The Dream of Doctor Bantam

by Jeanne Thornton

  I’ll join the Institute if you take your shirt off, said Julie.

  Patrice sat up and looked at her. Then she straightened up, put her hands along the hem of the shirt, twisted them and lifted the shirt up over her neck. Her bra was plain, beige, medical-looking, still damp in the sun.

  How long do I have to have it off? she said.

  Fifteen minutes, decided Julie. Or you can take the rest of your clothes off. Then it’ll only be ten minutes.

  Patrice craned her neck. The ant-shadows moved along the walking bridge just to the west.

  Those people can see us, she said. From the bridge.

  No they can’t, said Julie. Why would they be looking at us? Come here.

  She held her foot tightly against the wet canoe, her sole drying and wrinkling in the afternoon sun, and she reached up to Patrice’s hips. Patrice let herself be pulled forward over the rock to her; Julie twisted her torso, felt her ribs brush her lungs, whatever was inside there, and tried to hold on to her. She unhooked the medieval catch of the beige bra.

  They can see us, whispered Patrice, her eyes closed. They’re stopping to look.

  They aren’t, said Julie. The sun’s in their eyes. They don’t want to. They really aren’t looking.

  She soothed her, caressed her, and kept her under the spell until she tried to unhook the button of Patrice’s shorts. The thread must have shrunk; it took long enough that Patrice’s eyes fluttered open.

  Don’t, said Patrice. Then: I mean it this time.

  Something inside her felt like it was falling, sinking like a broken lure on a fishing line. She tried to unbutton Patrice’s shorts again out of spite.

  Don’t, said Patrice, and she stood up, out of Julie’s reach.

  The ducks had long since moved on.

  Are you worried that the people on the bridge can see you being a bitch? Julie said. I don’t think they can, but you never know.

  Why do you even like me? Patrice asked.

  Why do you like me, snapped Julie.

  Patrice closed her eyes. A drop of salty sweat rolled from under the crease of her left breast.

  I like the way you can’t hide your feelings, said Patrice. I like the way you’re strong without seeming to know how you’re strong. I like the way you cook. I like the way you were willing to bring me out here, where I didn’t want to go.

  With her eyes closed you could see the weird red capillaries buried just beneath the skin of her ruddy eyelids. The people on the bridge had stopped walking. She could swear she saw the flash of a camera.

  Suddenly she was convinced that she liked Patrice solely because she had really, really good legs.

  She shook away the thought—she wasn’t like that; she had reasons. Or maybe it was worse than she thought. Maybe she did have reasons, and what did those reasons say about her? And her sister danced and skipped like a shadow puppet projection over the back wall of her brain.

  She put her arms out, foot locked under the hull of the boat, and reached forward to stroke one of those really, really good legs with the tips of her fingers. Just two fingers, up and down—a soft touch, the remains of a goosepimple.

  Stop, whispered Patrice. Please.

  She didn’t want to stop. She reached out farther, lay the rest of her fingers around her leg. Wrapped them around her skin.

  We have to go, said Patrice, and she pulled her leg away, and Julie’s fingers and body came with it. The bone of her foot thunked against the edge of the canoe as it slipped free. She fell against the rocks—it didn’t matter, shit, the canoe—and she turned and grabbed at it, it wasn’t far, just a foot maybe; she fumbled her grip and managed to knock it out a foot further, the bow turning away from her like a fat compass needle seeking north. The boat began to spin like a leaf in the current as it drifted slowly, slowly away from them.

  Patrice sat up and put her finger in her mouth.

  Oh no, she said. Oh no I’m sorry I’m sorry …

  You’re goddamned right you’re sorry, shouted Julie, not knowing why.

  Patrice started crying.

  Two o’clock is after four o’clock, she said.

  Shut up, said Julie. Shut up.

  Patrice shut up—but her mouth kept moving; she kept saying those words, that idiot chant. Julie watched her lips shape the words. She watched Patrice as she cried. How easily the tears got out of her. How much—she realized, in an instant—how much Julie hated this about her.

  Terrified, Julie jumped into the water, feeling the current drag on her, and she began crawl-stroking to the canoe. The water was filthy and the people on the bridge watched her as she pulled her way forward, stroke by stroke, to get the boat, once again to be the one to save them.

  That her calculations had been wrong—that it wasn’t yet that time; that her jeans were wet with only water—was the only upside. That, and the way that Patrice slid her hand over Julie’s leg just as they were making the turn off of Lamar onto 29th street; the way Patrice took Julie’s dripping wet hand in her own, squeezed it once, fearfully. Julie counted her blessings, everything but her hand freezing in the air conditioning, on the bus ride home, together.

  4

  The first day of school was also the last day of August. The straps on Julie’s old backpack were broken.

  I don’t want you going out tonight, said Michael as she was duct taping the straps together in the garage. You’ve got school tomorrow. All right?

  All right, said Julie.

  Two hours later she rode her bike to Patrice’s. She cooked pasta and watched an old tape of Heathers on the couch until Patrice showed up, exhausted. Julie lit a candle on Patrice’s desk, next to the Machine, and she lay on the bed, head in Patrice’s lap, as Patrice ate leftovers and chewed in silence. Her cheek bounced each time Patrice chewed.

  Tell me I shouldn’t go back to school tomorrow, said Julie.

  You shouldn’t go back to school tomorrow, said Patrice.

  But I have to, said Julie. It’s my future. It’s important. I’ll end up a has-been, a video store clerk or something. I’ll get cancer when I’m forty and I won’t have any medical insurance to fight it.

  Cancer is a medical hoax, said Patrice.

  Put your arms around me, Julie commanded, and Patrice did. She fell asleep in Patrice’s lap, and when the cell phone alarm she had set for herself went off at six-thirty the next morning, Patrice was gone. The blankets had been folded under Julie’s chin. She stole a pack from the carton in the bedroom, always supplied; she lit a Camel and went to the porch. The sky was black with clouds and rain was pouring down, spattering on the paper of her cigarette.

  She made a poncho out of a garbage bag and biked to the high school, backpack jouncing against her rear tire. The campus was thick with kids chattering on the lawn, ID badges hanging around their necks on straps with the school’s name woven in. Some of them held class schedules and were comparing the teachers they had gotten. Some were sitting on the front steps, frantically turning the pages of Crime and Punishment.

  She lined up and got her class schedule; she smiled for her ID portrait. They printed it for her on the spot using a little laminating machine and they hung it around her neck from a strap woven in the school colors.

  Her first class of the day was economics. The teacher had made cardboard and marker name plates and laid them out on the desks. She found her desk and sat down.

  Julie, said the girl next to her; her ID badge said Clarissa Rheingold. We have the same class together!

  Obviously, yeah, said Julie. She sort of remembered this girl. They had played soccer together or something once. Maybe one had stayed over at the other’s house. It was so hard to remember.

  I love your haircut, said Clarissa Rheingold. It’s so crazy.

  Julie put her hand on her head. She had let Patrice cut it a few days ago to get a kind of prepared-piano look, short and uneven. Otherwise she hadn’t thought about her hair all summer long.

  The teacher, Mr. Edmonds, was in his fortie
s, balding, long bony arms wrapped in pinstriped shirtsleeves. He made them all stand up and say their names, what they did over the summer, and one fact about themselves.

  I’d rather not, Julie said when her turn came.

  Do you think you’re somehow special? Mr. Edmonds said.

  Yes, said Julie. Can you just skip me? I mean everyone knows everyone else by now.

  Do the assignment, said Mr. Edmonds, or you get a zero for today.

  Julie stood up and turned. The kids were all silent, staring at her.

  My name is Julie Thatch, she said. I spent my summer fucking my girlfriend. One fact about me is that I like to fuck my girlfriend.

  She tore up her office referral slip and went outside to stand under the glass bus shelter near the student parking lot, smoking another cigarette and re-reading the confession scene in Crime and Punishment until the passing period came around and she could try out the next class the registrar had given her.

  A car horn honked at her and she looked up. Robbie’s aunt’s SUV was trying to wedge itself between two compacts. She put her book down and watched as he backed up, went forward, backed up and went forward again. She watched as he managed to get his door open six inches and squeeze his gangly body between the crack.

  Oh shit, Julie, he said. How are you? You still haven’t read that?

  I’m re-reading it, she said. Aren’t you worried about being late or something?

  It’s the first day, he said. I figure I can get away with being late on the first day. Later I’ll be more careful about it.

  Something about this depressed her.

  So, he said. Big senior year. This is it, huh?

  This depressed her more, and she ignored him.

  Hey, he tried again. Are you smoking a cigarette?

  What? she said. Yeah, obviously. You want one?

  Yeah, awesome, he said.

  He came under the bus shelter, his hair hanging in his face, and she lit one for him. He took four slow drags from it while she read. Then the campus police liaison rapped on the glass shelter wall from behind. His fat uniform shirt was smeared through the glass and rain.

  Hey, he said. Stand up. Turn around.

  Robbie took the cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it into the rainy parking lot; it went out in midair. Julie turned around without standing up. It was a new police liaison this year, an older man, fifties, jowly and with a paunch and a blond mustache.

  I realize it’s been a long summer, said the cop. And I realize that maybe you’re eighteen and you can buy cigarettes now and everything. But it’s still not okay to smoke on the school grounds. It’s not allowed.

  Sorry, said Robbie. Won’t happen again.

  Julie kept smoking.

  Put your cigarette out, clarified the officer.

  This is the parking lot, said Julie. No one else is out here. What’s the difference?

  She didn’t mean it, said Robbie.

  Actually I did fucking mean it, Robbie, said Julie. Seriously, can I just finish this before I go to class? Then I’ll be out of your hair.

  The officer circled around underneath the shelter.

  Julie Thatch, he read from her ID tag. He looked at Robbie. I’ve already given you a warning. You’re now officially truant. Get to class.

  Okay, said Robbie. He shot Julie a look of solidarity and then he deserted her.

  The officer sat down next to her and folded his hands in his lap. She took another drag on the cigarette—it had gotten short by now, nearly to her fingers; she still didn’t put it out.

  You’re Tabitha Thatch’s sister, he said. Isn’t that right?

  She’s dead now, said Julie. She killed herself. So yes, I was her sister.

  The rain came down against the rooftop of the bus shelter. The officer fidgeted next to her.

  You’re new here, right? she asked. How do you know about Tabitha?

  He smiled and turned his head.

  I was briefed on you, he said. When a student has a crisis in her life like you’ve had, we don’t take that lightly. The principal and your teachers do care about you, you know.

  I guess they must, she said. The cherry dropped out of her cigarette; she held onto the filter.

  You’re an extremely good student, I’m told, said the officer. It would be a shame for a student like you to ruin her whole academic career in her last year.

  What’s your name? Julie asked.

  Officer Perkins, he smiled.

  What’s your first name? she asked.

  He looked at his hands, twiddled his fingers. Then he let her see his eyes again.

  Carl, he said. Officer Carl Perkins. Listen. We know you’re having a tough time, all right? But here’s the situation. You’re still a student. You’re still underage. In a year, you can do whatever you want. But until then, you’ve got to pay the piper. You’ve got to obey the rules.

  She looked at the copy of Crime and Punishment still open in her lap.

  Look, there’s a good counselor this year, he said. Ms. Rice. She’s new, like me. I want you to know that you can talk to her at any time. Or, if you’d like, you can talk to me. About anything that you’re going through.

  The rain was still drumming against the metal covering above her. Something about the rhythm of it drove her crazy.

  I’m saying this because we care, said Officer Carl Perkins.

  She dug in her pocket for the pack of Camels she’d taken from Patrice, took a fresh one out, and put it between her lips.

  Officer Carl Perkins knocked the cigarette out of her mouth. He did it carefully, not touching her face when he did it. The cigarette landed in a crack in the sidewalk, soaked through, and began to leak yellow-stained water into the street.

  Officer Carl Perkins stared at her, lips twisted.

  She closed her copy of Crime and Punishment and put it into her backpack. She stood up, slung the backpack over her shoulder, and walked into the rain.

  Where the hell do you think you’re going? he asked, getting up.

  She didn’t say anything, just walked to the bike rack. She had to be ready to start running; until then she’d just walk, walk away. She looked back when she was halfway across the parking lot. He was still under the bus shelter, not following her into the wet morning. She unlocked her bike and rode it out of the parking lot and into the city beyond.

  She rode to Patrice’s, her backpack and her clothes soaked through. She locked her bike to the railing, went upstairs, took everything off in the living room and hung it up to try on the shower curtain rod. She thumbed her nose at the portrait of Dr. Bantam. Then she put more pasta on to boil. She was re-reading Crime and Punishment naked under a blanket when Patrice came home again.

  Dinner’s in the fridge, Julie said.

  How was school? asked Patrice.

  I don’t know, she said. I dropped out, I think. Do you want to go to Mexico or something? We’ll live in an adobe house and we’ll grow corn and we’ll make tortillas from them, sell half, keep half for ourselves. It’ll be lucrative.

  I have to work tomorrow, said Patrice. And I don’t like Mexican food.

  Julie beckoned Patrice over. Patrice stood in front of her, hands on her hips. Julie started to undo the buttons on her blouse. The phone rang.

  Don’t answer it, said Julie. Don’t answer it ever again.

  She didn’t. They had sex on the couch, and Julie heated up the cold pasta, and Patrice ate it. Julie put her head on Patrice’s lap with the blanket over her legs. They watched Heathers again, and Julie told Patrice when she should pay attention to see the really good parts. The phone rang again, then again. The rain poured down outside, thunder clapped, the Christmas lights and the TV flickered, and Julie walked naked to the fridge and took out one of the beers she’d taken from Ira the week before and popped it open against the counter. She drank it while the phone rang for her and Patrice snored on the couch beneath her, eyelashes fluttering like they did when she was happy for a while, and Julie held on tight, f
eeling the heat rise from her girlfriend’s body as the last day in August faded away and the rest of her life began.

  5

  The flyer was in Patrice’s mailbox at eleven; it was in all of the mailboxes: sub-offset printing, misaligned plates, fluorescent yellow paper, bond quality for some reason.

  NEIGHBORS!

  KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT YOUR NEIGHBOR!!

  The photo of Ira was a bad one: his dustiest plaid shirt, his neck craned to the side in a way that swelled out the fat of his neck, his eyes lit up by the flash of an unexpected camera. The Vorticist poster on the Retrograde’s wall filled the space behind him.

  WHAT IS THIS MAN’S IDENTITY?

  A bigot, said the bond paper. A drug user. A drunkard. A onetime physics student responsible for defending through inaction the atrocities of the causal worldview up to and including the atomic bomb. A religious oppressor. A racist. A rapist. And also the editor of a local politically radical publication known above all for its lies about organizations of civic good.

  Julie read the last line again and remembered the last time she had talked to Ira.

  She folded up the flyer in her pocket, then sat down on Ira’s porch and started smoking Patrice’s Camels. A Cheap Trick album was in the porch CD player; she put it on infinite repeat.

  One of the kids from the complex next door came out and waved at her as he unlocked his mailbox. He scratched the ass-fabric of his khaki shorts as he sorted through the flyers; he came to the fluorescent sheet. She watched him and tapped her feet double-time to her CD. He looked back at her with his lower lip slack, his cheeks puckered in. She smiled and pursed her lips out in a kiss. Then she held up two fingers to her mouth, a lewd V that pursed out her lips. The neighbor went inside.

  It took three complete runs of Surrender to get Ira to open his front door.

  I give up, he said. Just turn it off.

  They just seem a little weeeeeeird, sang Julie, rolling her eyes back. Do you have a beer for me?