Wonderland

by Joyce Carol Oates

  He was subordinated to it, to this power. He could have explained it to no one, not even his wife, not even his father-in-law—who was very pleased at his decision to stay on for additional years of residency in surgery. He could not have explained it even to Perrault, especially not to Perrault. He was subordinated to this sense of pure, impersonal, brute control, a control of the nerves and the finest muscles: he imagined the waves of his own brain subsiding to a greater pattern, that of Perrault’s, adjusting themselves to his. He felt at times, in the privacy of Perrault’s office, the approach of a dramatic, dangerous moment—a revelation of some kind; the possibility that Perrault might speak to him without irony, frankly, clearly, perhaps with love; the possibility that Perrault might suddenly reach out across his cluttered desk, his long nimble fingers stretched out to Jesse, to Jesse’s own extended fingers—

  What if their fingers touched, like that? Innocently and frankly, like that?

  On his way to examine a patient he sometimes felt a sense of fear, of childish apprehension. Had he really dug into someone’s brain, had Jesse Vogel really been picking around in a human being’s brain? Small, violent shudders passed over him at the thought of his audacity. He had to tell himself again and again what Perrault seemed to know by instinct and would never have thought of explaining: that the human brain was not sacred. It was not sacred, it was touchable. It was matter. Like anything else: matter, mass, weight, substance, a weigh-able and measurable thing. Beneath the thumb it could be squeezed and prodded like anything else. Once dead, it was dead permanently: it was no miracle in creation. There was nothing to fear.

  But he feared it. He feared himself, the possibility of making a mistake … it would be so easy to make a mistake.… Perrault, who never made mistakes, could not understand. It would have been pointless to talk to him. Since Jesse’s first days at LaSalle he had been hearing of Perrault’s indifference, his coolness, his impersonal precision. He lectured his residents in full hearing of his patients, working with a pin to demonstrate where feeling began in a patient’s face or body. “And now here, you see, here it is dead,” he would say in his low, confidential voice, jabbing someone’s cheek. “See? Dead. Nothing. Inert. But here—here pain begins—here is life,” he would say, as the patient flinched or cried out. “Life begins with pain,” he would say. “Life is pain. Pain is life. Do you understand?”

  When Jesse was named Chief Resident, one of the men he had beaten out was his friend Jack Galt; but Jack had said bitterly that he hadn’t really wanted to work with Perrault anyway, he had not really wanted to become known as one of Roderick Perrault’s men: “A copy of a copy of a human being.” Jesse had flushed with anger. Helene, hearing this remark, had assured him that Jack had been speaking only out of jealousy and disappointment. Wasn’t everyone jealous of Jesse now? And whose fault was that? A copy of a copy of a human being. Perhaps it was true. But Jesse had set out to copy the man, reproducing in his work as a surgeon Perrault’s flawless technique, so that Perrault came to trust him and no one else. He even called him Jesse. He spoke ironically and fondly of him. In Jesse’s hearing he said once that he trusted Dr. Vogel because “when Dr. Vogel operates it is myself operating, my six-foot self.” Sometimes he joked with the nurses, sometimes he was silent and bullying with them, sometimes he teased the other assistants and the anesthetists; but beneath his surface abrasiveness Jesse guessed at a deeper, droller, even lyric abrasiveness, seeded everywhere in Perrault’s system.

  “After my most miserable days I go home and play the harpsichord,” Perrault was saying, lighting his cigarette in a series of quick, finicky motions. “I recommend it to you, Dr. Vogel.”

  Jesse smiled self-consciously.

  “But of course you have a private life of your own, a domestic life. Your wife and daughter—or is it son?”

  “Daughter.”

  “Ah, yes. Fine,” Perrault said vaguely. When he tried to be courteous, his vision seemed to slip out of focus, his eyes’ luster seemed to fade. Jesse did not know whether to be insulted or amused by this. “Yes, domestic life … real life.… We must all catch up on it whenever possible. So you are prepped up for our Mr. Dahl? And you are anxious to repeat your excellent performance?”

  Jesse nodded. If Perrault meant this remark to be ironic, Jesse would not acknowledge it.

  “I hope so,” he said.

  “And tomorrow at nine there is Mrs. Miller. You are going to save some of your inspiration for Mrs. Miller?”

  “Yes.”

  Perrault rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “I have a feeling about her, that left eye. We’ll go in there and fix it, eh?” Mrs. Miller was a woman in her late thirties with headaches and partial blindness; she was an echo of a similar case Perrault had handled the year before, when Jesse had only watched, a case of deteriorating vision that had been fixed up in three long operations, Perrault at the top of his form, triumphant. The story had come to a temporary completion with the patient’s return to normal, to normal vision: an unexpected bonus! Perrault had presented the case at an international conference not long ago. He felt great affection for that patient, though he could never remember the name correctly and would not have recognized the man if he had walked into his office and shook hands with him. But the affection was real enough.

  Time to leave.

  Perrault had fallen silent and Jesse understood that he wished to be alone. Jesse excused himself and went to the locker room to scrub for the Dahl case. He had never felt more excited, more sure of himself. It was a spring day: his future awaited him. Since the day Jeanne had been born life had begun to ascend, moving upward as though he were charting it himself, a boy with a pencil and a map. A map that showed the surface of the land, extending up into the atmosphere, into the mysterious clouds and the mysterious dimension above the clouds.… It was true that certain things had happened in the last three years that had made his life difficult, things that had troubled his marriage—Helene had had a miscarriage a year ago, and Jesse was in debt now to her father for $6000, and their tentative love-making sometimes faded into vague questioning murmurs and these murmurs into a baffled silence—but still Jesse understood that his life was in his control and that he was ascending. If he worked as hard as he had in the past, if he trusted to Perrault’s guidance, he would be saved.

  Nine-thirty. Perrault appeared gloved and gowned, soundless on his small feet, as deft as a moth or any colorless winged creature. He assisted Jesse. Jesse worked swiftly and mechanically. At one point the blood made a strange spluttering noise and Jesse found himself thinking of that woman he had met downtown the other day—that woman with the blond hair and the mocking, knowing smile—“Faster. Work faster,” Perrault said. He was always a little nervous when he was not in control himself; Jesse expected this and did not allow it to upset him. “Why are you standing like that, in a crouch? Is that a crouch? You make my shoulders ache, watching you,” Perrault said peevishly.

  Jesse kept on, nodding silently.

  It was Perrault’s habit to bother Jesse for the first hour or so, because he was nervous or restless, or because he truly found fault with Jesse’s methodical work; then it was his habit to suddenly lose interest, to grow visibly bored. Jesse understood this and waited. While Perrault picked at him he pretended to be unmoved, but really he was tense in every part of his body, filled with an excitement that could discharge itself only through his fingertips; he felt that if it did not discharge itself that way, perfectly, he would die.

  “All right. That looks good. That will do,” Perrault said casually.

  The operation must have taken a long time. Jesse had become drenched with perspiration. Weak. Shaky. Out in the corridor Perrault shook his hand and said, “It was a good academic exercise, my friend,” and smiled in a ghastly, confidential way, so that Jesse really understood for the first time that Dahl was going to die.

  Jesse stared after him. The young resident who had assisted, who had been given nothing to do by Per
rault and had only stood around for several hours, shifting his weight from foot to foot, now came up to Jesse to congratulate him. He was a dark, dour young man Jesse’s age, ambitious and prying; his name was Lyle and Jesse understood that he was very jealous.

  “The old man was edgy today,” Lyle said.

  “He was all right,” Jesse said.

  “Didn’t want to touch Dahl himself, huh?”

  “That’s probably it.”

  In the locker room Jesse undressed and suddenly felt very sad, inert.

  “I think you did a good job,” Lyle said. “Even if he does die.…”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Maybe he’ll die of pneumonia, huh, and that will sound better to his family.…”

  Jesse showered. The hours were washed from him—close, tedious, painful work—the hours of intimacy with that open skull, the instruments, the presence of Perrault close by—He wanted to be back in the operating room. He wanted to relive the operation. Step by step, each movement of his, each teasing little remark of Perrault’s.… But he must go home. Must hurry home. He had promised to take his daughter out to the park; Helene hadn’t felt well enough to take her out for several days, and she loved the park.… But he yearned to be back in the operating room, to do over again the Dahl operation, or to begin at once on Mrs. Miller and her giant aneurysm, under Perrault’s watchful eye.…

  On his way out he caught sight of a telephone booth. He went into it and leafed through the directory. Denk, Denk, Denk.… He could not find her name. Was it Reva? Did he remember it correctly? Reva Denk. A puzzling name. He did not know if it was ugly or not. It was soft, soothing, and then hard as a clamp; it was girlish and then abruptly masculine, airy and then heavy as dirt. Airy. Heavy. The scattering of a shovelful of dirt in the air; then the plopping of this dirt on the ground. An opening and then a closing, as if jaws were clamped together. Reva Denk.

  He couldn’t find her name. It didn’t exist. He was relieved and decided to forget her: he must go home and take his daughter out for a walk, and in the morning he must return to Perrault and to the operating room.

  10

  Jesse awoke that night out of a heavy, troubled sleep. He awoke to a certain thought; two years before, on a routine night duty, he had taken care of a man brought into Emergency with a bullet in his leg. It had been no more than a flesh wound but there had been a lot of blood and excitement and the police had been involved; once out of the hospital, the man had sent Jesse his business card with a hundred-dollar bill clipped to it. The card had said A. A. Lowe, Private Investigator.

  Jesse had wanted to return the money, but finally kept it though he was to think, off and on, of his acceptance as something shameful. He had thrown away the card. But evidently he had remembered the name and in the morning he telephoned Lowe from the hospital.… Lowe remembered him at once and kept interrupting Jesse to thank him for having saved his life. “Any favor I can do for you would be great, just great,” Lowe said loudly. “It isn’t as if the class of people I get in my business is so hot; I mean, I could stand to mix with more cultured people like doctors.…” Jesse asked him if he could locate a certain young woman for him. “Just tell me her name,” Lowe said. “Anybody that saved my life is certainly worth a solid week of my time, I mean that, I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he said, though Jesse tried to explain that his life had never been in danger, that his wound had been a superficial one. “Just tell me her name, Doctor. Maybe I got a file on her already. It’s a small town, you’d be surprised, there’s women that two, three, maybe four guys are sometimes hunting down at the same time—I could write a book on some of these cases! Look, there’s nobody I admire in this world more than doctors. You got to hand it to all of them. I imagine your family is pretty proud of you, Doctor.”

  Jesse wondered if he should hang up.

  “Well, Doctor, what is her name? The young lady’s name?”

  “Reva Denk,” Jesse said.

  “Give me twenty-four hours,” said Lowe.

  He telephoned Jesse back that very afternoon: he had Reva Denk’s telephone number and her present address.

  “Okay, you want to know about her private life?” Lowe said.

  “No. No thank you,” Jesse said quickly.

  “Any names you want mentioned? You know—names of guys, and all that? Sometimes it helps, with a case like this, to sort of drop names around them, you know—let them know you’re not so stupid, they’re not pulling anything over on you. I could maybe just give you a couple of names for you to let fall accidentally—”

  “No, that’s all right. That isn’t necessary,” said Jesse.

  “Her age, at least? You want to know that, don’t you?”

  Jesse hesitated. Then he said, “No, not even that.”

  As soon as he hung up, he dialed the number Lowe had given him. A woman answered sleepily.

  “Is this Reva?” he said.

  His heart leaped again as it had out on the street that day.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Jesse Vogel calling. You remember—?”

  “Who?”

  “Jesse Vogel.”

  A pause. Then she said slowly, “You mean Dr. Vogel? You?”

  “Do you remember me?”

  “Only from out on the street. Only that one meeting,” she said faintly.

  “Well.”

  She said nothing.

  Jesse closed his eyes and a series of faces floated in his vision—his wife’s surprised face, his daughter’s face, the faces of Cady, of Perrault, shadowy faces that could not be identified but that belonged to Jesse, to his confused past. He tried to summon up this woman’s face in order to blot out those other faces. But her sudden closeness, her breathy cautious voice, blocked him; he was so close to her that he could not see her. She seemed to be inside his head.

  “I would like to see you sometime soon,” Jesse said, his eyes still closed.

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “But—why not?”

  He remembered now her airiness, the thin curve of her eyebrow. A glow to her skin like the flesh of flowers, petals, which has no depth. He felt that he was breathing in her secrecy over the telephone.

  “Why not, Reva? I want to talk to you. I only want to talk.…”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He wanted her, and a kind of peevish, childish rage rose in him that he would be denied her: he had wanted so few things in his life!

  “I would like to talk to you,” he said, his voice faltering so that he did not sound like Dr. Vogel at all. He sounded like one of Perrault’s patients, appealing behind Perrault’s back to him, Jesse, for help, advice, aid, sympathy, the real truth. But the real truth was always inaccessible. “It wouldn’t involve much time—an hour or two—”

  “Why are you calling me at this time? What time is it …? I just woke up.”

  “It’s after five o’clock.”

  “In the afternoon …? But why are you calling now? Oh, I see what time it is, that’s strange.… Who are you exactly?”

  “I’m sorry if I woke you up, I’m sorry for bothering you.…”

  “My life is too complicated right now,” she said. He felt her straining to be polite; there was a kind of musical generosity in her voice. “This is a bad time to be calling me, even if I did know you. What exactly do you want? And how did you get this number?—it isn’t my number and it isn’t even listed! But I won’t be angry with you. I just don’t understand.”

  “There is a reason I want to see you,” Jesse said.

  She laughed nervously. “But please believe me, my life is too complicated right now. Don’t come into it. Why do you … why do you want to come into it? No, it’s impossible. I have to hang up now.”

  “No, wait—”

  “But what do you want? What do you want?” He could imagine her face growing harder, sharper. That pallor beneath the powdery sheen of her young skin growing frightened. He did not want to frighten her, but it w
as at least a way of forcing her to listen to him.

  “I only want to talk to you. I think there is something … there is something about you.… I can’t explain,” he said slowly, “I mean over the telephone like this, but I’m very serious, this isn’t anything trivial or impulsive.…”

  “Do you know me, have we met? But where have we met?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “I can’t remember either. I think you’re lying.”

  Jesse was shocked. He thought her disappointing and vulgar. “But—why would I lie? I’m not lying,” he said sharply, “I don’t lie.”

  “I have to hang up now.”

  “When can I see you?”

  “There isn’t time for this. And you’re married, you have a daughter. Don’t forget I saw your daughter.”

  “Why isn’t there time? I won’t take up much time. I think that something might become clear if I could meet you again, if …”

  “But, but, but—then you might want to see me again after that!”

  “No, just this once. Tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A sense of peace, of sudden stillness came over Jesse: she would see him. He knew it.

  “At noon tomorrow?” Jesse said.

  “But that’s so soon … I don’t know.… My life is very complicated and this just makes it worse. When anyone comes into my life someone else has to go out of it, someone has to be eliminated … I can’t afford to bring you into my life or even to think about you right now.…”

  She seemed so helpless, in spite of her cool, cautious tone; she seemed to be thinking as she spoke. He felt as if he were somehow inside her head, drifting with the impulsive currents of her thought.

  “You don’t have to think about me at all,” Jesse said. “Just see me. That’s all. I won’t make any trouble for you.”

  “But out on the street you looked so serious, you were so … so assertive, so sure of yourself. I don’t know. There isn’t room in my life for you right now, it isn’t anything personal, but this is a very bad time.…”