THE MADNESS OF DR. CALIGARI

by Dennis Weiler

  Our circle is nothing if not patient.

  Our instincts nothing if not pure.

  The city is already beginning to change. Nightly we dine on the paranoia of the Manifest as they watch their empire tilt. Inch by inch its shimmering symmetry warps into unnatural angles. Buildings bloat like corpses, iron gates turn to pudding.

  The shadows we nest in, just above their heads or in their periphery, are as thin as razors. They are as our mothers, they spore us into new and brutal forms. We creep on legs as long as pillars and as thin as hemming needles.

  We stalk and we liberate.

  We are the black that blinds the unworthy and allows chosen to see.

  “Spirits have driven me from hearth and home…”

  —The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari

  “Positively lobotomizing.”

  “I told you,” I said.

  “Makes me swoon!”

  Tubby tilted her head back and reclined next to me on the floor of my room. The glossy strands of her chestnut hair cascaded down her back onto the rug. Beyond my window the neighborhood drowsed under a waning crescent moon.

  We lay on the fake Persian rug surrounded by record albums—the Beatles, the Buckinghams, the Turtles all scattered and discarded in favor of my portable TV, a little black-and-white set balanced on a chair before us. The music to a jittering silent film droned beneath our conversation, end of the late-late movie, last broadcast before dawn. Uneven shadows flickered across our faces.

  “You don’t think it’s too heavy, too sweet?” I asked. “Like sticking your nose in a magnolia?” I lifted the perfume bottle with the graceful S painted on its side. At once the fragrance began to overwhelm me again. I put the cap back in place. The voluptuous floral notes left me dizzy.

  “Oh,” said Tubby. “I don’t think so.” Her drawl was more pronounced than mine. Her family moved from Pine Mountain when Tubby was twelve and she had to practice to lose the guttural r-sound of her childhood. “Photoplay says Audrey Hepburn wears it when she isn’t wearing perfume by Givenchy. You know, she’s European and tres chic!”

  “Very well,” I agreed.

  “My mom only wears Chanel No. 5,” said Tubby. “I think it smells like hairspray. Who is this mystery woman, again?”

  “Tubby, you won’t believe me,” I told her.

  “If she wears this perfume, she must be divine. What’s it called?”

  “Guess.”

  “I can’t. How did you get the bottle?”

  “I’ll tell you,” I said. “But no interruptions and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Come on, spill!”

  “It’s a pretty strange tale,” I began.

  In the summer of my junior year of high school my parents insisted I take a part-time job. My mother said it would teach me responsibility. My stepfather said I ought to help with the household expenses.

  I’m a lazy sort of person. Anyone who knows me will confirm this, not only my stuck-up stepfather. I didn’t even read the classifieds to see what was available. I just walked down the street a couple of blocks and asked Pauline Bingham if she needed help in the afternoons.

  Miss Bingham was a middle-aged lady who took care of children at her house. Two or three times a year she placed a sign in her window seeking part-time help. Summer was a busy season with kids out of school. Ordinarily her charges were toddler age or younger, but some were joined by older siblings each day when school let out. This time of year she was overrun with first and second graders, and I showed up at the right moment.

  Changing diapers, warming baby bottles, and chasing children around a neighbor’s back yard might sound like a nightmare to most teenagers. I didn’t mind. I only had to show up and follow Miss B’s instructions, and I took home three dollars an hour in cash.

  If you’ve ever taken care of children for hours, surrounded by shouting and crying and demands for one thing after another, you know it’s physically tiring and mentally boring at the same time. When you get a chance to talk to someone over the age of seven, you jump at it.

  On Friday afternoon, once the last child had been picked up, Miss B and I would sit on the back porch on a glider swing. From there we liked to watch the late sky changing color, and we would chat about anything that came to mind. On my third week she offered me a tiny glass of sherry. I made a joke out of scanning the back yard and the trees for spies. Miss B laughed and poured two glasses. Then she lit a Marlboro, the only one she would smoke all week.

  “How’d you get started keeping kids?” I asked. Her bookshelves were crowded with novels by Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy, and Charles Dickens. There wasn’t a bestseller in sight, exactly the opposite of my house where the tattered paperbacks all came from the corner drugstore.

  She exhaled a rolling cloud of smoke and gazed at the honeysuckle vines leaning against the side of the house. I guess she was looking back in time.

  “For twelve years I was a school librarian,” she said. “My job was all right but I didn’t feel a particular calling the way a lot of people do. And I don’t mind telling you the salary wasn’t very good. Well, one day, I happened to be collecting my paycheck in the vice principal’s office when I heard a lady complaining about having to take off work early. It was a holiday weekend and the kids were let out an hour before the usual time.”

  “Wish I could leave school early for a holiday,” I said.

  “Oh sure,” said Miss B. “Children love to be set loose. Give them an extra hour and they go wild all day. I don’t think the schools do that any more but back then it was common throughout the county.”

  “This lady wasn’t happy about having a little more time with her kids?”

  “She was not. She had a job with a very important member of the state legislature, she said, and even though she was only a secretary it was vital that she attend all of her boss’s meetings. She went on and on about her shorthand and how she never made mistakes and that was why her boss relied on her so much.”

  I had to laugh. Maybe the sherry was making me giddy.

  “Well, I gave it some thought and I started asking around,” said Miss B. “There were quite a few women, in various situations, who could never seem to find a babysitter they trusted, or couldn’t get a sitter to stretch their hours a little bit. What they all needed was a mature person who lived right here in the area, walking distance from school, who could change her schedule at a moment’s notice. They needed a woman with no family obligations of her own who was reliable and who got along with babies and children.”

  “That’s you,” I said. Thanks to the sherry my voice was developing a drawl as lazy as my best friend Tubby’s.

  “Exactly what I thought,” said Miss B. “I believe I discovered my calling that year. I turned the dining room into a playroom, and fenced in the back yard. One child came to my house after school let out, and then another and another. Word traveled, you see, among the mothers who had jobs. Some were already acquainted. About half the kids I take care of now have mothers who work at the telephone company. Well, once I was established and started hiring young people like you to help out, the mothers wouldn’t have anybody else look after their kids. Whenever one of the mothers found out she was expecting, I’d get another call. Do you know most places will only hold a position for a woman for six weeks, at the most? These gals were desperate, so I started offering a little discount on second and third babies from the same family.”

  “That was nice of you,” I told her.

  “Oh, sweetheart, it doesn’t cost a thing to be decent to people. And you can see the result. I’ve got more business than I can handle. I had to turn down two families just last week. Broke my heart but I really don’t have enough room for more.”

  By this time I’d finished off my thimble-sized glass of sherry.

  “I could offer you one more,” said Miss B. “If you think y
ou can handle it.” She smiled and I accepted a second glass. I reasoned it was no more than my mom let me sip on Christmas and Easter.

  “Did you ever have to turn anyone down because you didn’t like them?” I don’t know what prompted such a bold question, maybe the sherry.

  “No,” she said. “Although I did lose one client due to circumstance. It’s a pretty bad story. I’m not sure you’d like to hear it.”

  She might as well have said the story involved running off to an island with a French movie star. I was all ears.

  “Well, then,” she said. “I’ll tell this the way it happened. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  And she began the strange tale of Roberta Granger, whose name sounded vaguely familiar to me. By the end I knew exactly where I’d seen the name.

  Roberta was one of the moms who enlisted Miss B’s childcare the first year she was in business. Roberta was a part-time operator at the phone company but she wasn’t referred. In fact the other mothers were surprised when they learned she was dropping her boy off early in the morning and picking him up midday. It seems Roberta had a reputation of some kind and the other women didn’t like her much. She said she’d overheard a co-worker bragging about Miss B and decided her boy should have the best care, too.

  “You meet a person,” said Miss B. “And you think she must be normal, to have a husband, and a child who seems all right. Her boy Alan was very quiet but he seemed all right at first. Maybe a little tired. Maybe a little thin. He had dark circles under his eyes. The way Roberta ran her hand through his hair and said nothing was too good for her baby boy made me feel odd, but not uneasy. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. She paid me the first week in advance, like all the mothers, and I decided I was being silly. This was back when I was getting started. I may have overlooked a sign I should have noticed.”

  For six months Alan Granger, age four, was left with Miss B at seven in the morning. More often than not he was half asleep when his mother dropped him off. By nine o’clock he was awake, though sluggish, and he spent his time playing quietly, mostly alone, with painted blocks and stuffed animals. He ate a light lunch at noon. When Miss B heard the huff and grind of Roberta’s Mustang in front of the house at one p.m., she washed the boy’s face and hands and combed his hair.

  “My, my!” Roberta said every time she greeted him in the afternoon. “Aren’t you a handsome young man?”

  She laughed and cupped his face in her hands. Alan shuffled his feet. He never spoke except to answer his mother or Miss B. He never really came out of his shell with the other children. He regarded them with mild interest, the way a more active child might watch an exotic animal at the zoo.

  Nothing very unusual happened during those six months. Alan was sleepy but never sick and his schedule remained the same. Then one night Miss B got a call from Roberta.

  All the children had gone home. The house was silent and still. You can never know how quiet rooms are until you’ve seen them full of kids laughing and fighting and playing, and then empty. Miss B used the after hours for cleaning. She could have waited for the weekend but she said putting off a task led to laziness and laziness progressed to shiftiness if you didn’t watch out. She made a habit of running the vacuum or the mop over every surface five times a week. This way her home was always sparkling and inviting when her charges arrived.

  “Pauline,” a voice on the phone whispered. This told Miss B nothing since she encouraged all of the mothers to address her by her first name.

  “Who is this?” She asked.

  “Roberta,” came the husky reply, and now Miss B could tell the caller had been drinking or crying, or both. “I need your help!”

  “What’s the matter, dear?”

  “I didn’t know who to call,” said Roberta. “I just don’t have anybody. I’m sorry. Can I—can I please drop Alan off with you?”

  Miss B consulted the kitchen clock next to the wall-mounted telephone. It was eight p.m. “Well, I don’t know,” she said.

  Sobbing and a thin, whining noise came as a reply.

  “Can you tell me what’s wrong?” She asked. “Is Alan sick? Do you need a doctor?”

  “No, no,” Roberta cried. “He’s all right, for now, but I need somebody to keep him for a few hours, that’s all. Please. For his own good.”

  There was an edge of such poignant desperation in the young woman’s voice. In good conscience, Miss B couldn’t turn her down. She agreed this one time, for a little while, and Roberta thanked her profusely. When Miss B assured her things would be all right, the line went dead.

  Fifteen minutes later the doorbell rang. Roberta stood on the porch holding Alan in her arms. The boy was wrapped in a blanket, wearing his pajamas, barely awake. He mumbled and rubbed his eyes and rested his head on Roberta’s shoulder, his mouth dropping open. In her distress, his mother possessed the troubled, almost comical appearance of a raccoon driven from an attic nest. Tears and mascara streaked her face. Her hair, usually pulled up into a French bun, was hanging over her shoulders in unruly strands. The car coat she had thrown over her nightgown hung lower on one side than the other.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she kept saying.

  “Come in and I’ll make you some coffee,” said Miss B.

  “I can’t,” said Roberta. “I can’t. He’ll kill me if I don’t come right back.”

  “Who?”

  “Frank,” said Roberta. “My husband.” She hoisted Alan across the threshold to Miss B, who could now see beyond her client to the street where the Mustang waited, engine huffing away. From where she stood she couldn’t tell if someone was in the car.

  A split second passed between the two women. A hundred calculations and assumptions came to mind.

  “Roberta, do you need for me to call the police?”

  “God, no, please, no!” Roberta said. “I’ve got to go home now. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She stepped away, off the porch, and headed for the Mustang.

  It was only when she was left alone with the boy that Miss B examined his condition. He was drowsy but not like a child suddenly awakened in the middle of the night. He didn’t speak clearly. He never opened his eyes when she placed him in a small cot she kept in the guest room for those times when one of the kids didn’t feel well. Wrapped in a clean blanket, Alan slept with his lips parted, a thin trail of drool sliding down his neck, one hand clasping the blanket his mother brought with him.

  “Alan,” Miss B said softly. “Alan, are you all right, sweetheart?” The child went on dozing, unaware.

  Expecting Roberta to return soon, Miss B made a pot of tea and settled down to read one of the Jane Austen novels she cherished for practicality and optimism. She drifted off in her chair around midnight and only woke up when she heard the doorbell ring at six a.m.

  There was no mistaking the black eye or the purple marks on the left side of Roberta’s neck. Miss B stood with her back against the door, stunned, waiting.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Roberta sputtered. “This is—I don’t know what to say…”

  “Dear,” said Miss B. “Why don’t you rest here while I call the police?”

  “No, no,” said Roberta. She pulled her coat closer and straightened her shoulders. She seemed less afraid than angry. “It’s the worst thing you could do. Here,” she said and peeled off some five-dollar bills and shoved them into Miss B’s hand. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “It isn’t a matter of inconvenience, or money. You ought to call your family for help.”

  “Family?” Roberta laughed. “I’ve got a brother in the Army who hates me. If I even hinted I might leave Frank, my brother would punch my lights out. No, you take this money for babysitting.”

  “Why would your brother make you stay with a man who acts the way your husband does?” For the first time Miss B noticed more than the bruises. She
detected sweat and a musky animal odor, both masked by the heady, sweet perfume Roberta wore.

  “Because he told me not to marry Frank, that’s why. He told me it was a mistake and I’d regret it. I can’t prove him right, Pauline. I can’t!”

  After the tears subsided Miss B led Roberta to the guest room. Alan slept on as if the world of these two women, one weeping and the other afraid for his safety, never existed. Roberta gathered him up and left, whispering a promise to explain more of the situation as soon as she could.

  Miss B put the bills in her purse without counting them. She assumed Alan Granger wasn’t coming back that day, and his mother would take time off work to recover.

  Two days later Roberta dropped Alan off at the usual time. She wore her hair in a French bun. Makeup covered most of the fading marks on her face and neck. Again she promised an explanation she didn’t have time to offer at the moment. On her way out she thrust a small box into Miss B’s hand. The rumble of the Mustang faded down the street and Miss B opened the box to find a bottle of perfume, an expensive brand she would never buy. She wondered if it was the one she had detected on Roberta the night she came to collect her son.

  The violet bottle and the S on the label were familiar. She had spotted them on TV ads while watching Bewitched, one of her regular shows. In the ad a lithe, young beauty in a mink coat splashed her wrists with the perfume, winked at the camera, and said, “Intoxicating—with a wicked, little kick!”

  Miss B checked her bottle to be sure. It was the same. Somnambule. Manufactured in Paris, the perfume had a heavy base note. Not a kick, exactly, and not very pleasant. It conjured perfectly the moment she had seen Roberta with her hair undone and her mascara running in black rivulets down her pale skin.

  The next time Roberta needed help it was after midnight in the middle of the week. There was no preliminary phone call. She simply showed up, disheveled, holding Alan in her arms. Miss B was inclined to refuse, inclined to insist the young woman seek help, but the sharpness of Roberta’s voice, the way she kept shaking her head and pleading, changed her mind. If she turned Roberta away, the distraught woman might return home with the boy, and who knew what would happen?