The Dream of Doctor Bantam

by Jeanne Thornton

  Julie bit her lip. She waited a moment longer—Patrice kept pretending to study the camcorders—and Julie moved on. She stopped in front of a silver plasma-screen, one with a built-in DVD player, one with a satellite access built in. After a moment, she could hear Patrice breathing beside her. She turned and smiled.

  Check it out, she said. This is a TV that truly fits our lifestyle. Young girls on the go, curling up with the hottest movies by night.

  Let’s take it and go, said Patrice.

  It’s two thousand dollars, said Julie. No.

  Then let’s just go, said Patrice.

  What, said Julie. Are you mad about the kids or something? Do you want me to what, knock you up? It may be difficult.

  I shouldn’t have expected you to understand, said Patrice again.

  They bought a tiny set with a built-in player, all that they could reasonably carry home on the bus with them. Julie apologized at some point in transit. They set it up in the living room on a cinder block and watched the Institute DVD on a blanket with popcorn, the kernels floating in a lake of melted butter.

  The movie was about a group of college friends. One was a girl and one was a boy and one was a black boy. They were all in college: the white girl was a history major, the black boy was a computer science major, and the white boy was a physics major. They had a study session together and talked about how they had midterms coming up, how they had trouble understanding some of the material. They talked about some of the issues they were having in their classes. Between them was a wide blue bowl filled with apples. Each of them held an apple in their hands while they talked, but none of them bit into the skin. They just held the apples.

  Third act, apples are poisoned, said Julie. Black kid dies. I’m really good at this.

  Shh, said Patrice.

  The girl in the movie was talking about a flyer she had found in her mailbox. The flyer advertised concentration courses for students available at the Institute of Temporal Illusions near the campus. The black boy and the white girl both seemed to think it was a great idea to take courses at the Institute, that this would be a good way to really improve their performance on the upcoming exams. The white boy seemed more skeptical, saying that his professor, Dr. Steele, said that you had to use the scientific method to assess whether or not a thing would be good for you before you did it. That’s crazy, said the black boy. How would you ever do anything new if you followed that advice? The white boy seemed confused by this, but just said that Dr. Steele said it, and he was the head of the physics department, so it must be true. The black boy and the girl argued and eventually convinced the white boy to take the concentration course.

  The next scene showed the white girl and the black boy on the Machine. An gentle-faced white woman smiled at them while they did some simple drills, in which they learned that older teachers and relatives had in the past told them things that damaged their self-esteem and made it hard for them to learn history and computer

  science. The black boy had been told that he would never amount to anything by an older white male teacher and the white girl had been told that pretty girls didn’t need to study by an older white female teacher, which made her think that if she studied, she would become ugly. Thanks to the Machine and the helpful woman from the Institute, they moved past these delusions. Their faces shone with light and hope; the synthesizers swelled.

  Meanwhile, the white boy was packing his books from a review session with Dr. Steele. Dr. Steele had a nasal voice and a bad cough, and as the white boy was leaving the room, he told him to wait. He told the white boy that he had noticed that he was not performing up to his potential in the class. The white boy said that this was true, but that he was going to take some extra courses at the Institute of Temporal Illusions to help him improve. Dr. Steele was very upset at this. He said unkind things about the Institute of Temporal Illusions, about how they were a bunch of crackpots who didn’t believe physics was real.

  But is physics real? asked the boy. I’ve always wondered about where force even comes from, or how do you know that there are quarks?

  Never mind the technical details, harumphed Dr. Steele. Here, he said, I’ll give you a better way to improve your performance on this test—the best method science has to offer. He handed

  the white boy pills in an orange prescription bottle.

  The white girl and the black boy met for another study session. The same bowl of apples was on the table, untouched, and they were wearing the same clothes they had worn in the first scene. They were concerned about their friend, who had been acting moody and angry lately. Just as the white girl was describing the dark circles under his eyes and the twitch he had developed in his fingers, the door slammed open and the white boy entered. He indeed had dark circles under his eyes, and his lower lip hung open; his teeth, wild and sharp, showed through. He stalked around the room, saying terrible things to them—oh, so you started the meeting without me, I see; I guess your precious Institute really taught you all kinds of useful things. They explained, quite reasonably, about all of the benefits they had received from their concentration course, about how nice everyone at the Institute had been to them, about how the good things they were receiving went far beyond mere study help. I have more energy, the black boy kept saying. So I can do more, be more productive in my life. The white boy said that they were insane, that they should be locked up. It’s not scientific, he said. If it’s not scientific, it’s not true. He repeated it in a scream. The black boy and the white girl looked nervously at one another. The camera cut to a clock ticking, its slow sound run through an echo chamber to add reverb and menace.

  The midterms came. Upbeat, synthesized jazz played as the white girl handed her paper to a smiling young teaching assistant and as the black boy programmed a computer to create a simple three-dimensional racing game. The grades were posted in the hallway and the black boy and the white girl jumped up and down excitedly when they saw that they had gotten the highest scores in the class. It’s incredible, said the black boy. I’ve never scored so high on a test in my entire life!

  It’s like a dream come true, said the white girl. Say, where’s our friend? I wonder how he did.

  The upbeat jazz stopped playing; a nervous element crept into the music.

  An ambulance was parked outside the white boy’s dorm as the two friends walked up to check on him. The white girl screamed his name and ran over to the stretcher being carried out by two paramedics, one of them played by the same actor who had played the angry computer science teacher.

  His heart gave out, said the paramedic/teacher. Looks like he was taking some illegal drugs to help him study. We see it all the time.

  Will he be okay? asked the black boy.

  Don’t worry, said the paramedic, smiling. We’ll give him the best treatment science can give him.

  The black boy and the white girl looked sad as the white boy was carried away. The music swelled, purpled with mournful strings. The camera faded out.

  The next shot was of a smiling man in a pinstriped suit standing in front of a green-screen background of the Milky Way. He did get the best treatment science could give him, said the man, He got death.

  Julie turned off the TV.

  It’s not over yet, said Patrice. He’s going to talk about the books we sell.

  That was the most loathsome thing I’ve seen in my entire life, said Julie. Is this seriously what you want to show people to convince them to take classes with you?

  Patrice sighed and rattled popcorn kernels against the metal bowl.

  There isn’t always enough money in the budget for these things, she said. But its heart is really in the right place.

  The movie is about how if you don’t take courses at the Institute, doctors will murder you, said Julie. That’s what the movie is about.

  Sometimes I think you are a very superficial person, said Patrice.

  They were on the carpet, lime green copy paper and scissors and rubber cement between them, Jul
ie in boxers and Patrice in gray sweatpants and a pink T-shirt with the genie from Aladdin on it. They were making glitter-pen circles around columns of advertising copy (What are the limits of Western science? Do you really know all you could know about your memory? Is time travel possible? We give you the answers) when Patrice got the call. When she walked to the phone the fabric around her thighs zipped against itself.

  Yes, she said. Oh. Hello.

  We’re not interested, shouted Julie. Hang up on them.

  Oh, no, said Patrice. Did he call you? Did he look, you know, sick the other day?

  Take us off your list, said Julie. She’s deceased. Please don’t call this number again.

  Okay, said Patrice. Okay. No, you’re right. Okay, fifteen minutes. See you then.

  She replaced the cradle and sighed. Julie put her scissors down.

  Wrong number, she said.

  No, said Patrice. I’m sorry. Brian didn’t show up for his shift. He was ten minutes late. I have to go in.

  You just did like—eight hours there this morning, said Julie.

  I have to go in, repeated Patrice.

  She went back toward the closet and the bedroom. Julie looked at the construction paper scattered all around her, the glitter glue and the scratch-n-sniff markers. She stood up and walked back to the bedroom.

  Patrice shrieked when she pushed open the door, navy

  Institute-issue skirt halfway over her knees.

  Jesus Christ, said Julie. I’ve seen your stupid naked legs before.

  I have to go in, said Patrice, crossing her ankles where she stood, trying to summon her robot stare. Don’t try to talk me out of going in.

  I won’t try to talk you out of anything, said Julie, clenching her fists. When will you be back?

  Patrice adjusted the waist of her skirt and frowned at a point on the wall.

  An hour, she announced.

  An hour, said Julie.

  Yes, said Patrice. I will be back in an hour.

  She left, and Julie figured out how to set the alarm on her cell phone, and she sat on the floor and worked on flyers. She wrote titles in huge, looping letters all over the photocopies:

  SCIENCE WILL KILL YOU! INQUIRE WITHIN

  She was coloring in a drawing of a bunch of topless stick figure girls whose heads were exploding when the cell phone alarm went off. She set it for an hour later, lit a cigarette, and kept coloring. After three hours she took a bath, read fifty pages of her book, and went downstairs, unchained her bike, and rode it to the Institute through the deserted black streets.

  Patrice was sitting at the INTAKE desk, her skin grayed out and purple under her eyes.

  Julie, said Patrice. Oh my God, I’m sorry; I was about to leave, then I had to work with Gregory on an emergency intervention; this man came in saying that he was losing his grip on things, that he couldn’t say what year it was, he wanted us to tell him what he should do, it took forever to calm him down, and then Thomas didn’t show up to relieve me like he said he would, so I said I would, you know…

  Julie leaned over her desk and picked up the phone receiver. Locking her eyes, she dialed the number for Patrice’s apartment. She let it ring four times.

  Hi, Julie, she said in an alto monotone. This is Patrice. I’m sorry, but my religious instructors want me to spend all night talking to other crazy people and then I have to work an eight hour shift in the morning, yes, that’s right, twenty-four hours in all! So don’t wait up for me or anything like that. Good luck leading your imperfect, unstructured life!

  She hung up. Patrice had a pen in her hand; she tapped it against the edge of the desk.

  I do not sound like that, she said.

  Gosh, said Julie. I guess it must not have been you who called.

  She was furious and she wanted to get stoned, so she called Robbie.

  Julie, he said. I called your house like, five times.

  I wasn’t there, she said. Can I come over?

  He gave her a good price, only about a quarter of what it was worth. They rolled one joint together and passed it back and forth between them, sitting on his bed, and she started to feel better about things. The roach burned her fingers and she put it out in the Navajo ashtray. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

  Thanks, she said. It’s really late. I should go.

  He leaned over the ashtray and kissed her. She toyed with the idea of saying no, sorry, thanks, I have a hot girlfriend now, and then she thought of Patrice sitting behind the INTAKE desk—she was probably still there now; maybe someone had gotten a splinter and she was trying to heal it using the Machine, some fucking thing—and by the time she had decided that she should probably go he had taken her panties off and was kissing, experimentally but hastily, down her leg, so she figured what the hell and stayed where she was. This time she had an orgasm when he came in her; Janis Joplin’s voice exploded in her head singing Get it while you can in a shower of guitars; Patrice’s face was shining. Her breathing slowed down; she rolled over on her side; she saw Robbie there grinning like a fool and panting beside her. He’d knocked over the Navajo bowl and his leg was covered in ashes.

  She lingered, responding in monosyllables, until the point where she figured he wouldn’t conclude that she was some kind of marijuana whore, and then sat up and started to get dressed.

  Thanks, she said, stupidly. Got to get a move on. Got to get an early start tomorrow.

  It’s summer, he said. Oh wait, but you have that job, right. How’s it going over there?

  It’s a job, she said. It’s okay. It’s not forever.

  He insisted on walking her out. The living room, lit up, was wide and white, its carpet lush and its walls decorated with old science fiction movie posters. There were three swords hanging over the fireplace, which was real but which didn’t look as if it had been used in some time; a basket beside it contained iron pokers, a Jack-in-the-Box antenna ball, and a red plastic claw toy. His aunt Julia was sitting one of the two black leather couches arranged in an L. She had a bowl of chips and salsa in front of her and she was watching the TV listings on the biggest set Julie had ever seen.

  Robbie, said Aunt Julia, standing up.

  Aunt Julia, I wanted you to meet my friend, he said. This is Julie Thatch.

  We’ve met, muttered Julie.

  She realized just after she said it that this was a stupid thing to say, and she hunched her shoulders. Robbie and Aunt Julia sat on either side of her, smiling.

  I’m Julia, Aunt Julia finally said. It’s wonderful to meet you. I was just about to watch a movie. Would you be? I mean if you’d like to?

  We’d love to, Robbie chirped. Right, Julie? It’s no trouble?

  Um, said Julie.

  Wonderful, said Aunt Julia. I’ll just put some pizza rolls in

  the oven.

  Please don’t, croaked Julie.

  It’s no trouble at all, said Aunt Julia, and she shuffled toward the kitchen. Robbie came up beside her and bounced on the balls of his feet.

  After all, it’s just a job, right? he said with some kind of mischievous air.

  They sat side by side on one of the couches—Robbie lounging with his hand near her shoulder; Julie stiff with her arms folded under her breasts—while Julia, under a plaid afghan, took up the other one. A plate of greasy pepperoni rolls in foil sat on the coffee table between them along with a wide cerulean bowl of ranch dip that Robbie and Julia would, one after the other, dip their pizza rolls into with relish. Julie had none of the pizza rolls. They watched Labyrinth, Aunt Julia’s favorite movie, and Robbie sang along with some of the songs.

  What I like about this movie is that it’s a love story, said

  Aunt Julia. A love story is the most beautiful kind of story in the world.

  When it was over, Robbie offered to drive her home. She accepted, then slipped out the back door of the house while he was in the bathroom and pedaled back to Patrice’s as quickly as

  she could. She practiced in time with the rotation of
the wheels as she pedaled: I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you. She had it flawlessly by the time she made it up the Christmas-lit stairs.

  It was hard to learn to sleep with someone. You had to learn how to hold your legs, where to put your elbows. You had to get used to someone’s regular hot breath on your back. You had to deal with someone’s sweat cooling on you. You had to deal with someone shifting in their sleep, putting their arm in the space you’d just vacated with your own.

  Most nights she woke up early. She slid out of bed and hunted up her T-shirt from the floor, slipped jeans over her bare ass. The moon was out and the night was warm—every night, dry and warm—and she made coffee and sat on the porch in a T-shirt and jeans, drinking coffee with milk, and she watched the sun rise over the lawns, the trees, the power lines.

  Sometimes, around dawn, Ira joined her in his boxers and his flannel shirts. He’d finish beers and he’d sit in his rocking chair and he’d shiver, because his skin was sensitive to the cold dew on the grass, because he didn’t have a red light bulb inside of him like an incubator, keeping him warm and hatching the golden chicks that peeped and bobbed around in her stomach, mornings, because he couldn’t run his tongue over his mouth and taste the salt-and-lime of Patrice on his lips.

  I worry about you, he said.

  I know what I’m doing, she lied, and she smiled and squinted at the failing August sun.

  2

  Julie and Ira kept up the board game. She was beginning to enjoy it, if not beginning to win: Germany was still sweeping backward out of France, consolidating in Berlin, caught between the vice of Ira’s Britain and Russia. (He was keeping the Americans out of the fight this game, trying to redeem world history.) She would have lost long ago if their games hadn’t always devolved into Ira pulling out the second six-pack, asking questions about just what she was doing upstairs with his landlord (questions she answered in explicit detail, sucking on the bottle for emphasis), then her throwing up in the bathroom off the kitchen, eyes locked on the centerfold attached to the tank of the toilet with packing tape (why, she thought, heaving, why would you put it on the tank?) while Ira sat on the edge of the bathtub and told her it would be okay, watching her shoulders strain and her ass stick out. Then she’d go upstairs and fall asleep.