Michael Bunker is a USA Today bestselling author, off-gridder, husband, and father of four children. He lives with his family in a “plain” community in Central Texas, where he reads and writes books… and occasionally tilts at windmills. You can keep up with Michael at his blog, www.michaelbunker.com, where you should definitely sign up for his newsletter. You can follow him on Facebook or Twitter too!
Heil Hitler!
by Peter Cawdron
Chapter 01: The Office
“Please, have a seat,” Dr. Zizzane says, gesturing toward a couple of leather armchairs set to one side of his desk. I’ve never been in a psychologist’s office before, but it’s very much as I imagined. I guess this is one thing the movies get right.
Dr. Zizzane gets to his feet. I’m somewhat mesmerized by the floor-to-ceiling bookcase that runs from one wall to another behind his desk. He must have read all of these books. How much use do they actually get as reference material, I wonder? If he has them on display simply to impress, then it’s working. Most of the books are in sets. They have dull, dreary spines with tiny embossed lettering. Only one book has a colorful, glossy dust cover, a small book over to one side at shoulder height. It looks completely out of place.
It’s dark within the office. The walls have been painted a deep mahogany, with perhaps a hint of burgundy. Drawn blinds keep the sunlight at bay. Given Dr. Zizzane’s pale, white skin, I’m tempted to ask, “Are you sure you’re getting enough vitamin D, or is that not kosher for vampires?” But I keep that little joke to myself. He seems far too serious.
The ceiling lights are off, leaving only a desk lamp and a corner lamp to set the mood. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was night.
I sit in one of the armchairs. Maybe I’m being paranoid or overly sensitive, but I feel as though everything in this office is designed to evoke a certain emotional response, and it’s making me nervous. The leather seat is stiff and unyielding to my weight, and I feel as though I don’t belong here. My hands grip the armrests, and I feel as though the armrests are spring-loaded. It’s as if I’m crouching at the starting line of a one-hundred-meter sprint, waiting for the gun to fire.
“Try to relax,” Dr. Zizzane says in a tone of voice that sets me even more on edge. He hands me a glass of water. I take a sip, but the water is bitter.
I have a vivid imagination, and Dr. Zizzane’s looks aren’t helping. At a guess, I’d say he’s in his mid-fifties. His hair is thick and lush, but silver grey strands dominate the sides. And unlike most men these days, Dr. Zizzane wears his hair long, almost to his shoulders. It’s not that he looks effeminate, more that he looks like a mad scientist from some 1920s black-and-white movie.
He sits down slightly opposite me. There’s a small round coffee table between us with a couple of glossy magazines lying on it, only they take up all the space, leaving no room for coffee cups, forcing me to hold on to my glass.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” he says with the slight hint of a European accent. I’m trying to remember the names of the various countries east of Germany, wanting to place his accent, but I’m at a loss. At a guess, I’d say it’s Slavic.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I say, reaching out and shaking his hand. His fingers are cold. It’s a hundred degrees Fahrenheit outside, and it’s only nine in the morning. I’m still sweating, even with the air conditioning in the office, but Dr. Zizzane feels as cold as a mortician.
“Your husband. You are concerned?”
“Yes,” I reply, feeling as though I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office in high school. “Viv has always been a little strange, even before his episodes began. I guess that’s what drew me to him, in a funny kind of way. Sounds peculiar, I know, and I guess it says something about me, and yet—”
I stop myself.
“This is confidential, right?” I ask, wanting some reassurance. “I mean, you’re Viv’s doctor.”
I was going to say “shrink,” but not only does that term seem patronizing, for Dr. Zizzane it seems downright insulting. He carries himself with a sense of pride and professionalism I’ve never seen before.
“And you’re concerned there might be a conflict of interest,” he says, stroking his meticulously groomed goatee. “You’re worried I might unwittingly betray your confidence?”
I nod.
“My dear Suzanne,” he says. No one calls me Suzanne, not even Mom, and she’s the one that gave me this hideously formal first name. Suzanne always sounds rather pretentious to me. I’ve only ever been called Suzanne when I was in trouble, getting married, or applying for a passport. My friends have only known me as Suzie.
Dr. Zizzane lowers his voice. “Consider your words locked in a vault, never to see the light of day again.”
That European accent is pretty slick, I think. I find myself torn between feeling defensive and a desire to relax and let out all my concerns, but the somber, austere feel of the room keeps me on edge.
“Tell me,” he says, drawing those two words out, softening them, drawing me in. “What do you see in Viv?”
I feel dizzy. No, not dizzy, sleepy. It’s incongruous. It’s as though I’m watching a late-night TV show that’s growing in intensity while I’m fading, struggling to keep my eyes open.
“He says the strangest things.”
My voice slurs. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I’d had a shot of valium before walking into his office.
“Viv says it’s schizophrenia, but I see such stark differences, it’s hard to reconcile. I mean, I know it’s him physically, but there’s someone else beyond those blue eyes… He loses his memory of recent events. Sometimes, we’ll go for months on end and everything is wonderful. Life is sweet. And then he’ll change. He’ll be a different man.”
My eyelids flicker, feeling heavy, but I press on.
“It’s not always obvious, but I can see it in the little things, like how he wants his coffee. Sometimes, like this morning, it’s all too obvious.”
“And tell me about this morning,” Dr. Zizzane says with a voice that is hypnotic.
“This morning?”
For a moment, I can’t think. I was just saying something about this morning, but precisely what escapes my mind. I feel doped.
“This morning? Oh, yes. Viv got up earlier than usual. He was downstairs eating breakfast when the kids got me up, saying something was wrong with Dad. I put on a robe and walked downstairs to see him dressed in a suit and tie. Given he’s a mechanic, that alone was a little alarming. I thought he might be coming to see you, but it’s what he said next that freaked me out.”
“And what did he say?” Dr. Zizzane asks, making notes on an electronic tablet. He has his legs crossed. Wrinkles furrow his brow. His lips are tightly pursed as he focuses on my every word.
I continue, saying, “He greeted me by raising his right hand at an angle, moving swiftly from the elbow as he said, Heil Hitler, mein fräu.”
Chapter 02: Lemonade
“Are you sure you won’t have some lemonade?”
“What?” I ask, blinking in the bright sunlight. I’m seated at the kitchen table. Ginger is chewing on a bone in the back yard. How did I get back here?
Viv stands in front of me with a pitcher full to the brim with homemade lemonade and a glass with ice cubes rolling around its base.
“Honey?”
“Sure,” I say.
Something’s wrong. Viv never calls me honey.
He smiles warmly as he pours me a glass of lemonade.
“Hmmmm,” I say, taking a sip and overemphasizing any sense of pleasure in the taste. I made this lemonade. I know full well what it tastes like, but Viv doesn’t seem to pick up on that. There’s some roleplaying going on. It’s as though we’re sitting at a poker table. We both know the other player’s bluffing. Neither of us wants to be the first to show their hand. I’ll see you, Viv, and raise you a grand.
“Nice man, that Dr. Zizzane.”
“He is,” Viv replies, s
itting down opposite me. He has his hands on the table, clenched together as though he’s confessing to a crime. “I’m glad you like him.”
“Why aren’t you at work?” I ask, breaking the ice.
“It’s Sunday,” Viv replies, looking as guilty as sin. Sweat beads on his forehead.
Sunday? I went to see Dr. Zizzane on Friday morning. Where the hell have I been for the last two days?
Viv watches my facial expressions with keen interest. I can see him looking for any hint of alarm on my face, but I used to deal in Vegas. I know how to hold my own. I’ve dealt hands that reached forty thousand dollars. I can keep my cool. Rather than clenching my teeth and giving something away in the motion of my jaw, I ensure my molars touch ever so lightly. I keep my face relaxed even though inwardly I feel rigid and stiff. I resist the urge to look away, staring Viv straight in the eye. He’s going to crack, I can see it. Dealing poker might not be the most useful life skill to develop as a runaway teen, but it has its perks.
I downplay his comment, pretending my question was a momentary lapse. “Phil has baseball this afternoon.”
“Burgess boys are taking him,” Viv replies, and I get the distinct impression he’s following a script. Someone has coached him on what to say.
The small kitchen TV is on, but the volume is turned down. Mitt Romney is being interviewed by someone. The caption running along the bottom of the screen reads, “US Troops Deployed to Sudan.”
Viv tries to make some small talk.
“President Romney is sending our boys into harm’s way yet again, huh?”
“It’s President Obama,” I say softly, tilting my head down and looking at him with ferocious intensity. “Romney lost the election. Twice. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says nervously, trying to transform his shaky words into a humorous laugh. “Yeah, that’s right. Ha ha.”
I reach across the table and take his hand. His palm is sweaty.
“We should get away,” I say warmly. “It’s been a rough couple of months on both of us. We should take a break. We could leave the kids with your mom and head down to Pensacola, just like we did when we were teenagers. What do you say?”
Viv smiles. He looks genuinely relieved.
“That would be great!”
Gently, I let go of his hand. I smile as I get up, reaching for the carving knife in the wooden block by the stove. Viv must sense what’s about to happen. He pushes back violently from the table, scraping the chair on the linoleum. He races for the knives, but I’m quicker. I pull out the large stainless steel knife and turn on him, holding it low and close to my body. Viv, my Viv, would know how to disable someone holding a knife. My Viv was a Ranger for eight years. This Viv stops in his tracks. He has his arms raised in mock surrender.
“Whoa, now, honey. What are you doing?”
“I’m not your honey,” I say rather emphatically. “Your mother is dead and we’ve never been to Pensacola. Who the hell are you?”
“It’s me, honey. Viv.”
“What happened to me?” I ask. “What happened to the last two days?”
“Honey, please.”
“Stop calling me honey!” I say, anchoring the butt of the knife against my right hip as I step toward him. My Viv taught me this. He said waving a knife around is dumb. It’s too easy for someone to knock it out of your hand. Keep it close, and if an intruder rushes you, he’ll be skewered. This Viv steps back slowly with his arms raised, watching the knife intently. I think he’s expecting me to lunge.
“Suzanne,” he pleads, trying to smile and bluff his way out of this confrontation.
“Suzie,” I say, correcting what should be obvious to a man who’s been married to me for the best part of a decade. “You need to come clean with me, Viv.”
“Honey, you’re scaring me.”
I let this honey go. I want to hear what he has to say. “You know I have problems. You know about the schizophrenia. I—I can’t help it. I love you.” And I’m pretty sure the “I love you” was more of the scripted response being thrown in for good measure. It sure sounded like a “Ten-four, good buddy” sign-off on a two-way radio.
I say, “Up until Friday, this was just about you, but not anymore. I want to know who you really are. And I want to know what happened to me!”
Viv stares at the kitchen floor. He looks lost.
“I have kids!” I yell at him. That I used the singular pronoun “I” and not the plural “we” doesn’t seem to register. “Don’t you get that? This isn’t a game. You may have your issues, but when I get sucked into this vortex, it affects the kids. And that is not cool.”
Not cool—that’s got to be the understatement of the year, I think.
Viv steps back, shuffling his feet.
“What the hell did you tell them when Mom didn’t come home on Friday night?”
“I—ah.”
“You’re not my Viv. I’m sorry. I’ve tried to be understanding. I’ve tried to be long-suffering, but you’re not him. You look like him. You sound like him. But you’re not, are you?”
Viv looks me in the eyes and says, “No. I’m not.”
Chapter 03: Police
“Mommy,” Jasmine says, peering around the corner by the stairs. Phil’s head appears above hers. They both look hurt, not physically, but emotionally. I can’t tell if they’re exhausted, relieved, anxious, or all three. They must be horribly confused seeing me with a knife pointing at their father.
“Come to Mommy,” I say, still holding the large shiny carving knife out in front of me. Viv turns slightly to face the kids. I beckon with my other hand, saying, “It’s okay. Come over here. Everything is going to be fine, but you need to do as I say.”
Jasmine runs first, darting past Viv and scooting behind me. She tugs gently at my dress.
“You too, Phil.”
Phil looks at his father. To his credit, Viv nods, and Phil marches over to me with a sense of purpose. Rather than stand behind me, Phil stands beside me, facing his father.
“Hand me the phone, Phil.”
Phil takes the phone off the charger and hands it to me.
“Who—who are you going to call?” Viv asks.
I dial 9-1-1. That I only hit three buttons must make it pretty damn obvious.
“You were here, the whole time. I swear,” Viv says, pleading with me. “You were just a little doped, that’s all.”
On the other end of the phone, I hear, “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
“Please,” Viv cries. “This isn’t what you think. I would never hurt you or the kids. I just wanted you to forget. I needed you to forget.”
The emergency operator says, “Are you there? Can you speak to me? Tell me what’s happening so I can help you.”
Viv has tears running down his cheeks, “You have to believe me. Please.”
He sinks to his knees in submission.
Viv has his hands over his face, sobbing. I edge toward him, moving Phil behind me. Jasmine tries to pull me back.
The 9-1-1 operator says, “If you or your family are in danger and you cannot talk freely, just say, I’m okay, and I will have a police unit dispatched to your location.”
“I—” and I take a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake calling you. I’m fine.”
Viv looks up through bloodshot eyes.
The operator says, “Okay, I’m going to close this call, but a record of this interaction has been logged. I’m going to dispatch a police unit for a drive-by of your address. The officers won’t stop unless they have cause to believe a crime is in progress, but they will show their presence with a flash of their lights. You take care of yourself, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” I say, hanging up.
Viv is a mess.
“You need to leave,” I say.
He runs his hands up through his hair as he gets to his feet.
“I—I…”
I’m waiting for Viv to say he can explain. I would like an expla
nation, and not just about him. I want to hear more about what happened to me and why, but he says, “I can’t explain.” Then he turns and walks out the front door.
My heart sinks. I watch from the window with the children as Viv backs his motorcycle out of the garage and rides away, heading toward town.
“What’s happening, Mom?” Phil asks. Jasmine is quiet. She’s always been quiet, but never more so than today.
“I don’t know,” I say, which isn’t the confident assurance parents should provide their children. I don’t want to scare them, but I don’t want to lie to them either.
“Will Dad ever come back?” Phil asks.
“Yes,” I say, but it’s a lie. I’d rather not lie, but if I have to, I’ll choose my lies for maximum effect. I hope neither of the kids can tell, but if they think about it they’ll know I have no way of knowing what will happen in the future. At best, I’m guessing. At worst, I’m deceiving them.
“Listen,” I say, dialing another phone number. “I’m going to see if Mrs. Burgess will look after you for a few days until everything’s sorted out. Okay?”
Phil nods. Jasmine looks numb.
The Burgess family lives next door. They’ve got three kids, and two of them are the same age as Phil and Jasmine, so the five kids get on well. They have sleepovers all the time. This will be a sleepover on a school night, but a sleepover nonetheless in their minds.
A police car cruises slowly down the road outside. There’s a loud blat on the siren for the briefest moment, just enough to announce their presence. I open the front door and walk outside. I’m not sure if I should wave, but they understand. I can see the telling look in their eyes. They’ve dealt with too many instances of domestic violence and must know how conflicted I feel. Young Phil comes out with me. He likes police cars so he waves. One of the officers smiles and waves in reply.
“Come,” I say, leading him back inside.
Tales of Tinfoil: Stories of Paranoia and Conspiracy Page 26