THE M.D. A Horror Story

by Thomas M. Disch

  And from Judith? Last year it had been a novena. And if the pink envelope peeking in under the door was any indication, it looked like this year would be more of the same. He didn’t blame her, she was sincere enough about all that stuff, she probably spent a couple of hours a day on her knees, but he couldn’t get very excited about it either. It wasn’t so much that prayers are cheap. He knew she refused on principle to accept an allowance from her father, so she didn’t have money to spend on presents. But surely she knew by now that he didn’t believe in novenas. It was like someone promising you that he’d spend an hour a day talking to himself and dedicate it to you. Thanks a lot.

  As it turned out, Judith must have had some thoughts along the same lines, for her letter, though indeed a birthday offering, was an entirely different proposition. Eight pages of floral-decorated, scallop-edged scented stationery filled on both sides with Judith’s supremely legible handwriting. (Four years earlier he’d given her that stationery for a Christmas present, and she, instead of simply throwing it away, had reserved it for letters she wrote to him. She’d never stated that as a policy, and by the time he’d figured out for himself the reason for the stationery’s wonderful longevity, he was old enough to appreciate her sense of poetic justice. And every time he got another letter from her and another whiff of that scent, the lesson sank in a little deeper: Never give to others a gift you wouldn’t be happy to receive yourself.)

  The letter read:

  Dear William,

  There—you have my birthday present. Do you like it? Do you know what it is? It was given to you once before already almost thirteen years ago—but somewhere along the way it got lost & now I’d like to give it back to you—your own name, your true name, William.

  You’ve been a “Billy” for so long that you may not like my idea at all & if that’s how you feel I will respect your choice. Or you might like “Bill” instead of “William”—but somehow I don’t see you as a Bill, perhaps because the only Bill I know well is Bill Burdon, who was the editor of the Chronicle two years ago when I was just starting at St. Tom’s & a person I never felt real sympathy for—tho Bill was nice enough in his own way—the Way of the Jock. Anyhow William is a name with many positive associations—beginning in 1066 with William the Conqueror & including William Shakespeare. Also William of Ockham, who invented Ockham’s Razor (no, that is not off the top of my head, I used the Britannica). But not any very important saints, unless William Cuffitella (whose feast day is April 4) is important. Somehow I doubt it. All I can find out about William Cuffitella is that he was a Sicilian hermit who died on his knees. “His body was found in that position, and all who touched it were cured of what ailed them.” Well, you do say you want to go to medical school!!

  It seems strange to me that I can write to you so easily but always have such a hard time talking with you when we’re together. Actually it’s probably not strange at all—but an ancient truth about older sisters and younger brothers—& younger stepbrothers even more so. I know you think I don’t have a sense of humor—& you’re probably right because Ms. Arnold says the same thing. But I do think many things are funny even tho I don’t laugh out loud at them—& I appreciate the spirit you’ve brought to our “family circle.” You’ve made us all much happier people.

  It is now 2 A.M. and I still haven’t said the basic thing I wanted to say when I began writing this—which is that I love you. And not like some dutiful stepsister & not because my confessor said that would be something I ought to tell you. In fact what made me think to say it is a little embarrassing—it was seeing Mary Tyler Moore in Ordinary People and wanting her to say that to her son & then wondering whether I was any different. I see you every day & know all your moods, some of which are pretty rotten (some of mine are too) & we argue a lot—but I do respect you & that is what my birthday present means if it means anything.

  You know Jason Schechner from the Math Honors course and the Computer Club. Back when Jason and I were freshmen, he wrote a paper for English about his bar mitzvah, which is a special kind of birthday party for when a Jewish boy turns thirteen. At a bar mitzvah you have to stand up and make a speech that is always supposed to start: “Today I am a man.” So, here you are turning thirteen & I was writing in my Diary “Tomorrow Billy is a man” & it sounded wrong. But when I changed that, in my head, to “Tomorrow William is a man,” it seemed perfectly natural and quite true.

  (By the way Jason’s sister Lisa has told me she thinks you’re “sort of cute,” and since she didn’t swear me to secrecy or anything like that, I suppose I should mention it. Maybe that’s even what she had in mind!!)

  Of course in many ways we’re both still children. We have to live here in Willowville in our parents’ house, we have to attend St. Tom’s or some other high school, we can’t vote or get married, etc. But in the way that counts most we are grown-ups—not just because thirteen is some magic number, but because from the moment we decide that we’re responsible for what we say and do and how we behave towards each other we are! So if I ever forget what I’ve been saying in this letter & begin to treat you like a “kid brother” & not like an equal, just stop me. Please.

  Today you are a man, William! Congratulations & Happy Birthday!!

  Judith

  His basic reaction was one long cringe. If becoming Judith’s equal meant becoming equally earnest, equally preachy, equally holier-than-thou, then he would rather remain her kid brother forever. But the idea about his name was another matter. William: he liked the sound of it. And she was right that Billy sounded like a youngster. The only grown-up Billys he could think of were baseball players. Or Billy the Kid.

  William Michaels.

  He went into his bathroom and confronted this new being in the mirror over the sink. “Hello,” he said, in the voice he used when he answered the phone and wanted someone to think he was a grown-up. “I’m William Michaels.”

  The figure in the mirror pondered this a moment, then flipped the flipper loose and grinned, revealing the gap made by the missing front teeth. “Bullshit,” whispered the kid in the mirror.

  William sucked the flipper back into place and scowled—not at the kid in the mirror but at the new pimple that had appeared overnight on his forehead an inch southwest from the part of his hair.

  There was a knock on the bedroom door, and he shouted out, “I’m in the bathroom.”

  “That’s all right, there’s no rush. But your father wanted you to know that they’ll be showing Mount St. Helens on the news in just a couple minutes. He thought you’d want to see it erupt.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I’ll turn on the TV in here.”

  “And, William?”

  It was the first time his mother had ever called him William. Judith had already been at work.

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “Happy Birthday.”

  29

  Why, Ben Winckelmeyer wondered, not for the first time in his life, are the shells of pistachio nuts dyed red? The fingers and thumb of his right hand still were discolored from the bowl of pistachios he’d shucked and eaten the night before. The plastic casing of the Big Ben by his bed also bore witness to his indulgence. So, too, doubtless, did the pages of the magazines he’d leafed through and the monthly statement for his CMA account. It must be that at some level people actually like having red fingertips. Women, after all, paint their nails red.

  It had been one of those nights, insomniac, his mind monologuing a mile a minute, ever since, at exactly three fifteen (the hands of the Big Ben were luminous), he’d been awakened by the faint, intermittent creaks of someone slowly descending the stairs. His wife’s bedroom and Judith’s were ranged like his own along the ground floor gallery of the sprawling split-level. Only Billy inhabited the upstairs, and he was generally a sound sleeper. In any case, he was not a tiptoer. The footsteps continued past his bedroom door and faded to silence. Then the click of a door latching closed. He lay there thinking. Not the hazy thoughts that lead back toward sleep, but
crisp, clear, business-oriented thoughts that soon had him looking about for pen and paper. And, since he was already out of bed, a cigarette.

  He’d smoked the last of the pack in the bedroom while he was watching the Late News, but he knew there was a carton in his office. So it was his turn to tiptoe up the stairs, creak by creak, and past Billy’s bedroom, where he had noticed, by the dim light of the ankle-level night-lights recessed into the wall, an envelope wedged in under the door. That resolved the mystery of the midnight prowler, for Judith was wont to bare her soul every so often in letters delivered late at night under the door. Her last such communication to him had been a five-page, well-reasoned, and vigorously written plea for him to quit smoking, or, if he couldn’t quit smoking, to stop doing work for ATA, the American Tobacco Alliance. She made it clear that this was not a matter she wished to discuss with him. There was no room for discussion. Working for the cigarette industry was sinful. Period. Ben had honored her insistence not to talk about it and gone on smoking, and MIMA—the Minneapolis Institute of Motivational Analysis—continued to be funded by ATA, and Judith, ever since, lived under a kind of self-imposed house arrest, refusing to have an allowance, and grimacing in a martyred way whenever he or Sondra lit a cigarette. She had not, however, suggested going off to live with Rhoda in Florida, though Rhoda, who barely scraped along on her alimony and hungered for child support, was always trying to tempt her daughter down there.

  Naturally Ben was curious as to what Judith might have to say to Billy that required the urgency of one of her night letters, and having no compunctions about privacy, he slipped it out from under the door and took it into his office to read. Fortunately before he opened it he’d noticed the telltale traces of the pistachio-shell dye on his fingers and washed his hands until (though the skin was still discolored) he could handle the paper without leaving red smudges.

  He was pleasantly surprised by both the style and content of his daughter’s latest letter. Admittedly, it was bossy of her to presume to decide for her stepbrother what name he should go by, but bossiness wasn’t necessarily a bad quality, if it was effective. Then one saluted it as a gift for leadership. He returned the letter to its place under Billy’s door and made a mental note to call his stepson William. He made a second mental note to get the boy some kind of birthday present above and beyond the usual envelope of cash. What Judith had said about his making the “family circle” happier was undoubtedly true. Now if Billy—William, that is—would only extend his ameliorative capabilities to include a cure for Judith’s anorexia…

  Food. That’s the direction the tobacco companies had to move in. That’s what he’d come up here to write a note about. The primal addiction. They might outlaw smoking, but food? Plus, there was an irrational component in food purchases that made the business a suitable takeover target for the tobacco industry. With all the billions in profits piling up, and no way, really, to expand the market…

  Then came the deflating awareness that this was the megalomania of 3:30 A.M. He might as well write a note to President Carter about how to deal with the hostage crisis. Think small: that was the proper economic/ecological niche for MIMA. Motivational analysis, not investment strategy. Such as, returning to what he’d wondered about earlier, why pistachio nuts are dyed red. The ones that are left their natural color seem to taste the same. Yet one always buys the red nuts, why? People must like having their fingers dyed red.

  Could it be the same for smokers?

  So far as Ben knew, there was nothing in the literature about the subliminal motives surrounding tobacco stains. The assumption seemed to be that this was an embarrassing aspect of smoking better left unexplored. But what if smokers liked having nicotine-stained fingers! ATA would almost certainly agree to fund at least a pilot investigation. The industry ached to be able to sponsor any kind of product-oriented research that wasn’t connected to disease and/or the mortality rates of smokers. The idea was good for $200,000, minimum. Dan Turnage would be flying into the Twin Cities from the Baltimore headquarters of ATA this afternoon. He could spring the proposal on him. Turnage, admittedly, was only a figurehead, but he’d be delighted to be treated like a functional executive.

  Ben tightened the drawstring of his pajamas, raised the rolltop of his mahogany desk, and started to write up the proposal. It was finished, along with a pack of Pall Malls, by the time the kids had left for school.

  30

  According to his stepfather, who took a fanatical interest in everything connected to Watergate, the lunch William had put together at the salad bar was the favorite lunch of Richard Nixon: cottage cheese covered with catsup. To which William also added croutons and Baco-Bits. It was no gourmet treat but it went down quick. When he was done, he wiped the Formica tabletop dry with a paper napkin and spread open his German notebook. At St. Tom’s there was no official study hall, just this corner of the school cafeteria, or else the library, the idea being that everyone at the school was supposed to be such an overachiever that any extra hour of the day went to some easy elective like art or working in the Chronicle office. But in the forty-five minutes he had for lunch William could generally count on getting his German assignment done in the lunchroom and then go to his German class in the next period with the foreign language motor in his head still functioning.

  Today’s assignment was to write a page-long essay describing one of his earliest memories. William was generally pretty good at German. He could zip down a page filling in the blanks with the right verb forms, pronouns, et cetera, as fast as he could handle his homework for algebra. He was good at remembering all the irrational rulers for the sex of nouns. A dream is masculine, cream is feminine, children are neuter. But essay assignments were another matter. Dwayne Nielson, the German teacher, liked to pose questions that were relevant, a word that, as used by Nielson, seemed to mean nosy, prying, snoopy. The other seven students in the class appeared not to resent Nielson’s giving them the third degree under the guise of an exercise in grammar. But William did—so bitterly in the first couple of weeks of class that he’d almost switched to French (but Judith was studying French, and one of the best reasons for studying any foreign language is to be able to say things that the people you live with can’t understand). Then somewhere around Thanksgiving he had realized that the way to deal with the problem was simply to lie. He could still remember the question going round the table until his own turn came and Nielson asked: “Wilhelm, hast du ein Bruder? Wie alt ist er? Erzähl uns von ihnem.” How was he supposed to answer that? Yes, I’ve got a brother. His name is Ned, and he’s seventeen years old, and he’s spent every day of his life for the past six years or so laid out like a corpse in a dark bedroom staring at nothing, and sometimes there’s baby food dried into little green scabs in the stubble of his beard, and he has to wear diapers because he’s incontinent. There was no way that William was going to “share” that information with Nielson, his classmates, and, inside of twenty-four hours, with everyone else at St. Tom’s. (It was a small school, with fewer than three hundred students in all four grades.) So he lied. It was easy: he wasn’t under oath, and no one had any reason to doubt his answer. No, he had said, in halting but grammatically correct German, “I do not have a brother, but I do have a sister, Judith, who is fifteen. She is very active in the battle against—” And then he had to ask Nielson the word for “abortion,” which got Nielson flustered because he didn’t know it and had to look it up in the dictionary. From that day on William had known he could handle Nielson simply by putting him on the defensive.

  But this time Nielson had hit on an assignment that went right to the heart of William’s problem. Because it wasn’t just that William was shy about speaking of the details of his personal life. To a very large degree he simply didn’t remember them. Whenever he returned to the so-called scenes of his childhood, on a visit to Grandma O.’s big old house on Calumet or driving past OLM, the parochial school he’d attended up through fourth grade, it was like looking at picture
s in some stranger’s photo album. His childhood had been erased, like a file deleted from the memory of a computer. A few odds and ends survived: the plots of movies he’d seen, and almost every word of a scratchy record of fairy tales narrated by a dead comedian called Poppy Mueller. But all the important things were gone. What kind of stepbrother Ned had been before he’d got the illness that made him a vegetable. How Sondra and his real father, Henry Michaels, had got on before their divorce, when they’d been living together on Kuhn Avenue. Maybe that was too early in his childhood for him to be expected to remember much of it. But the years he’d gone to OLM were also a blank. And those were just the things he knew he didn’t remember. There was no telling how many other files might have been deleted in the same way, without his knowing it. Because, if you don’t know something happened, how can you be aware that you’ve forgotten it?

  He’d wondered, at times, since he’d become aware of these gaps in his memory, whether they were really that unusual. He was always curious to know what other kids his age could remember about their own childhood, and mostly what they remembered seemed to be times they’d done something wrong and got caught and punished for it, or fights they’d been in, or places they’d gone for vacation with their families. William figured that a lot of that kind of remembering was actually people telling each other the story of how something had happened: it was the story they remembered, not what happened. But he didn’t have anyone he could hear the stories of his own childhood from, since his father was dead, and his mother hadn’t seen that much of him in the years right after the divorce, and Madge and Grandma O., when he would visit them in their creepy old house, showed no inclination to reminisce—not, at least, about his childhood. Grandma O. was full of information about growing up in Anoka in the twenties, and Madge would tell things she remembered from when she’d worked at the hospital, but on more personal matters she was as tight-lipped as a POW in a war movie. So William figured there was nothing functionally wrong with his memory that couldn’t be accounted for simply by lack of exercise.