by Lissa Staley
Probably because it wasn’t just his lack of ruggedness. One day his agent was so good as to explain that he had no distinguishing feature such as Gary Cooper’s extra height, Paul Newman’s intense blue eyes, or Cary Grant’s ageless charm. That deficiency contributed to his lack of something very necessary but difficult to define: charisma. Hence, the bit parts and character roles. If he had been acting for his livelihood, being so relegated wouldn’t matter very much. But he had another problem besides his looks and personality—a family drenched in dough.
The caretaker came wandering in through the narrow gate at the northeast edge of the meditation garden. He was carrying clippers and snip, snip, snipping at the yew bushes that formed the high hedge. Caretaker, my you-know-what, Brindsly thought. Another spy, he’d known the first time he’d encountered Amos months ago.
“Hey there, Mr. Josh,” Amos bellowed. “Top a the mornin’ to ya.”
“Oh yes, yeah sure,” Josh said curtly and turned away. Ordinarily he could take the caretaker’s corny joviality. Now he barely hid his irritation, having to wait until the meddler left. Of course Amos would stick around as long as Josh seemed depressed, so he turned back and forced a broad grin to say: “And a top a the lovely mornin’ to you, too. You’ve done a grand job on this hedge.” Now get the heck out of here so I can get the heck rid of this day and all future ones.
Amos smiled back, the sun reflecting off his naturally-gleaming teeth. He nodded his head abashedly and moved off, out of the meditation garden. Josh sighed in relief. He wasn’t really dodging a snake in the grass. He wasn’t paranoid—just realistic about his circumstances. A vision of the amiable Amos with fangs and venom was too absurd a thought to consider. It was just the irksome proximity of his various overseers—including Amos the caretaker out here and Beulah the housekeeper inside. He was rarely totally alone in this place, by odd happenstance. State Hospital patients meandered off all the time, but here there was little chance of that—at least not for him.
After walking restlessly around in the garden, Josh stopped and sat down on a concrete bench. He fingered the ring on his right hand, the ring that hid a cyanide pill beneath an emerald-stone top. He had smuggled it in, and no one was the wiser. At first he thought he would never use it. He’d felt hopeful, but then the psychoanalytic process had taken him back—back to the supposed roots of all his growing branches of despair. How could he have any hope now? Those roots were too entrenched. They had grown the wretched tree of his miserable life. The real truth was that he had had to become an actor. He simply looked too good to be anything else. His mother had wanted it for him. His father had not …
Josh buried his head in his hands, rubbing his fingers into his scalp. Those early sessions with Dr. Brunouer had felt so comforting, but then they had gotten more intense. The acting conundrum was only a symptom of so many underlying things. He’d revealed more and more of himself during the descent into his past, transferring too much of himself to his therapist. He’d given and given to Dr. Alfred Brunouer who had finally become like some porous, spongy wall swallowing him up and enclosing him so he couldn’t get out. All of those too-many things that were done to him and by him could never be undone. He felt so hounded and boxed in.
But soon he would escape. He reached for the ring, and then his reflection stared back at him from the pond—that perfect face. The image he had to live with and be reconciled with although it couldn’t be accepted, much less loved enough by the public or by anyone else. He raised himself from the bench and stepped towards the pond. Perhaps it would be easier to join his reflection and drown it all out that way—literally.
*****
Callie and Pam left the path. On their hands and knees they explored the perimeter of the curving hedge, looking for a break in it. Blades of grass bent down, and insects jumped out of their way. About a third of the way around, they found a gap. Callie started to peek her head through, but just then Pam’s left saddle shoe hit a stick that cracked and sent her falling against Callie. They both careened over. Callie’s face slid against the hedge and into some jagged edges of it. They rolled away. Pam saw her friend’s bloodied face and gasped, “First aid kit!”
“Shh, shh. I might have heard some crunching gravel, maybe.”
“Crunching?” Pam hissed, trying to whisper too. “So, what’s in there?”
“Dunno.” Callie felt her face. “You’re right. I need first aid.” She brushed away a trickle of blood that ran down her cheek from her forehead.
Pam rummaged through her bag, brought out a disinfectant cloth, cleansed the scratch and bandaged it. “This hedge is a bear to get through.” At least the branches weren’t hiding stickers, she noticed. But they were thick and tough. “We’re not really supposed to be hiking out of our neighborhood anyway. Are you sure we’re covered by your mom’s party group and my little brother’s baseball game? What if they get through early or something?”
Callie leaned back on her elbows. “Not much chance. They’ll be tied up all afternoon. Why else do we have water and snacks in our bags?”
“In case we get lost or decide to run away for good? Or get scratched and delayed by a hedge that might eat us if we don’t leave soon?”
*****
Josh Brindsly was just about to join his reflection in the pond when he heard rustling sounds at the hedge and pulled back. It wasn’t Amos returning or anyone else. No, it sounded like something inside the hedge. He glanced there but saw nothing. It wasn’t like the sound of birds scuttling in the branches. He’d heard that often enough. Maybe some small animals, but the cleanliness of the grounds and buildings discouraged them. He hadn’t seen a rabbit in all the time he’d been in residence. Eerie the way he saw birds but nothing much else. Nary a squirrel, even. Maybe he hadn’t paid enough attention to the wildlife. He shrugged, thinking about how the trees had recently been treated to avoid disease and how the building rooflines looked well sealed.
He cocked his head, listening for those extra sounds. A racket of insects and birds oppressed his ears. When had he noticed how crickets and locusts buzzed up the air with noise, syncopated by chirping birds?
Josh dragged himself back to the stone bench, burying his head in his hands again. He had suffered two distractions from his prime mission of the day—the mission concerning his life. It should already be over, but it wasn’t. Just as he had felt the final seconds ticking away, the momentum had stopped. But not really. He assured himself that his resolve only strengthened with each delay. That was all it was—a brief pause in the progress towards the action to stop the aching pain of his life.
He must hurry. Already at least five minutes had elapsed since he had dealt with Amos. Experience told him another spy could appear soon. Josh gripped the ring on his right hand with his left hand. He only needed two seconds. He drew in his breath. He needed just these next two seconds.
*****
Back on their hands and knees, Callie and Pam continued testing the hedge inch by inch. They finally found a more promising gap between two of the bushes. “I’ll pull these back and then get through after you,” the heftier of the two whispered.
“Okay,” Callie echoed the hushed tone. “Let’s go.”
Pam held the branches aside. Callie tumbled through, followed by her friend. The branches snapped away against Pam, hurtling her into Callie. They rolled down a slope through a bed of pansies. Pollen filled their noses. They sneezed loudly, leaping to their feet. Josh Brindsly whirled around in startled surprise, his arms swinging with him. His hand that had just pulled off the ring lost its grip. The ring flew away and plopped into the pond. Josh stared in amazement at the disturbed water and then, in greater astonishment, at the two urchins in their strange attire—like mismatched peasants lost from a pilgrimage.
Callie stood staring back, wide-eyed. She wanted to apologize for the intrusion. She had never seen such an elegant man. Pam tugged at her, but Callie stayed rooted while trying to speak. Time hung suspended as if the moment
would always be there in the future with their gazes intersecting--bringing them together even though they stood apart.
When Josh turned from the pond, the interruption; with the ring gone, had stunned him. Now his gaze stayed with the girl who was trying to talk. He felt the interchange even though no words came.
But the ring. The pond. He had his mission. Or did he? That urgency had faded, leaving one thread from his past to pose the question: could he find the ring? When he lunged towards the pond, the surface glimmered smoothly and opaquely. He lurched back at the girls, the thread of his past snapping.
Pam gasped and pulled Callie harder. They turned and ran up the incline towards the hedge, as impulsively as they had come. The larger girl stumbled through the gap with the ragamuffin diving in behind her. Josh stood stock still, staring after them. Then he gazed back and forth, at the empty space where they had been and at the pond. A frog croaked and leapt out from under a peony bush into the pond. Josh continued gazing at the water, now momentarily disturbed again. He couldn’t see where the ring had gone. It was probably lodged under silt by now. A dragonfly swooped down and nipped at the surface.
Josh walked back to the bench, but he didn’t bury his head in his hands. He didn’t stay sitting but stood back up, spurred by an emotion--something his semi-autistic psyche wasn’t supposed to feel. The errant girls had struck a nerve. They seemed almost as amazed to see him as he was to see them. Even so, one of them had tried to talk to him.
They had also struck something else. He laughed out loud, the unfamiliar muscle reflex starting in his gut and rumbling up through his whole being, up through his chest and his throat and through his mouth. He felt the muscles around his lips stretch almost painfully, but a sense of release soared on up into his brain. His head reeled at the odd thought that for the first time in ages he didn’t feel despondent. In fact, he was practically doubled over with laughter.
He had a funny bone? What was that? Where was that?
While turning away from the pool, he was not thinking about the ring or of joining his image in the pond. He rushed to the narrow gate that the girls hadn’t found, jogged around to the other side of the encircling hedge, and saw them running down the path towards the main road; their giggles floating through the air like rippling bubbles of joy.
He hesitated to run after them, wondering who they were. Children from nearby? Little angels from heaven? Conduits of the Holy Spirit? It didn’t matter. Whether human or divine, they weren’t the kind of intruders he despised. The girl who tried to talk to him, the look in her eyes—she seemed to adore him. Like he’d wished audiences would do when viewing him on the silver screen, instead of barely noticing him in his bit roles. He felt suddenly important and effectively handsome.
Continuing to watch the children scramble away, Josh determined that he wouldn’t try to catch them out. He couldn’t anyway. He heard heavy footsteps on the gravel path. Amos was approaching. The clock tower chimed, signaling his next session.
The steady footsteps came up to him. “Mr. Josh, c’mon, now. Time to go in and all,” Amos implored.
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Suppose?”
“Tell me, Amos.” Josh focused on the caretaker after a silent moment. “Have you ever heard of a spontaneous cure?”
“Spontaneous?”
“Yes, you know. Sudden. Happening all at once.”
The caretaker thought while his eyes opened large, showing orbs of white around the dark brown. “Oh no, sir. I haven’t,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Not here. Nope, never was one of those that I heard tell of. Was supposed to be with them shock treatments. But never was that I knows of.”
Josh smiled broadly. “Well, I’ve just had one.”
Amos rocked back on his heels. “What? How?”
Josh kicked a stray chunk of dirt off the main path, skipped ahead and then turned back. “It took something totally unexpected, incongruous, hilarious, and immediate—like Arthur Koestler’s planes of creativity.”
“Who?” Amos veered away.
“He’s an author, a novelist and psychological theorist. Wrote about intersecting planes. I read Darkness at Noon for a class. That led me to his book, Act of Creation. I feel as if—as if I’ve just experienced something like that. Two very different planes of consciousness intersected and made something new—a synthesis, a new consciousness for me.”
“Huh?”
“But listen. I’ll go see Dr. Brunouer. I know what I’ll talk to him about this time--how I’ll never be the same.”
Amos nodded in amazement. “Umm, umm. Good luck with that.”
“Yes, I’ll need it.”
Re-approaching Josh, Amos eyed him closely. “But it’s true. You sure don’t seem the same now, Mr. Josh. You sure don’t. Unh, uh. You’d never really talk to me no matter how I’d go at you. Now here you are, a-talkin’ a blue streak.”
“For sure I’m not the same.” Josh looked up at a trio of white clouds floating through the vast blue while an inspiration struck him. “And you know what? I’m going to give up acting! It’s not where I fit in, anyway. I’m still fairly young at thirty-one. Koestler’s theory was there for me all along, but I never realized it. I’ll study medicine and psychiatry—take up where Freud really left off.” Josh gazed skyward again where the blue expanse prevailed against clouds gone wispy. Even if he couldn’t impress Hollywood gatekeepers or audiences viewing a screen, he could impact people directly. He just had.
“Umm, umm. You sure do got ideas, now,” Amos murmured.
Josh slung his arm over the caretaker’s shoulders while they ambled back towards the building. “I do. I’m going to make darn sure psychiatry won’t ever be the same!”
Tunnels
Leah Sewell
I was done. I told my husband I didn’t love him anymore. I sent that spear screaming straight through the kitchen ceiling into his heart. Our marriage splashed the tiles, making a mess I was too weary to clean. I took off my apron and left out the back door, wobbling like a marionette down tricky stairs.
I went into the garden, what was left of the garden from last fall. The merciless birds ate the berries. I’d tied old discs to stakes to ward them off. It was a fruitless chore. In spring’s wane light, the discs turned and strobed gold and blue. I held one up like a mirror but my face gave no indication. If there had been a mountain anywhere in sight, I would’ve climbed it then and there. I would’ve climbed it to the top and looked around, wiser for the view. Seeing the bigger picture.
But this was caraway Kansas in a small, kept neighborhood with rain still hugging the curbs from last night’s storm, leaves traveling the street’s moat to the sewers. Deep inside the sewers, foxes made dens on old brick ledges, waiting for the watery tumult to subside. The only thing left up in the sky was a smear and a waft of ozone.
Down at the end of the block was the empty Topeka State Hospital, its patina peaks and turrets rising over the sleepy neighborhood like a child’s dream of the old world, of a castle, of a world inside of doors with intricate carpets and relationships. I walked to it, my legs mobilized as if pulled by string.
I knew better than a child. This thing was a psychologist’s fantasy taken shape in handsome blonde brick and sheen of stone, but inside was a horror of porcelain, pain, and bodies still in shock, wandering these decades after death. How romantic. My husband and I - before he was a husband and I his wife - crept in one night, drunk on love, and embraced on the floor of the broken ballroom. The dust was thick with lives. It furrowed into our pores, sifted on tongues that we slid in each other’s mouths, high on this, reckless on this.
I found it utterly unfamiliar; a total stranger. The building squatted among the oaks, smug and stupid. Its finery an insult to its history. A liar, a boaster, a pretty facade concealing a black, black soul.
I stood in front of its face, studying and struggling to decipher what I ever saw in those shattered panes, peeling balustrade, stains, crac
ks, and sediment. Its porch arms flew open, asking for a crushing embrace.
They say it was a wrecking ball that did the final blow. No. It was me. I shook the cobwebs off my heart and the sluggish beat went back to its original fervor. I was a wreck of anger. I poured all the hurt and stones into a vortex, casting off that heavy debris. They say that people came from all points once the waves of dust announced its fall. It was me. Strings pulled my limbs. Wind pulled my fists into hammers made of air and magnets. That’s how the asylum fell.
It was inside me all along, the tornado he once tried to quell. Here and there across the city floats down a tile. A shard. The past in a bit of brick. And a layer of dust the foxes notice, pricking their snouts at the scent.
When I went missing, no one thought to look in the tunnels, the only remaining corridors of the buildings now gone. They raked the river and searched the skinny patches of wood behind the mini malls and fast food joints. They rustled the homeless from their pockets beneath the viaduct. They fingered my husband but found nothing incriminating. He was capable of harm but not culpable for this. Not in the eyes of the police.
I saw the lid to the tunnel cocked off, leaving a hole for my body to slip through and a hold for lowering myself into it. No one saw me go down or heard me call hoarsely for help when I lost my way under the flat plane where the asylum used to be. Someone must have slid the lid back over the opening.
I saw only black but knew the former inmates roamed here too like restless Minotaur, huffing breath against my neck as they passed on some mission. It wasn’t until I died eons later, slumped invisible against the flaking concrete wall, that I finally found my way free.
