would clap a rag over her mouth, chloroform; other members of the fucking cult would walk in and laugh and clink glasses together. They’d strap her in front of the Machine and turn it on until she was babbling about time travel, until she couldn’t remember her name, until she couldn’t remember Tabitha. Or maybe they wouldn’t bother brainwashing her; maybe they’d put Patrice on the Machine instead, beam red waves of radiation into her brain, make her pick up a knife and stick it into Julie over and over as some kind of sacrifice to time. No, the last was impossible; Patrice hated making a mess.

  It hurt to giggle when your head was lolling back on your dead sister’s bed; something about the pressure on your throat was off. It was impossible to imagine being threatened by Patrice. Patrice needed someone to buy groceries for her; Patrice needed all the cigarettes in the world to calm her down. Any danger in Patrice came from this other thing, this voice that spoke through Patrice sometimes, the Mode I Patrice: those eyes that shot lightning through Patrice’s, this hand that pulled the strings attached to her cream shoulders, her butter thighs.

  It was sexual, almost, imagining her possessed like that. The image of Patrice masturbating, the ghost of Dr. Bantam’s face floating before her eyes. Did Mode I Patrice masturbate? Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she lay awake nights, her long fingers clenched into fists at her sides, bathrobe tight around her like chain mail, saying that three o’clock came before two o’clock through gritted teeth. And what about Mode II Patrice—lying sprawled like a wilting tulip on the bed, hand too heavy to lift, to haul between her legs?

  Julie sat up quickly, consumed with the urge to put a record on; she upended the teacup all over the carpet. She sat down on Tabitha’s bedspread and watched the honeyed stain spread, soaking into the pile of abandoned clothes on the floor, and she felt her breath push her lungs out and felt her lungs fall in.

  It was raining the next day and she stayed in listening to records with the door locked. Around noon she came out and knocked on Linda’s door down the hall.

  Mom? she asked. I’m in a bad mood and I’m listening to records, so if you need anything, could you maybe not ask me today?

  There was no answer, so she knocked on the door again. Then she opened it up. The room was dark; the TV was turned off. She went in and sat on the bed, the same pink sheets from years ago, the edges shredded lightly by the cat, long since buried under the thriving clover patch in the side yard. The ashtray was full of

  cigarette butts. She bounced on the bedsprings a few times. The air conditioner was still running, chilling the sweat on the back of her neck where she’d been resting it against Tabitha’s old pillow.

  She made a plate of toast and jam, which she took back to Tabitha’s room. The phone rang at two p.m. The caller ID said Ira; she didn’t pick up.

  At some point she fell asleep. She woke up to moonlight through the window and the sound of the TV coming again from her mother’s room. She took her copy of Crime and Punishment into the kitchen and started a pot of black coffee. She was sipping it and humming when the microwave clock flashed 2:45 a.m. at her and Michael walked in in his boxers.

  Oh, hi, he said.

  Have you ever read this? she said. It’s only the most amazing book ever. It’s about this murderer and these psychological tortures and stuff about how God isn’t real and it’s only the most amazing book ever.

  I’m worried about you, he said, drinking milk from the carton. Why are you still awake?

  I’m doing my homework, she said. So is Mom going back to work now or something?

  Michael put the carton down and folded his hairy arms over his hairy chest.

  That’s for school, right? he said. Shouldn’t you be reading it closer to the time when you actually go back to school? So you remember things from it?

  I’ll remember it, she said.

  You won’t get a good grade if you don’t remember it, he said.

  Don’t you have a cunt to be lapping? she said.

  He put the milk back in the fridge and turned out the light on her.

  Get some sleep, he said.

  She finally did, at eight the next morning. She woke up twelve hours later, went to the gas station to buy orange juice, and came home to sleep some more.

  She slept and she dreamed about Patrice kneeling at the crossroads, praying for salvation.

  Linda kept going to work. Julie was awake one time when she came home, nine days after the fight with Patrice. The garage door was still rattling shut when Linda came in, her tailored suit coat in her arm and her fingers already unbuttoning her blouse. She shrugged it off, unsnapped the button on her slacks, kicked them off, lit a cigarette and went to lean against the counter in her underwear. Michael, eating a Salisbury steak TV dinner, beamed at her, then ignored her.

  Michael, she said. When are you going to marry me?

  Julie set her spoon down against the side of her alphabet soup bowl. Michael put down his forkful of string beans and looked up at her.

  Tomorrow, he said. No, Wednesday. I’d need to get the license tomorrow.

  I’m serious, she said. We should get married.

  We should talk about this later, he said, looking at Julie.

  Why? asked Linda, and coughed. She put her cigarette out in the fish ashtray at the center of the table and lit another.

  Julie got up and brought her soup bowl, still lined with semolina blobs shaped like letters, to the sink.

  Let’s talk about this later, said Michael.

  Don’t you want to marry me? asked Linda.

  He doesn’t want to marry you, muttered Julie. You take your clothes off in the hall.

  What was that? said Linda. She narrowed her eyes at Julie.

  It’s nothing, said Julie. You just took your clothes off in

  the hall, is all. So no one wants to marry you. You’re not a classy bride.

  Linda scowled, took her cigarette, and disappeared into the back of the house. Michael sighed and carried his TV dinner to the garbage.

  Thank you, he said.

  What? said Julie. She takes her clothes off for you, she takes them off for everyone. Don’t marry her.

  She started washing the soup bowl, then Michael’s hand turned off the water. She turned and slit her eyes.

  If I told you that you were grounded and to go to your room, said Michael, would you do it?

  Julie laughed.

  No, she said.

  Michael stared at her, then turned the water back on. He didn’t look at her until he disappeared into the back of the house. She watched him go, and let the water run over the bowl until all of the pasta words had disappeared down the drain, and for a little while after.

  She called Robbie from the phone in the kitchen.

  Benson residence, he said.

  It’s me, she said. What’re you doing?

  She packed a toothbrush and her Funky Winkerbean notebook and biked over to his place. Robbie made another jug of carrot juice and sat on his bed, looking at her while she drank it, until she lay back o
n the pillow and patted the sheet next to her. While he was fucking her she kicked at his CD player with her foot until she managed to turn off the sitar music.

  Whoops, she breathed. I’ll just get up and fix it.

  No, he moaned.

  They smoked a bowl afterward, and then he fell asleep. She couldn’t sleep. She lay awake, twitching against his black sheets, and she gritted her teeth and looked at the ceiling.

  Robbie’s aunt was working at the computer in the foyer when she came downstairs.

  Oh gosh, she said. Hi.

  Hi, said Julie. Um, I’ve got to go.

  No no, don’t go, said Robbie’s aunt, blushing and getting up. She wore a Hawaiian shirt around her rolling midsection and overfilled her khaki capri pants; she wore Indian earrings, too much blush, and a hairstyle that looked like a wig: a dark clown-wig puff that looked sticky to the touch.

  Don’t go, she said again. Can I get you something, something to eat? I’m Julia; I’m Robbie’s aunt.

  I really need to go, said Julie.

  She rode her bike up and down all night and thought about Robbie’s aunt’s wig—and Robbie’s aunt’s name—and stopped to throw up in the bushes twice.

  This time in her dream she was sitting against the high school, smoking pot, while thousands of Patrices walked back and forth through the parking lot, circled the flagpole, and Julie was stuck to the wall by something, and she called out to Patrice and there was no voice in her throat.

  The next time the phone rang and Ira’s name was on the caller ID, she picked up.

  I’m going totally crazy, she said to him.

  I’m getting coffee, he said. Come join me.

  She let Ira buy her an espresso at the Retrograde.

  It’ll put hair on your chest, he said.

  I would love hair on my chest, she said. I’m sorry I told you I was going crazy on the phone.

  No problem, he said. So you’re not going crazy, right?

  No, she said, I guess I am after all. Sorry again.

  No problem, he said.

  They sat side by side on the golden couch upstairs at the Retrograde, between a boy in a plaid shirt with three fat course packets open in front of him and two chess players, one old and one young, a clock between them. Rilo Kiley was on the speakers singing about a frozen lake, the track on infinite repeat.

  Julie put her lip over the edge of her glass. The espresso was scorched.

  You’re supposed to shoot it, said Ira. All at once. That’s why it’s called an espresso shot.

  I’m in a contrary mood today, she said, setting the cup on the saucer.

  It’s so contrary to your ordinary mood, said Ira. So tell me why you’re going crazy.

  This time she shot the espresso.

  Patrice and I had an argument, she said, putting the cup down and wiping her lip.

  His own cup was in front of his mouth, so who knew what expression he had, except that his eyes looked like they were closing up.

  We’re talking about the one who’s in a cult, he said.

  You rent an apartment from her, asshole, she said. Your landlord is a cult. Stop complaining about the cult.

  I tried to tell you it was a bad idea, he said.

  You didn’t tell me why it was a bad idea, she said, and she leaned her face back. So tell me now. Why’s it a bad idea?

  He settled back in the golden armchair.

  First of all, she’s in a cult, he said.

  Fixer-upper, said Julie. Go on.

  She also has a boyfriend, he said.

  Shut up, she said.

  I’m serious, he said. There’s this guy. Pale-skinned guy, looks like T.S. Eliot. I’ve seen him showing up there at weird times, some nights. Like ten at night. Leaves at midnight.

  She remembered him, pale and rising from the couch.

  She has a boyfriend for two hours a night, said Julie. Some nights.

  That’s all it takes, said Ira.

  She scrunched herself into the far corner of the golden couch, compressed her backside into the nook of space between the

  cushion and the arm, and she picked up the cup.

  People who order this are stupid, she said. You’re paying more for a smaller amount of coffee that tastes terrible.

  You just have a youthful palate, said Ira. You’re like, four years away from Jolly Ranchers. Give me a break.

  I don’t think she has a boyfriend, said Julie. That guy’s her co-worker. She told me.

  Oh, she told you, said Ira. Great, then there’s no problem.

  People are always scrupulously honest all the time. It makes perfect sense.

  Seriously, said Julie. I don’t think she’d lie about it.

  She set the cup down. The student to the left was still deep in his course packets; the chess players were frowning over rooks; Jenny Lewis was still singing about how the doctor could see her insides whether she wanted him to or not.

  What did you argue about? he asked.

  You haven’t finished telling me reasons not to talk to her, said Julie. Go on. Does she have a terminal disease, too? Is she like an ex-Hitler Youth member or something?

  He didn’t say anything, just watched her. She sipped at the empty cup and pretended that she could still taste coffee.

  We argued about the cult, said Julie. She said that like, she’d never be able to leave it, even after she learned that time wasn’t real or something. And I got mad about that. And she called me a destruction addict.

  A destruction addict? asked Ira. What, like you hang around building sites and huff dust? What does that even mean?

  She didn’t laugh; she was barely listening to him. She was thinking about Patrice staying in the Institute for all of her days. She would be wearing the same white blouse, same navy skirt; her legs would be lined with varicose veins; her breasts would be sagging to the third button. A young kid in white and navy was helping her into a chair, adjusting the headlamps of the Machine into her eyes. She took her reading glasses off; she wore her reading glasses on a tiny diamond chain. She had her session and she went home to that apartment, struggling up the stairs, alone. And in the bathroom there were snakeskins, all the younger Patrices she could have been, vibrant and healthy, sloughed off and turning to desiccation in the air conditioning, and no one had changed the filter in decades.

  She was aware of Ira next to her, watching her; it would be a mistake to break down and cry; she hadn’t cried in such a long time. She kept swallowing, her spit hot, the skin around her eyes hot. She wanted to cry, she thought, let me cry. After a minute she realized that she wouldn’t be able to do it, and she sat up, and she took a napkin from the pile and wiped her nose, and she looked at Ira, and she broke down. He put his arm around her shoulders as she bawled.

  She hadn’t cried for Tabitha, and she cried for this.

  Ira’s arms smelled like truck exhaust and salt; he left a wet spot when he let her go, the hair on his arms like bristles on a paintbrush across her collar. He went downstairs and she sat on the golden couch and sniffed and felt like any minute she would stop crying, like any minute her breath would stop coming in gasps.

  He brought her a cup of coffee in a pint glass; it was too hot for her to take.

  So you’ve got to forget about her, he said. There’ll be other girls. Or guys. Or whatever the fuck you’re into.

  She stopped crying, drew in a last snotty breath and sat up straight. She took the coffee and drank it, black; she hated it black.

  I don’t want to forget about her, she said.

  She’s in a cult, said Ira. A. Cult. Why do you think she was even into you in the first place? Cults need to get members. It’s called love bombing. Look it up.

  Thanks, she said, crossing her arms.

  I’m not saying you’re not attractive, he said. Shit, I’d fuck you. I’d fuck you silly in a second. Is that all it is? Because if it is, come on, let’s get out of here. My truck’s outside. Let’s just fuck and you’ll feel better about this.

>   I don’t want to fuck you, she said, crossing her arms. She took a long and angry sip of the coffee.

  Fine, he said. I’ve got shit to do anyway. So okay, fucking’s out. What do you want to do then?

  I want to save her, she said, in a small voice, like a kid saying she wanted her puppy to still be alive.

  And the lock in her heart felt like it was coming open again, the gears and tumblers falling piece by piece until there was nothing but a pile of metal, glittering, on the grass.

  No, said Ira. Not an option.

  I want to save her, said Julie again. Someone has to save her. Ira! She’s just totally helpless. She just thinks this is the right thing to be doing.

  Maybe it is the right thing to be doing, said Ira. People need all kinds of crazy things. Some people need to be heroin addicts. It doesn’t mean you should save them.

  You shouldn’t save people from being heroin addicts, said Julie. How did you get to be so wise?

  I’m leaving, Ira said. He stood up, towered over her. He adjusted his baseball cap.

  Are you coming with me or not? he asked.

  No, she shouted, and the chess players finally looked up.

  Ira smiled at them.

  You’re weak on your queenside rook, he said, and he left without looking at her.

  The chess players went back to their game. She sat on the couch with her coffee pint in front of her, still full, like leaf-steeped rainwater collecting in a bottle set upright on the curb. The Rilo Kiley song was playing again, sixth time around or more, and she closed her eyes—the drumsticks shuffled against the cymbals in some long-ago studio; the pedal steel twanged like stars against midnight blue—and it was Patrice on the frozen lake, bundled in a fur coat, her skinny wrists poking out of the sleeves, goosepimpling. Patrice, who, she knew, was sitting alone and afraid, just next door. Patrice, who she could get free of the cult, who she could save.

  And she hadn’t cried for her own sister’s death; she had cried, for the first time, for another person.