Fetal Bait Apocalypse: 3 Collections in 1

by Joel Arnold

  I arrived in such a state of excitement, not bothering to shave or comb my hair, that Dr. Hastings didn’t recognize me. He pushed away from his desk as if ready to fend off a bear.

  I held out my hands in supplication. “Please.” I showed him the telegram. “What is this?”

  He stared hard at me, and then relaxed. “Zwick? Is that you?” He squinted at the telegram. “I didn’t send this.”

  “Surely, you joke?”

  Hastings grinned perplexedly and adjusted his red velvet tie. His black double-breasted suit hung loosely on his small frame. “Wouldn’t be much of a joke, would it?”

  “Then who—”

  It was your mother, Christoph. Who else could it be?

  You laugh. You say, “Father, surely you knew.” And you are so right. But I was too stubborn to listen to myself!

  Hastings led me out of the red brick receiving building and into the frozen night. We trudged through fresh snow to the women’s wing of the dormitory. My eyes stung with cold. I had to rest in the entryway of the building to stop shivering. “How in God’s name could a patient send a telegram from these grounds?” I asked.

  Hastings stomped the snow from his boots. “I’m sorry, Brahm, but you know the liberties our patient’s enjoy. Gerta has vacated the premises twice in the last year, and was found both times in Rochester. She obviously sent the telegram during her last absence.”

  “Take me to her, then.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “Take it easy on her. Surely you realize the guilt she feels for the loss of your son. The telegram was merely a cry of loneliness. It’s been years since you visited.”

  Gerta’s room is small and smells of tulips. She lay asleep on a single bed beneath a blue quilt. I quietly sat on a wicker rocking chair next to her bed. On top of a dresser I recognized her wedding ring sitting in a glass dish like a piece of candy. And her necklace — do you remember the one? A modest braid of gold, around which hang five small crucifixes.

  She stirred. “Do you recognize my wedding present?”

  The sweetness of your mother’s voice surprised me. She sat up in bed, the quilt falling from her naked bosom.

  “Cover yourself,” I said.

  “Must I be so modest in front of my husband?”

  I glared at her and thrust forth the telegram. “Did you send this?”

  She barely gave it a glance. “I had no choice.”

  “Do you understand how difficult it is to drop everything, rearrange everything to come here?”

  “Isn’t that why you chose this place?”

  I threw up my hands. “I only chose it so you’d receive the best care.”

  Gerta slid her legs out from beneath the covers. She held out her hand. “I missed you.”

  I pulled her from bed, but refused her embrace. Instead, I turned her around and examined her. Scratches covered the backs of her arms and legs. “What have you done to yourself?”

  She twisted away and fell on the bed, burying her face in the pillow. “It was a mistake to send for you.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  She raised her head from the pillow.

  Christoph, I have never seen such a pitiful face, so wet with tears, her lips swollen and cracked, cheeks mottled and puffy.

  She whispered, “I want nothing. Go back to Berlin.”

  She spit.

  I left her naked and crying on the bed.

  More later. May God bless and keep you,

  Brahm.

  January 14, 1898

  My Dearest Christoph,

  Your mother rests.

  Superintendent Hastings urged me to stay at least one more day. He was eager to show me the improvements in the buildings and grounds since my last visit. I slept on the sofa in his office, and despite my temper, fell quickly asleep.

  It is indeed a remarkable place. Many of the patients, including your mother, are free to roam the grounds at their leisure. There are no gates, nothing to keep them locked in, yet they stay of their own free will. Far removed is this institution from the asylums of mere decades ago, when for a small fee, the public could stroll through them as if touring a zoo.

  Christoph, a limestone quarry sits on the asylum grounds and employs a dozen patients. More are employed on the farm where they grow all manner of things: peas, squash, corn, green beans, apples — they even have a greenhouse in which they cultivate bananas! They raise and slaughter hogs and cattle. And next to the slaughterhouse, a soap house makes use of the fat. Did you know, Christoph, that they provide soap for all the other institutions in this state? Truly amazing.

  Every Tuesday night, entertainers arrive from Rochester. Singers, musicians, thespians, magicians. The patients are encouraged to share their own talents, and today as we toured the grounds, we passed a trio equipped with banjo, clarinet, and tambourine. They’d cut the fingers from their mittens in order to play their instruments even on these coldest of days. They begged Hastings to sing a verse with them, but he politely declined with promises to join them later with his ukulele.

  Then there are the caves, dug by the patients themselves. The largest of them is U-shaped for a horse and cart to enter, unload its produce in one of numerous storage niches, and exit the cave without having to back up and turn around. A smaller cave, more recently dug, is used to store bodies during the winter until the ground thaws in the spring. Three unfortunate souls rest there now, none with relatives to claim them.

  Your mother wakes.

  Later—

  My last entry was made in a state of serenity, but now my hand shakes, and I don’t know how to get the words out.

  I must pace myself.

  When your mother woke, she looked at me as if I was a stranger, but recognition crept over her face like the wax of a melting candle. “Did you hear him?” she asked.

  “Whom?”

  She rushed from the bed and fell to her knees in front of me. “Christoph. Have you heard him?”

  How strange that I’d just been writing to you. “What madness is this?”

  “He speaks to me. Don’t you see? That is why I sent for you. Christoph has come back.”

  “Shall I call a nurse?”

  “No! Brahm, he comes to me, talks to me. You wonder where these scratches are from? Don’t you see? They come from him.”

  I threw open the door. What blasphemy! I shouted into the empty hall. “Nurse! Somebody fetch the superintendent.”

  She grabbed my coat. “Please listen to me.”

  No matter how I twisted and turned, she wouldn’t let go. A nurse arrived and pried her from me. When I left, she was on her bed, mewling like a hungry kitten.

  There is a sharp chill within these halls, a draught that pierces my clothing. I must meet with Hastings to discuss your mother’s behavior.

  Later—

  It is lovely outside, even in the winter. Oak, aspen, evergreen and ash flourish on the rolling hills. Deer browse the snow unafraid. And the air here is so clean, so invigorating. How could this not be the best place for your mother?

  Hastings and I talked at great length. He assured me that it’s not unusual for someone in Gerta’s condition to hear voices. It is part of her madness; Dementia Praecox.

  You laugh. You say I should know this. But in matters of the family, all cognition is an elusive wisp of smoke.

  Hastings is an intelligent man. He put me at ease over brandy and cigars, and convinced me of something I’ve known all along; that I should treat Gerta with gentleness, rather than vehemence. He suggested I play along with her delusions. Act as if her ravings are fact. Perhaps then she’ll recognize the paradox and see that what she takes to be real is merely a trick of the mind.

  It is evening now, and I must go to your mother’s room.

  Later—

  She entered the room shivering and wet shortly after I arrived. I asked her where she’d been.

  “Talking with Christoph,” she said.

  “Out in the snow?”

/>   “Don’t mock me.”

  “Why not talk to Christoph here?”

  “Please, Brahm — “

  “No — Gerta — forgive me,” I said. “I want to know what you and he talk about.”

  Her suspicion faded with a smile. “He tells me such wonderful things. He asks about you often.”

  “Does he?”

  “Oh, yes.” She touched my arm, and then hugged me tightly. “I’m so glad you came.” She kissed my cheek. “He wants to come back.”

  “Come back?”

  She trembled. “He needs your help.”

  “Bring him here, now, so that I can talk with him,” I whispered.

  “We must go to him.”

  “Then take me to him at once.”

  “Tomorrow night,” she said.

  “I wish to see him now.”

  She let go of me and backed away. “No. Not tonight.” Her shoulders slumped, and her face fell slack with exhaustion. She peeled off her wet clothes and slid into bed.

  Now I, too, must sleep.

  January 15, 1898

  My Dearest Christoph:

  She is in good spirits today, as if a great weight has been lifted from her. We lunched with the other patients in a large dining room, a bright and cheery place with large windows overlooking the snowy grounds. Hastings joined us for a dessert of apple pie, and he was proud to point out that the apples were grown on the property.

  Your mother sleeps now. How she enjoys her post-dinner naps! A subtle light enters her room such as in Vermeer’s The Milkmaid. You remember the one?

  When she wakes, she will take me to meet you. It is hard to write such a thing without throwing my hands in the air with contempt and frustration, but I shall do my part as the superintendent wishes. I will try to gently back her into a corner of her own mad logic. But I question the point of it all, for if the truth at last shines upon her, will not a half-dozen more delusions creep into her mind like a thick fog?

  Later—

  Hastings arrived while your mother slept, and inquired if all was well. I assured him it was. He invited me to accompany him on his rounds, and I eagerly accepted. Why is it that the ill fortune and madness of others fascinate me so?

  We started in the women’s wing. Hastings introduced me to his patients as a visiting doctor — a slight deception, yes, but at the same time, very true. I kept quiet and stood out of his way as much as possible in order to keep the patients from becoming upset or over-excited at the presence of a stranger. But the doctor’s easy manner and congeniality never failed to put the female patients at ease. Some of the women actually fawned over him, touching him as if a pet.

  A strange thing, Christoph; during the course of our rounds, I crossed paths with a female who had a large tumor protruding from the front of her neck. It was the size of a grapefruit. My instincts as a doctor took over, and I tried to question her about the growth, but she refused to talk. She covered her face and hurried away, as if ashamed. But what was most odd, was that as she turned a corner, the tumor appeared to pulse.

  Hastings informed me it was a recent growth that will likely soon kill her. I felt sorry for the poor soul.

  We soon passed through a central rotunda and into the men’s wing. Hastings pulled two cigars from his shirt pocket and offered me one. I accepted, but as he lit my cigar, a troubling thought jumped into my head like a hungry flea. I paused mid-puff and put my hand to my forehead.

  Hastings noticed my sudden change of mood. “Yes?” he asked.

  “May I ask you something?” I asked. “It is a question of delicacy, but I wish an honest answer.”

  He squinted through a cloud of cigar smoke. “Of course.”

  “With the freedom here — the men and the women — do they…” My heart beat rapidly, my face grew hot. “What I mean, has Gerta — “ I searched for the proper words.

  Hastings sucked on the end of his cigar and blew out a ring of smoke. He said, “With the liberties the patients enjoy here, there are of course occasional, shall we say, flings.” He smiled. “But Gerta, I assure you, has been steadfastly chaste.”

  Now, Christoph — again, I will be honest. Your mother is fourteen years my junior, yet she is no longer as viable and lovely as when we first met, before her madness set in. Wrinkles cross her face like cracks in bread crust. The skin of her neck sags, and her hair runs with streaks of silver. But I caught something in the superintendent’s eye, in his tone of voice, and I knew at once he lied. Lied to protect my feelings, my honor — of this I have no doubt. But nonetheless — my insides felt like a rag squeezed tight.

  Does your mother have lovers here? Can I blame her? It is the essence of nature, is it not?

  I must stop torturing myself with these thoughts.

  While in the men’s wing, we came to the room of a patient named Branagh. Before entering, Hastings informed me that Branagh had been the one responsible for digging the caves.

  He sat in a chair, his wrists restrained by rope.

  Hastings introduced me, but before I could say anything, Branagh asked in a thick Irish brogue, “Are you one of Satan’s imps?” His muscles flexed beneath a tight black shirt.

  I looked at Hastings, then back at Branagh. “I assure you, I am not.”

  “Then why do you converse with him?”

  Hastings shrugged. “Mr. Branagh believes himself to be the Son of God.”

  I asked, “You’re the one in charge of digging the caves? They’re quite ingenious.”

  Mr. Branagh’s thick hands relaxed on the arms of his chair. His face brightened and became at once youthful.

  It was fascinating, Christoph, as he explained in detail the logistics of such an undertaking. Amazing how one so delusional can also be so intelligent, so gifted.

  “But it is God’s work,” Branagh said. “It is not a place meant for the wicked doings that go on there.”

  Outside the room, Hastings raised his arms. “So much talent wasted to the trappings of delusion. Wouldn’t it be much easier to comprehend if all the mad were mere idiots? Thick-skulled criminals?”

  As we made our way back toward the rotunda, quick, light footsteps approached from behind. Before I could turn, a hand grabbed hold of me.

  The man was pale as snow, with a large Adam’s apple that bobbed violently with each swallow. He winked lasciviously. “I know your Gerta.” He straightened to his full height and bowed to me. “It is an honor, sir.”

  “Ignore him,” Hastings said.

  The man’s stomach appeared grossly distended, like that of a starving man. He took hold of my hand and pulled it to his belly. “See?” He smiled. “He’s fine. Everything is fine.”

  Hastings wrenched the man’s hand from my own. “James!”

  “It is an honor, sir. An honor.” He looked nervously to Dr. Hastings, then back to me. “There are worse ways to die,” he whispered.

  Hastings’ hand shot out and slapped him hard across the jaw. “Leave at once!”

  The patient cowered and felt his lip. A speck of blood came off on his thumb. He slunk away like a chastised dog.

  Hastings shook his head, staring after the man. “Forgive me. I feared for your safety. I am not normally a man of such temper.”

  “What was that about?”

  “More of the same — a poor man with enough delusions to fill an entire wing.” He stubbed his cigar out on the wall and dropped the butt to the floor, waving an attendant over to sweep it up.

  Christoph, when I pass through these halls, patients and attendants alike stop to watch me pass. Do I carry the mark of Cain on my forehead? Am I being paranoid?

  Your mother grows more delusional by the hour. “A miracle,” she said only an hour ago. “Tonight you shall see.”

  She’s become giddy. It has grown so hard not to slap some sense into her. But that would do nothing to cure her. It would merely result in petulance.

  A miracle…

  She obviously believes that you, my dear son, will communicate w
ith us. Is it to be a séance? Are others to be involved? Perhaps that is why they stare at me so.

  I must not get upset. Why is it that I am such an understanding and patient man, except when it comes to your mother? Around her, I am so often a beast.

  A miracle…

  If indeed you can speak to me, Christoph, I’d value nothing more. But as you know, I am a man cursed with common sense.

  A miracle, Christoph. It will be a miracle if I can keep my wits about me through this ordeal.

  She comes now, brandishing a bottle of brandy. “From Hastings,” she says.

  January 17, 1898

  Christoph? How can I continue to write coherently? To whom do I truly write? Surely not the Christoph I’d imagined. The Christoph of youth?

  Or no — to myself. I write these letters to myself so that I might keep some semblance of sanity about me.

  My God, what have I done?

  Do you understand that I am no longer the same man I was only days ago? Yes, I am still Brahm Zwick, but such a fundamental part of me has changed. How much like clay are we?

  I must gather my wits.

  The brandy was drugged. I should’ve guessed by the strange taste, but the drug overtook me so quickly.

  I awoke to a sharp ringing in my ears. My brain felt full of broken glass. I didn’t know where I was, only that I was cold. A straightjacket bound me. My eyes adjusted to the light of burning torches, and I realized that I sat on the floor of a cave, my back against the rough stone wall.

  Gerta kneeled before me. She brushed the hair from my eyes and stroked my face.

  “Unbind me,” I sputtered, the words echoing painfully in my skull.

  “Brahm, my husband, who committed me here against my will — how can I trust you not to flee?”

  “This is madness.”

  Gerta lifted a flask to my lips.

  “Haven’t you drugged me enough?” I gasped.

  “It’s only water.”

  I sipped, and then gulped until Gerta pulled the flask away.

  Other figures stood against the cave walls. I recognized the woman with the pulsing neck tumor, and the patient called James with the distended belly. And there were more.