“Sorting? Hah. Nothing to sort. Just do it. Don’t be a damn wussy.”
While his father sorted through his breakfast, complaining his way through the meal, Justin busied himself with little things. Washing the pan, putting away the bread, pouring himself a cup of coffee. His gray coat was on the back of his chair. He picked it up and started for the closet, then remembered the unfulfilled warrant in the pocket.
The warrant had a blue stripe across the top. He’d never gotten one of those before. It meant “Optional.” To be exercised at the discretion of the server. Another judgment call.
Actually, it was an acknowledgment. This is how much we trust you now.
He didn’t open it, he just tapped it against his fist for a moment, thinking. Remembering his orientation, remembering his training. Remembering what his supervisor had said. “You’re not just releasing the client, you’re releasing the family as well.”
Maybe she’d said it to make this kind of decision easier, but in Justin’s mind, no—it only complicated the matter. Who was he really serving?
But he already knew the answer to that one, too. Again, from his training. Step back from the immediate circumstances. You’re serving everyone. Figure out where the real service is and you’ll know what to do.
He shook away the thought. In theory, it was an easy conversation. In practice, it wasn’t about conversation. He unfolded the warrant without looking at it. Okay. If nothing else, it would get him out of the apartment for a bit. Maybe some fresh air, a walk through the park, a chance to sit and not think.
The old man wheeled himself into the living room. “You’re doing it, boy, aren’t you? Thinking yourself into a corner.”
“No, Dad. I’m not thinking at all.”
“Well then, why don’t you do something useful? Go to work. Make some more money.”
“Yes, that’s probably a good idea.” He glanced down at the paper in his hand. He wasn’t surprised. He’d been expecting it. All the myriad little conversations fluttered around him for a moment, then evaporated. He understood.
He understood everything.
He reached into his inside coat pocket.
He began pulling on his gloves.
“Dad? Have I told you today how much I love you?”
“To everything, there is a season and a time for every purpose under Heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die.” To which we might add, “Especially in the Twilight Zone.”
THE WRITING
ON THE
WASHROOM WALL
Jane Lindskold
Words written in purple ink. Words speaking of destiny, warning of death. Marj tries hard to deny that these words are written to her, but eventually she must accept that someone is speaking to her from . . . the Twilight Zone.
The words were pursuing her.
Aghast, Marj stared at what was written on the right side of the bathroom stall. Amid the names of rock bands, recitations of undying love, mild obscenities, and even a fairly good limerick was the Palmer-method perfect handwriting she’d already seen twice that day. The words, written in what looked like dark purple marker, were simple.
Why do you wait? Neither destiny nor death can be denied.
Shivering, Marj tore off a length of toilet paper but, as she finished her business, she couldn’t rip her attention from the words.
“Neither destiny nor death can be denied,” she murmured.
Then the chiming of the clock on the campus green reminded her that other, more immediate (at least she hoped more immediate) responsibilities also could not be denied.
Tucking herself back into order, Marj quickly washed her hands. She studied her reflection in the mirror as she touched up her makeup and hair. Neat brown locks professionally cut in a professional style. Green eyes that contact lenses made just a little brighter. A trim figure set off well by a stylish suit. Expression, just a little worried . . .
Marj schooled her features to project order and confidence, then, half-running, hurried to the second floor lecture hall.
As Marj moved to take her place behind the podium on the raised dais that dominated the hall, the other words in purple ink she had read that day echoed counterpoint to the tap of her low-heeled pumps against the floor.
Why do you wait? Surrender to fate.
That one had been written across a birthday card stacked on top of her mail in the Psych Department main office when she’d come in that morning. She’d thought the inscription was a department prank—in rather bad taste—but when she’d gone to show the envelope to the secretary, she couldn’t find it.
Why do you wait? Open your heart.
That had been written on the reverse of a lawn service flyer stuffed into the mailbox for her small house. She’d found the note when she’d stopped home on her way to a birthday lunch with her mom.
Although these two ominous warnings had shaken her, Marj had eventually concluded that they must be student pranks. Although she did not precisely advertise where she lived, the information could be found easily enough. The note defacing her birthday card would have been easier still to pull off, but this last one?
Who would have known she was going to stop in that particular ladies’ room? She certainly hadn’t intended to do so. She’d been on her way back to her office from lunch when one of her students had stopped her with a question. By the time they had finished their impromptu conference, Marj had realized she didn’t have time to go all the way back to the Psych Department and had raced for the faculty lounge.
That was another puzzling element. Normally, students—except for a few privileged graduate assistants—did not have access to the faculty lounge. How did the graffiti artist get into the private bathroom?
Of course, if it was a faculty member . . .
A slight rise in the hum of student chatter alerted Marj that her failure to hook up her laptop and begin her lecture on schedule had been noticed.
She resumed her focus with some effort, unpacked the laptop, and set the first of her slides running.
“Good afternoon,” she said, deciding that apologizing would be an error, would make her vulnerable. “Today we’re going to begin a detailed examination of Freud’s early theories.”
“Dr. McKinley!” The interruption came from Ivy Perkins, a young woman Marj already knew to be a disruptive element. “I really don’t understand why we’re bothering with Freud at all. I’ve been doing some independent reading . . .”
Pausing to shape her pretty mouth into a slight, self-deprecating moue, Ivy Perkins turned her profile to her assembled classmates. The expression said more clearly than words, I know you know that I’m smart and ambitious. I’m also terribly pleased with myself.
Marj thought Ivy knew she was sending the first message, but was she aware of the second?
“Yes, Miss Perkins?” Marj prompted dryly.
“Not only have Freud’s theories been largely discredited, but there is ample evidence that he falsified some of his case studies when the data did not support his conclusions.”
Clearly, Young Miss Perfect thought she was dropping a bombshell. Equally clearly, most of her classmates didn’t care. A few looked vaguely interested, but since this discussion wouldn’t be on any test, most were staring down at their crotches, believing for some reason that this would conceal their covert texting or videogame play.
I suppose, Marj thought with resigned viciousness, it’s better that they’re playing with electronics rather than with themselves—which is what it looks like they’re doing, or would if they didn’t look so bored.
At least Young Miss Perfect wasn’t bored, so Marj decided to address her question.
“Miss . . .” Marj swallowed the impulse to say “Perfect,” and corrected it to “Perkins,” “what you are saying is absolutely incontestable. However, whatever the flaws—and they are many—Freud’s theories remain the bedrock of modern psychology. All the approaches that have come after have been in reaction to those early proposals. With
out understanding Freud, you cannot understand anything that has come since.”
Miss Perkins looked offended. “I don’t see why we need to memorize failed theories. It seems to me that we’re wasting a lot of time learning what we will need to unlearn.”
“Perhaps,” Marj said, “but understanding reaction is very basic to psychology—both the science and the practice. If you cannot resign yourself to attending to the material for any other reason, then consider it practice in understanding what is, in many ways, a classic parent/child reaction pattern.”
“With Freud as the parent,” Miss Perkins said brightly.
“And as a child of sorts,” Marj agreed, “for he was reacting to what he saw as the superstitions and religious restrictions that he felt were crippling human intellectual development.”
“Interesting,” Miss Perkins said.
Marj could tell the young woman would have liked to continue the discussion, but although the forty-seven other students might have appreciated the distraction, they would only have done so until they realized an exam was coming. Then they would have whined and panicked about how “not fair” Dr. McKinley was being, expecting them to learn without bullet points.
So Marj lectured on ids, egos, and superegos for the next forty minutes. Then she managed to slip out before Ivy Perkins could corral her for a heart-to-heart.
Most days, Marj probably wouldn’t have minded. At least Ivy Perkins cared about the material. She’d already declared her major. Most of the department had admitted that they felt as if they were auditioning for the dubious distinction of being her adviser.
Ivy Perkins cares, Marj thought as she slid behind the wheel of her car. So many of the students don’t even attend physically. Those who bother to show up are often mentally absent. Was I like Ivy, bright, eager, challenging?
Marj considered, exchanged a rueful smile with her reflection in the rearview mirror.
Probably. I was so grimly serious, so determined to break the chains that bound me—poverty, superstition, the lack of education that held my family back. Reaction, again. Here I am with both my Ph.D. in Psychology and my M.D., teaching “Introduction to Psych,” despite the fact that I could have a much more lucrative private practice. Why? Because I want to get the word out. There is no mystery we cannot solve. The intellect rules. Nothing will hold you back if you don’t let it.
Marj glanced around to check a four-way stop. Written neatly at the top of the stop sign were four too-familiar words: Destiny cannot be denied.
Even though another car was starting to roll forward, Marj floored the gas and rocketed through the intersection.
“Oh, yeah?” she said. Only after the words had echoed around her car did she wonder just to whom she was speaking.
The next morning, Marj woke feeling that her panic had been utterly and completely stupid.
Since she lived alone, she settled for lecturing her two cats while they crunched through their breakfast kibble.
“A fraternity stunt. A viral marketing gimmick. I bet if I cruised the ’Net I’d find the messages already being discussed.”
But she didn’t check the ’Net. The explanation fit too perfectly, relieved her anxiety almost completely.
Reaction, she thought as she read a new note in which purple ink warned her not to wait, to “Awaken. Open. Permit yourself to see.” That’s why I responded as if those notes were to me in person. Probably didn’t help that the first one I saw was on a birthday card. Reaction, cultivated by a childhood steeped in superstition. Next thing I know I’ll be making signs against the evil eye and crossing myself before I enter a dark room.
She sniffed, crumpled the note (this time written on the envelope holding her bank statement), and tossed it into the trash. Her sense of superiority lasted all the way to dinner that night.
The Psych Department was entertaining Dr. Juan Schimdt, a visiting lecturer from Argentina. That evening there was a private banquet followed by an informal discussion of the role psychology played in all aspects of Argentinian society.
“In my country, psychoanalysis is part of daily life,” Dr. Schimdt explained as they sat over their coffee. “There is no shame associated with seeing a ‘shrink.’ Nor is such a derogatory term—it is derived, as you know, from ‘headshrinker,’ which is associated with witchcraft—employed for those who practice the profession. Our people are curious as to how the subconscious mind affects conscious decisions, even how it affects personal preferences.”
“Preferences?” asked Paul Adams, the department chair. “Isn’t that going a bit far?”
“Not at all,” Dr. Schimdt replied. “Take Dr. McKinley as an example. I have noticed that although the food here is excellent, she has avoided both the soup and the bread.”
Marj hated being singled out, but decided to be polite.
She grinned in a self-deprecatory fashion. “I don’t much care for oregano, and both were rather heavily seasoned with it.”
“I thought that might be the reason,” Dr. Schimdt said, obviously pleased with himself. “I noticed you ate heartily from both your main course and dessert.”
“Maybe I was saving space for what I liked,” Marj challenged.
The guest lecturer waggled a finger at her. “But you have already admitted to not liking the taste of oregano. I find that very interesting, because your full name is not ‘Margery,’ as one might assume from hearing you called ‘Marj,’ but ‘Marjoram.’ I noticed this on your department’s roster. And the scientific name for ‘marjoram’ is ‘origanum.’ Now, I am not saying this is so in your case but, if I had a client who disliked very much something for which he was named, I would ask him whether the reaction was to the taste or to the name.”
Dr. Schimdt leaned back and folded his hands on his little paunch, obviously pleased with this demonstration of both his erudition and his psychological acumen.
Dr. Adams broke the uncomfortable silence that followed with a somewhat forced chuckle. “Well, I dislike chocolate, a distaste my wife assures me makes me subhuman. What would you make of that?”
Dr. Schimdt laughed and went into an involved diagnosis of the chair’s presumed psychology that set most of the table laughing. Marj realized that her own tension had made her react so strongly to being singled out.
If I wasn’t so strung out already, she thought, I would have also realized that I am one of the few unattached women here. What I was being subjected to was South American gallantry, not psychoanalysis.
She rejoined the conversation, but the little voice in her head wouldn’t let the matter rest.
But he was right, wasn’t he? You have hated your name, ever since that teacher in second grade looked at you and said, “Like the cooking herb?” and everybody laughed. Then in fourth grade there was that girl who insisted on calling you “Margarine.” There was the boy who called you “Toe-Jam.” Was that the same year? No. Fifth grade.
When dinner and discussion had ended, Marj made sure she wasn’t the first to leave. She didn’t want anyone to think she was in a snit. In her eagerness to make a good impression, she found herself walking out with the guest lecturer after everyone else had left.
“I am sorry,” Dr. Schimdt said, “if I embarrassed you at dinner. I did not intend to do so.”
“That’s all right,” Marj said, then added impulsively, “You were completely right. I’ve always hated that name. I was teased over it when I was a kid. Besides, I always thought it sounded ugly. My grandmother named me: Marjoram Sweet McKinley.”
“You could change it,” Dr. Schimdt said, “couldn’t you?”
“My name?”
“Why live with something you dislike? There is no need, is there? Isn’t getting beyond our pasts and moving into a healthy future what our profession is all about?”
They’d reached the parking lot. Marj felt huge relief as Dr. Schimdt turned in the direction of the nice hotel where college guests were always put up.
“May I give you a ride?” she said,
gesturing toward her car. She didn’t really want to do so, but felt she must offer.
“The hotel is only a few blocks away,” the lecturer said. “And after that dinner, I need the exercise.” He gave a sly, playful grin. “After all, I ate not only the main course and the dessert, but the soup and bread as well. Good night, Dr. McKinley.”
“Good night.”
Marj drove home, thinking about holding onto the past, rejecting the past. She kept her gaze on the street, trying not to be distracted by messages in purple ink. She couldn’t avoid the one written across the top piece of mail in the stack waiting for her.
Closing your eyes only causes you to run into things.
“Confucius say . . .” Marj snarled, ripping the envelope in half.
Over the next few days, Marj did a pretty good job of ignoring the purple writing, although it popped up everywhere, including, with peculiar persistence, when she was in the washroom.
Catching me with my pants down? Marj thought wryly. Isn’t that an expression for “off guard”?
She was mildly puzzled no one else had mentioned the writing. She guessed that everyone was already in on the gimmick, that it was old news. She thought about mentioning what she’d seen, but didn’t want to seem behind the times.
Then her chicken noodle soup started talking to her.
“I hadn’t realized the cafeteria was serving alphabet soup,” she said, stirring the broth so the white letters swirled and danced.
Paul Adams, the Psych Department chair with whom she was dining so they could go over a committee report, blinked. “Are they? I didn’t get soup.”
Marj watched the letters settle, a few, as always, floating for a moment longer than the rest. These settled into orderly lines: Accept your gift. Death awaits. Why wait?
Her mouth went dry. She blinked, thought about showing Paul the words, felt terrified he wouldn’t see them.
More Stories from the Twilight Zone Page 16