The Dream of Doctor Bantam

by Jeanne Thornton

  Being a grown-up is great, she said once.

  It only gets better, Ira assured her.

  On another night, he was making his final assault on her capital, she was reeling in her chair, when he set his bottle down and looked over the rim of his scotch-tape glasses at her.

  So I’ve been doing a bunch of reading about the Institute, he said. Have you ever asked Wednesday Addams up there about their history?

  God, I wish she did look like Wednesday Addams, Julie said. But no, I haven’t asked her. Why, what’s their history?

  It’s pretty fucked up, Ira said. This guy Dr. Bantam? He kind of came out of nowhere and turned up in New York to start this whole group, right? So apparently a lot of people think that he was actually this other person altogether out West during most of the sixties. This kind of creepy academic radical guy, Dr. Bronwyn. Involved in some nasty shit with undergraduates. He got asked to leave and apparently like—pulled a gun on the head of the physics department. The story gets cited in a bunch of books on campus rebellions and that kind of shit.

  Nuts, said Julie. It wouldn’t surprise me or anything, though, I guess, if they were the same person.

  You’re pretty cynical, then, said Ira.

  Yes, said Julie.

  She took another pull from her beer and studied the game board. Ira kept studying her until she looked up.

  What? she said.

  There’s more stuff, said Ira. The group is like, linked to all kinds of crazy things. Suicides among members. Weird financial scams. Murders.

  Murders? asked Julie.

  Just one murder, said Ira. But I mean, that’s still a murder.

  Can I ask you why you’re telling me all of this stuff about my girlfriend’s religion? asked Julie. Also, are you going to move your pieces or anything?

  Can I interview you? asked Ira. About the stuff you’ve been telling me, about our friend?

  Julie set her beer down and stared at him. He stared back at her. He picked up his own beer and drank it, wiggled the end of the bottle in a way that she knew was supposed to be casual and that completely irritated her.

  No, you can’t interview me, she said. Fuck you, actually. Why would you want to interview me?

  This is interesting subject matter, he said. And your stories give it kind of, you know. A human touch.

  Julie balled up a fist.

  I’ll give you a human touch, she said. Fuck you, okay?

  Sorry, he said, clearly not sorry.

  No, fuck you, said Julie. You’re like the one person I can talk to about all of this stuff. My, you know, my romantic life. I pour out my heart to you. Don’t tell me that me pouring out my heart to you gives your private research obsessions some kind of human touch.

  Sorry, he said again. I shouldn’t have asked. I won’t ask you again.

  He drank his beer, set it down, and started studying the board. Julie tapped the bottle against her elbow.

  I don’t care if Patrice is in some kind of murder-suicide cult, she said. She won’t be forever. I’m not worried about anything. I can take care of her.

  Ira laughed without smiling.

  That’s rich, he said. You’re seventeen. I’m a little dubious about your ability to take care of someone who’s a member of a murder cult.

  Julie stared down at the board. Then she slammed down her bottle as hard as she could—hard enough, she hoped, to smash it—and she started for the door. She could hear Ira grumbling behind her as he got up to follow her, to apologize or change her mind or some shit. She liked that grumble; she was happy she could have such a negative effect on him. He got around her, stood in front of the door.

  Look, he began.

  I don’t want to look, she snapped. Move.

  Look, he began again. Julie. You’re a great kid, you know? You’re a really great kid. But you can’t like, be this girl’s mother.

  Tabitha could, when she was seventeen, said Julie. Tabitha took care of me.

  And look how good a job Tabitha did, said Ira.

  Then the beer bottle hit him, and he shouted, and Julie knew she had thrown it, and knowing this, she stalked back into the kitchen, took one of the dirty cups out of the sink and threw that too.

  Jesus fucking Christ, said Ira. Do you want me to call the cops or …

  Tabitha fucked up, she said over him, that’s true, Tabitha fucked up, but I’m not like her, do you understand? I’m better than her; I’m not going anywhere …

  She threw another cup, then a dish, and then she saw that Ira wasn’t moving. He was standing still in the pile of broken glass she was making, watching her.

  Fuck you, she said, and still he didn’t move.

  She went outside, walked off of the porch and down the street. She threw up against the Children Crossing sign at the corner. Then she lay on the lawn for a long time, wondering if he was going to come out after her, wondering if Patrice would see her on her way in.

  The woman was older than Patrice, older than Julie’s mom, even. She was wearing sweats, gray ones, with two cats side by side printed on the front: one orange, one black, one with devil’s ears and one with angel’s wings. She looked like she’d just come from teaching kids about Johnny Appleseed and counting, and she was trying hard not to cry while Patrice was standing over her like that, talking to her.

  The important thing is to tell the truth, isn’t it, Doris, Patrice said. When we’re moving through our identities, Doris, when we’re going deep on ourselves, Doris, what are we trying to do, Doris? What is the point of what we are doing?

  We want to get a good ending for the session, said Doris.

  Wrong, Doris, said Patrice. Look at me, Doris.

  Doris’s eyes had tried to escape into her cats. Patrice leaned low over her face, her hands on her knees. Her skirt stretched over her legs. Julie adjusted her grip on the bag of day-old pastries she was carrying from next door.

  Look at me, Doris, Patrice’s voice thrummed, and Doris looked. The point of what we are doing, said Patrice, is to get a true ending to the session. That’s what Dr. Bantam says. Did you even read Dr. Bantam?

  Of course I did, said Doris, it’s just I wanted—

  Truth, said Patrice. Truth. Does truth even matter to you, Doris?

  Who wants bagels, chirped Julie.

  Doris stiffened up and straightened her neck at Julie. Patrice was no longer looking at her; Patrice was looking at Julie too. That metal wall formed around her eyes. Julie’s pelvis shivered. It was nice to know, she guessed, that she had a type: cult fascist with good legs.

  Do not interrupt a counseling session in progress, Patrice breathed.

  I wasn’t, said Julie. I was offering you bagels, so you’d have the strength to keep yelling at this nice old woman.

  The veins in the nice old woman’s neck puffed out.

  Is that supposed to be funny? asked Doris. I can help myself. Can you?

  Julie looked at her, at the cats straining at her chest.

  Actually, yes I can help myself, she said, and she took out a bagel and bit into it. She wiped her mouth and offered it around. It’s good. It’s vegan. Anyone?

  The kid at the INTAKE desk was whispering into the phone receiver and craning his neck.

  Doris, go home, said Patrice.

  Doris slid out of the chair and looked down the sights of her nose again at Julie. Julie pushed the bagel further toward her. She circled around Julie, not turning her back to it, like it was a switchblade, and went slowly to the door.

  Julie smiled and turned to offer the bagel to Patrice again. Patrice slapped it out of her hand.

  How can you be so disgustingly timebound? she asked.

  Her legs, in black stockings today, were planted apart, so she didn’t fall over when Julie, forehead hot and crumbs drying up on her tongue, hit Patrice back on the cheek.

  The steel melted out of Patrice’s eyes.

  You hit me, she said.

  I’m sorry, said Julie, suddenly ash-white.

  Wha
t’s going on, called Gregory as he stepped out of the steel elevator and walked, quick on his leather soles, across the green tile lobby. And in an instant, Patrice’s eyes froze up again.

  She hit me, Patrice screamed. She’s an, an intellectual bigot. She’s a destruction addict!

  Did you hit her? Gregory asked. If you did, you need to leave.

  She needs to leave, Patrice shouted. She needs to leave existence.

  You hit me first, you bitch, cried Julie. You hit my bagel.

  Nobody hit anybody else’s bagel, said Gregory. Let’s just work this out …

  Throw her out, shouted Patrice.

  She didn’t wait to see if Gregory would actually throw Julie out. She went first, stalking across the tiles in heels. She kicked the bag of pastries as she went. It was a girly kick; the bag went maybe a foot and a half. She couldn’t even kick a bag of pastries across the floor. The doors slapped open and slapped closed again.

  Julie swallowed, then went over to the bag. She hunkered down over it, picked it up, and hefted it in her hand.

  Do you want a bagel? she asked Gregory.

  He didn’t answer. She put the bagel back into the bag and stood up.

  You all have a really awesome day, she called to the room.

  She was at the door when she felt Gregory’s hand on her shoulder: two fingers, like he was afraid of her. She spun around and he backed away.

  What? she snapped. You going to kick me out?

  Do you want to get a cup of coffee? he asked. There’s a good place next door.

  She ended up standing in the Institute line at the Retrograde with him. This close to him, the fidget energy was powerful, like the time in middle school when she was the one picked to hold her hand to the static generator in the science demonstration, a slow agitating jolt that teased her hair up. The gawky barista already had Gregory’s coffee in a paper cup before he even made it to the counter.

  Could you put it in a regular cup for me? he said. We’re staying today.

  She looked at him, then took a porcelain cup, emptied the coffee into it, and tossed the paper cup into the trash.

  And for you? she asked Julie. Weren’t you just in here getting pastries or something?

  Julie gave the barista two dollars.

  One is for coffee, she said. The other is to donate to a really good environmental organization.

  You’re always so hostile, smiled Gregory. Is that how you cope with having a mis-integrated identity?

  Did you invite me to get coffee so you could also be an asshole to me? she asked. Because if you did, you have to at least buy the coffee.

  He put a dollar on the counter in front of them.

  Come on, he said, and took his coffee to a table. She stared after him.

  He didn’t get milk, and neither did she; she wanted it, but fuck him. They sat across from one another and she took a long sip of coffee to put off having to speak.

  How long have you been dating Patrice? he asked.

  She put her own cup down and let the bitterness settle on her tongue.

  A while now, she said. Maybe a month or so. Five weeks maybe.

  That’s a while now? he asked, snickering. How old are you?

  Why? she asked. How old are you? You look, like, twelve.

  He drank his coffee and stared at her.

  Sure, she said. I think five weeks is a long time. Why not? How would you know? You don’t even believe in time, period.

  I believe in communicating with people, he said. How old are you, really?

  I am every age and no age, how’s that? she said.

  Do you love her? he asked.

  Of course, Julie said quickly. Why would I even be dating her if I didn’t?

  I dated her, said Gregory. And I didn’t.

  “Baby Love” was on the speakers, playing in some kind of minor key; no, it couldn’t be. She looked into her coffee, black as ink.

  Patrice has issues, Gregory said. We all do. She’s working through them. But she grew up strangely. She was very alone. She doesn’t know how to handle people. She’ll get better.

  What’s your point, she said.

  Don’t think that this is something you did, he said. Chances are it’s not.

  He closed his eyes and finished his coffee. He smacked his lips. She kept looking into her cup.

  That’s a pretty cowardly theory of relationships, she said. Don’t you think?

  He opened his eyes and smiled at her, a tight smile, like a wince.

  You’re hostile, he said, when you feel challenged. It’s an interesting dynamic. If you want to come in for counseling to explore that dynamic some time, I’ll comp your session.

  She cackled and looked at him.

  Is that all this was? she said. Did I just fall for the Institute of Temporal Illusions free coffee and relationship talk sales pitch? Listen, do you seriously believe that shit can help anyone?

  It’s the only thing that can help anyone, Gregory said. It helped me deal with having her leave me.

  He stood up. Her eyes followed him.

  It’s no loss to me if you don’t realize that yet, though, he said. You’ll realize it one day, or you won’t. If you do, the Institute will be around.

  She’d already hit one person today; she could start a streak.

  I have to get back, he said. He took his empty cup and her full cup; she didn’t stop him. The point is that you’re young. You’re dating her. I used to be young; I used to date her.

  You’re like nineteen, she spat. That’s still young.

  Just try to remember what I told you, he said. It’s been a very productive communication.

  He smiled and he took the cups to the dirty dish bin. She sat at the table and she heard them clatter and slosh as he set them down and she heard his leather footsteps as he went to the door.

  You’re young, she said to the empty table. I’m not young.

  She wanted to ignore everything he’d told her, so she went to Patrice’s to work. She had water boiling and a can of tomato paste cracked by the time Patrice had gotten back.

  Dinner in ten, she said.

  Patrice leaned against the door and stared at her through hopeless brown eyes. Julie smiled at her and tried to stare her down. Smile back, she willed. Smile back. Patrice lit a cigarette and went to sit on the couch. Julie walked up behind her, put her hands on the couch cushions on either side of Patrice’s shoulders, and leaned over to take a deep nicotiney breath.

  Smells sinful, she said.

  Patrice twisted from between her arms.

  I don’t deserve anything good, she wailed, and she collapsed on the couch crying.

  Julie watched her cry until she felt tired and bored, then watched her cry some more. Then she went into the kitchen and finished the sauce and waited for the noise to stop in the next room.

  They were in bed, Patrice still turned on her side. Julie was watching the ceiling.

  I apologize for acting so unprofessionally, Patrice said into the blankets. You’re my employee. I should act better.

  Julie pinched her side, hard. Patrice sat up.

  Owww, she said.

  I’m not your employee, said Julie. Fuck you for saying I’m your employee.

  What are you supposed to be, then? said Patrice.

  I’m your girlfriend, said Julie.

  Patrice lay still, rubbing her side where Julie’s fingers had clamped. She smiled.

  That sounds so ridiculous, she said.

  Julie let her hand drop and lay on her back, gritting her teeth.

  I’m sorry, said Patrice. She rolled onto her side, toward Julie, and put her hand on Julie’s stomach. Julie let her. She didn’t want it to feel good, but it did.

  Don’t you think it sounds so ridiculous? asked Patrice.

  Fine, said Julie. I’m not your girlfriend. I’m something else. I don’t know what I am, or what we are.

  I don’t either, whispered Patrice.

  Her hand was tense, flat like a sand do
llar on the white beach of Julie’s stomach. And again she felt her saliva getting warm, felt herself drifting, caught in some tropic undertow. Her eyes were hot around the edges and she was blinking, and she told herself: now, it’s okay. Now you can let yourself go, let yourself go. She told herself this and still her eyes remained dry.

  She felt something wrinkling up in her, retreating like a vine on a sunless day, and so she said:

  I love you, Patrice.

  She said it looking at the ceiling, unable to cry. Patrice sat up.

  Don’t, she hissed, and the lightning was back in her eyes.

  It’s how I feel, said Julie, sitting up too, and she thought it might well be how she felt, even.

  This is a very serious thing for me, said Patrice. Never say that to me.

  She felt on the edge of the desk for her cigarettes, didn’t find them, got out of bed to look for them. She was walking like she walked at the Institute, surreal to see her like that now, naked in the bedroom fumbling around for smokes in the darkness.

  It’s how I feel, Julie said again, irritated.

  Patrice found the cigarettes. She sat in the desk chair, smoking. Her bare kneecaps rested against one another and her arms were flat against the armrests. The cigarette hung in her fingers; she forgot to raise it to her mouth.

  There’s no such thing as feelings, she said finally.

  Fuck you, said Julie. Is that what your cult tells you?

  You love me, but you don’t love what I believe? said Patrice. She laughed a short and angry German-officer kind of laugh.

  Who gives a shit what you believe? asked Julie.

  I give a, a shit what I believe, said Patrice. This is why I don’t believe you. This is why you shouldn’t say things like what you said. Because they aren’t true.

  She sat on the bed and she stared at Patrice and she thought about how much easier this could be, should be. She thought about how much she hated Patrice right now—the Patrice she was, right now.

  I love you, she said. Not what you believe.

  I am what I believe, said Patrice. And you hate what I believe. We have been over this. It does not change.