Fragments

by James F. David

  “I still don’t get it,” Sylvia complained. “How’d we get it so wrong in the first place?”

  There was silence for a minute and he knew Birnbaum was smiling at his graduate students. He did that a lot. He would sit with a smug smile on his face and let his students wrestle with a problem he could have easily explained to them. When he was sure they were convinced of his superiority he would explain it to them, dribbling it out in tiny morsels, like M&Ms used to reinforce children. He would be doing it to these two soon if he didn’t stop him. His mind raced to think of some way to interrupt the meeting, but was distracted when the department secretary brushed past him, and leaned into Dr. Birnbaum’s office.

  “You’ve got your phone turned off again, don’t you? Well, Dr. Clark called, he asked me to remind you about lunch. You’re late.”

  “Oh yes. Sorry about the phone, but this was important. We’ll have to finish this later.”

  The secretary turned to go and he quickly walked down the hall ahead of her. When he turned toward the exit she called out after him.

  “Were you waiting to see Dr. Birnbaum?”

  He flinched at the volume of her voice.

  “No. Well, I was, but I’ll come back after lunch.”

  The secretary gave him a curious look but shrugged her shoulders and headed back to her desk. He sighed with relief as he left the office complex. Outside he waited by a fir tree for Dr. Birnbaum. A few minutes later the professor came out, still talking with Sylvia. He put his coat on as he walked and then left Sylvia at the bottom of the stairs, merging into the flow of students. He fell in behind the professor, mixing with the crowd, keeping himself within striking distance.

  Dr. Birnbaum headed toward High Street and the many restaurants that ringed the campus. That was good—at least better than if Dr. Birnbaum had cut across the campus to the faculty club. You couldn’t cause accidents on footpaths. Dr. Birnbaum followed the path between Arps Hall and the parking garage and then turned left, following the sidewalk along High Street. The cars moved along at a good clip between traffic lights on High Street, and the situation had promise.

  As Dr. Birnbaum neared the corner he ran the last few steps trying to make the walk sign so he could cross, but it switched to wait and he held back, standing on the curb waiting for the next light. Perfect, he thought. Now all he needed was the traffic. He came up behind Dr. Birnbaum but stayed well back, letting people fill in between them. He didn’t need to be next to him, but he did need to see him to work it. Having such a limited range was one of the things he wanted to change.

  The light turned green for the cross traffic and the cars began to flow past, picking up speed with each shift. The timing had to be just right. Looking left, he saw a bus coming—it would make the light at full speed. He checked Dr. Birnbaum, who was standing on the curb with his head down, staring into the street, lost in thought. It couldn’t be a better setup. Sometimes if people were preoccupied, or emotional, it didn’t take.

  The bus was still coming, and Dr. Birnbaum still stood staring blankly into the street. A few more seconds and he would make the suggestion. Then things went wrong. The bus suddenly swerved to the side and pulled up short of the light to pick up passengers, at the same time blocking the traffic in the curb lane. He cursed to himself—the light would change soon and he would lose his chance. Then to his left he saw a red sports car with two college kids in it zoom around the bus and cut into the curb lane. He didn’t hesitate. He thought hard of walking across the street, stared at the back of Dr. Birnbaum’s head and pushed with his mind. Without lifting his head out of his stare, Dr. Birnbaum stepped off the curb and took two steps. He was in the middle of the lane when he shook his head clear and looked up, realizing where he was. It was too late.

  The timing was perfect and the sports car was on him before the kid at the wheel could hit the brakes. Dr. Birnbaum took the impact at nearly full speed, crumpling under the car’s bumper and disappearing under the wheels. The late braking locked the wheels but the car continued over the professor until he was kicked out the back. His body tumbled a few feet, leaving him nothing but a bloody pile of clothes. Screams went up from the crowd, and tires began screeching all over the intersection as bystanders rushed to Dr. Birnbaum’s aid.

  He watched the crowd form and then turned back toward his dorm. This meant the end of his support, of course, and they wouldn’t let him keep the dorm room much longer. It didn’t matter. It was time for him to move on. But to where? He was getting nowhere with the parapsychologists. Somewhere somebody must be doing research that could help him develop his abilities into more than just making suggestions.

  It was a pleasant fall afternoon and he couldn’t face being cooped up in his stuffy room. He decided to walk to the library. He’d found out about Dr. Birnbaum through library research; perhaps if he broadened his search he could find a new approach. Then the flashing lights of the ambulance appeared and he watched them glide along above the heads of the crowd to stop at the scene of the accident. As the siren changed from a scream to a dying whine, he turned and walked toward the center of the campus.

  2

  DAPHNE

  Daphne sat on the edge of her mattress, rocking back and forth, her hands held out in front of her, fingers rhythmically pounding an imaginary keyboard. She pretended to play because she was afraid—things had changed. The room looked strange. Miriam’s half still had her books and knickknacks on the walls, her dresser was still full, and pictures of her family were still hung over her dresser. Daphne’s side was bare, all her possessions pulled from the shelves and drawers and packed away in boxes now neatly stacked in the middle of the floor.

  Daphne didn’t like change. Any change, no matter how small, sent her running inward to that sheltered hidey-hole deep in her mind. Nothing could touch her there, and that was where she was now.

  Her hands soundlessly tapped out the music that could only be heard in the hidey-hole in her mind. The music filled the hole, drowning her, leaving no room for her to think about her empty room, and no thoughts meant no fear. So she played on and on, the pieces flowing together with no pauses. She would play as long as she was afraid and there was little chance of running out of music since she knew hundreds of pieces by heart.

  Mrs. Williams and Barney came into the room for more of her boxes. She didn’t look up at them, staring only at their feet. They would talk about her now, as if she weren’t there, or as if she were a little baby who couldn’t understand their words. In a way she wasn’t there, she was in her hidey-hole, but part of her remained aware of everything that went on.

  “Man, she’s really gone this time,” Barney said. “I’m kinda sorry to see her go. She wasn’t as bad as some of them. Look at her, will ya? She is really out of it! I hope they haven’t sent her over the edge for good.”

  “Yeah, the poor kid,” Mrs. Williams said. “Did you hear where she’s going? They’re going to use her in some kind of experiment. I wouldn’t wish that on a dog.”

  “What? You mean like cutting her up or something?”

  “No, of course not. They want to hook her up with some other mentally retarded kids. Don’t ask me what for, I didn’t really understand it myself.”

  They continued talking about her but Daphne pounded on her mental keyboard until she drowned out their voices. Mrs. Williams and Barney were nice to her, but they couldn’t let her alone to order herself. When she first came to live there they had persisted in trying to reach her, but it only made it harder for her, and sometimes she would lose control of herself, the whirlwind of thoughts that made up her mind sweeping her away. Finally, like all the others, they had stopped trying and treated her like she wasn’t there. It had been like this with everyone since Grammy died—people treating her like she was a piece of the furniture. Like something to be moved around when it got in the way, and something you could talk about, since everyone knows furniture can’t hear or have its feelings hurt. People didn’t treat her like that when
Grammy was alive.

  Daphne’s earliest memory was of her mother towering over her, her face contorted in rage, screaming in anger. She was sitting in a small puddle on their dirty kitchen floor. She had wet herself and now she was terrified because she knew what was coming. She wanted to get away, but she was too little to run. She remembered rocking forward and putting her hands down to push herself to her feet. When she pushed herself up to toddle away from her screaming mother the blows began to rain down on her. The first fist knocked her out of the path of the second, but her mother’s miss only made her angrier and Daphne curled into a ball to take the pounding that followed.

  How old had she been? She was toddling—maybe eighteen months. Few people could remember that far back, but a special memory could be a curse. Daphne remembered the pain of those early years, as well as the shame she felt. She wasn’t old enough to control her bladder yet, but she didn’t know that, and she blamed herself for letting her mother down and wetting her pants. The pain faded between beatings, but the shame never left her.

  Life was hard then and she lived in fear and pain; one set of bruises seldom healed before her mother bruised her again. She was hungry much of the time, her mother often forgetting to feed her. Sometimes her mother would lock her in the apartment, leaving her alone all day and night. Once she was gone for two days and Daphne drank from the toilet to stay alive. Sometimes her mother would feel guilty for neglecting her and would shower her with affection and gifts, but it never lasted—the beatings always returned.

  In those years her only joys were the days spent with Grammy. Her mother would take her to Grammy and leave her for hours sometimes, and for days other times. Grammy didn’t have her mother’s sour smell. She smelled like the little soap flowers she kept in her tidy bathroom.

  Staying with Grammy meant regular meals, plenty of good food, a warm soft bed to sleep in, stories at bedtime, and lots of hugs and kisses. Best of all Grammy loved music, and she had a piano, which she played for Daphne. At night after story time, Grammy would leave the bedroom door open and then play the piano, the music lulling Daphne to sleep. In the morning she would wake to the smell of coffee and oatmeal and hurry to her place at the kitchen table, drinking her orange juice first—she never had orange juice at home. Her oatmeal would come then, a big steaming bowlful, and then the toast would pop up to be buttered and then jellied. Grammy would hover around her, clucking her tongue over the way she wolfed her food down.

  Her time with Grammy was always too short and she would cling to her when her mother came to pick her up, crying when her mother pried her from Grammy’s arms. Once she was loose, her mother would jerk her by the arm, half dragging, half carrying her to the car, where she would buckle her in to her car seat, yelling at her to knock off the crying or she’d never come back. Often, when they were down the road, her mother would begin to cry, saying, “My own child doesn’t love me!” Her tears would stream down her face; then she would get angry and Daphne would duck down in the car seat knowing what was coming, but when you’re strapped in there’s no place to go. Soon the blows would come. On a good day one slap across the face would be enough, but on bad days her mother would stop the car to do a better job. Daphne’s love of her Grammy was the source of her greatest pleasure and her greatest pain. It was those return trips where she learned to run to her hidey-hole in her mind, and pull the blackness around her, shutting out the world, and most of the pain.

  The day her mother died was nothing but a big black hole in Daphne’s memory. It was the hole right next to her hidey-hole. She could remember walking around the house, staying away from her mother’s body in the living room. How many days did she live with the bloody corpse? She didn’t know—two for sure. Her mother’s boyfriend found the body when he let himself in. Daphne remembered him carrying her to the kitchen, half starved, and being given a bowl of Cheerios and milk. Daphne was still eating when the police swarmed over the apartment. Finally, a policewoman took her to a hospital, where she spent the night in a clean bed and drank pop from a straw. They gave her soup and Jell-O there—she remembered it was red Jell-O.

  The police came the next day and asked her questions. “Did you see anyone? Did you hear anything?” Daphne ran to the hidey-hole every time they asked. Later they asked her to do some drawings for them, but she wouldn’t pick up the crayons, her arms hanging limp at her side, her mind safe in its hidey-hole.

  Grammy came then and took her home, hugging her liberally. At home she held Daphne, rocking with her for an hour. Grammy was crying and took a long time to stop. Daphne knew something bad had happened because Grammy never cried, but didn’t really understand what it was. Daphne pressed her face against Grammy’s chest, filling her nostrils with the kind smell of perfumed soap. When Grammy finally stopped crying Daphne asked why she was sad. “Oh, honey, don’t you know your mother’s dead?” Daphne did know, but she didn’t think of it as sad. Grammy’s tears told her she was supposed to be sad, and Daphne felt guilty. Then she started to cry—because she didn’t love her mother like she should. Together Grammy and Daphne cried, one for a daughter she had loved despite her faults, the other because she couldn’t love the same woman.

  Daphne and Grammy settled into a comfortable life. Grammy kept her fed and changed. At first Daphne had cringed when Grammy came to her asking if she was wet, but Grammy never did anything but cluck her tongue at her. Daphne knew she was too old to be still wetting her pants, but she couldn’t help herself, and for Grammy she tried her best. Daphne had been slow about other things too. She didn’t talk until she was three and then seldom. She surprised everyone when her first words came out in a complete sentence. Daphne was slow to stand, crawl, and walk, and everyone but Grammy called her “that strange little girl.”

  Grammy supplemented her pension by giving piano lessons and Daphne grew up with the sound of music. In the afternoons Daphne sat next to the piano while Grammy taught her students. They were wiggly children, most wishing they could be somewhere else. Their mothers would sit quietly as Grammy guided her reluctant pupils through the mysteries of the black spots in their music books.

  When Daphne was little she would sit surrounded by toys with a baggie of Cheerios and a cup of juice to keep her from getting hungry. Daphne would eat the Cheerios and drink the juice but never played with the toys, not while there was music, even bad music. Music touched Daphne like nothing else could. Its rhythms penetrated deep within her, finding her soul, and Daphne rocked with the rhythm. Music made a beautiful symmetrical pattern in her brain and ordered her tangled mind. When music filled her, even the fumbling music of beginners, Daphne was consumed by the harmonies.

  Music was joy to her and when the lessons ended she always suffered withdrawal, suddenly aware of the emptiness inside. Then the tangled thoughts that made up her mind would return and she would turn inward again, away from the confusion. Sometimes running all the way to her hidey-hole, but never to the dark hole next to it.

  When Daphne was older Grammy tried to leave her with the TV while she gave lessons but Daphne always followed her to the music room and would sit in her spot by the piano. New students always looked at Daphne oddly at first, trying to understand the strange little girl sitting on the floor rocking like a human metronome. The parents asked about her too, and Grammy would say proudly, “Why, that’s my granddaughter,” and nothing more.

  On Sundays Grammy would take Daphne to church. At first Grammy tried leaving her in the nursery but the attendants were uncomfortable with Daphne. She didn’t like being separated from Grammy and when left she would rock violently. Finally, the attendants told Grammy she was scaring the other children, so Grammy took her to worship with her. Grammy played the piano in the services and Daphne would sit in the front pew by the piano and rock. Daphne loved church: not only did she get to hear Grammy playing the piano but there she also discovered the organ. These rich sounds moved her in new ways and when the choir and organ joined together it was ecstasy.

&nbs
p; Daphne’s need for music grew, as did her depression when the music ended. One day it became too much for her to bear. It was a Sunday afternoon and Grammy was playing gospel on the piano. There were no music lessons on Sundays, since it was the Lord’s day, but on days when it wasn’t nice enough to work in her garden Grammy would spend the afternoon playing the piano with Daphne in her usual spot on the floor. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon and Grammy had not been feeling well. After only a couple of songs she put the music away and said she was going to lie down. Daphne was rocking before she was out of the room, saddened by the loss of her afternoon of music.

  She tried to hold back the confusion but she wasn’t strong enough. The lights in the room began to blur and blend and sounds reverberated through her head. She rocked, letting the motion serve as a poor substitute for the rhythm of the music, but today the rocking wouldn’t satisfy her. Soon she was rocking violently—Daphne was losing control of herself, her mind blending into the confusion of the world around her. Her self would be lost soon, indistinguishable from the muted colors that swirled before her eyes.

  Daphne closed her eyes tight but that left the soft sounds of the room and the traffic outside. These she could not distinguish from her self, and she began confusing her thoughts with the sounds. Her fear grew. She needed music to order her mind and to find herself again.

  Daphne opened her eyes and was blinded by the confusing lights that flooded her mind. She closed them again and reached out for the curved leg of the piano. She thought she touched something, but colors, touch, and sound were the same. Momentarily, she felt as if she were touching green, and then she felt something wood that quickly changed to the sound of a truck rumbling in the distance. She leaned on the sound and pushed herself up, keeping her eyes closed. She kept her hands out, feeling the piano change from the sound of a truck to blue and then quickly to brown. Then the brown became wood and then ivory. She had found the keys. Quickly, before the feel of the keys could become a color, Daphne pushed down, driving the hammer into the string. The sound began in her as a color quickly coalescing into a familiar sound. Daphne could see the sound vibrating in her mind, spreading out like ripples in a pond, clearing away the confusion, but when the sound faded the confusion threatened to return. Daphne pushed the next key and pleasure spread through her again, clearing away the cobwebs. Another key and more pleasure. Soon Daphne was stepping her fingers down the ivories enjoying each sound. Up and down the scale she went in a steady rhythm. She found all the familiar notes and recorded them in her memory like old friends in an address book. When she knew each address she began bringing certain friends together. It was as easy as walking door to door in her neighborhood.