by Jim Krusoe
Jeffery: Maybe, but after that, I tried to leave again, and then I got sidetracked again, and the same thing happened after that, and after that. So it’s been a week now, and for one reason or another I still haven’t been outside. It’s like . . .
The bell of the toaster oven rings. The bagels are ready. JEFFERY takes them out and spreads cream cheese on each. He gives one to VIKTOR.
Viktor: Come on—think about it. What is going on outside that’s so important anyway? You can watch the news, can’t you?
Jeffery: That’s exactly what I told myself. But lately I’ve been thinking, what if I’m under some kind of a spell, or secret power? And then I tried to remember if anybody here has mentioned being outside lately, and I couldn’t think of anyone who has. So sitting here, right now, I just made my mind up to start asking other people. You know, you, obviously, and Heather, and Madeline, and maybe even Raymond, although I’m pretty sure what his answer will be because he’s happy just to stay in his room carving decoys, and as long as chunks of wood keep arriving from wherever, he’s happy.
Viktor: That’s the Duck Man, all right.
Jeffery: But doesn’t that strike you as odd?
Viktor: That he likes ducks? You should hear what Madeline has to say on that subject.
Jeffery: No, I mean where do those chunks of wood come from?
Viktor: I don’t know. I guess somebody . . . or maybe not. Maybe. Listen, I have to go.
Jeffery: But wait. There’s one more thing. Have you ever heard of the Witness Protection Program?
Viktor: The federal one? Of course I have, but what does that have to do with anything? Now, I’ll just take my bagel back to my room and get to work. Have a good night.
Jeffery: Thanks. You too.
JEFFERY is left alone in the kitchen, holding his bagel.
So instead of chewing over the story of the mutiny once again, maybe the Captain should tell his audience about the day he shot the rope that was holding the beautiful young native girl those devils from another tribe were taking away to be a hostage, or worse. The girl—what was her name?—Rima? Kojima? Bulima? She couldn’t have been more than fourteen, but was already surprisingly well-developed. Also she was remarkably calm, seeing as how she was being led away to nearly certain death by vicious members of a rival clan. For a while he was sure that they must have drugged her, but then, once he had severed her rope tether with a single shot from the Walther, she took off like a rabbit until she got to the grassy edge of the river, dived in, and climbed on board the ship, while the whole time the Captain covered her escape with a deadly accurate volley of bullets he kept firing into the bushes from the moving deck. And then, talk about a twilight individual finding surprising ways to show her gratitude! On second thought, it’s probably not such a good idea to bring this up in public, chiefly because of the issues of a statutory nature, but also he doesn’t want to make it seem as if he is gloating. Those were the days, he thinks, but since then what does he have to show for himself?
Other than a series of fish-related endorsements and some lectures, not all that much, if he’s being honest.
Ballerina Mouse is dead, her head caught in one of those traps where the metal bar descends to snap a poor mouse’s spine so rapidly the creature caught beneath, if it’s lucky, dies instantly. If not, it gets caught by a part of a leg, or even its nose, or somewhere else, and has to suffer for as long as it takes to be found, or it finally and agonizingly dies. But Ballerina Mouse was lucky, because in that split second, the pain of her foot, the humiliation of her ballet lessons, the mendacity of Mme. Suzette, all of it, became only the extrusions of one final flush of consciousness, already forgotten, gone into the air, the flowers, the grass, the trees.
No.
To the St. Nils Eagle
Dear Editors,
Awhile ago I announced in the pages of your paper the formation of my organization (FQO.org) dedicated to the distribution of crossbows to needy servicemen and women, and since then I have received exactly zero donations. Far from being discouraged over a lack of public generosity, I am forced to conclude this is the case because practically no one reads what you write. (In point of fact, I myself have never seen anyone actually reading the Eagle besides myself.) For this, and other reasons relating to my present cash flow, I am now officially canceling my subscription.
Do not mistake this for a “cry for help” because it is not. I am fine, and if anyone needs help it would be those individuals who continue to publish a paper no one reads. Meanwhile, keep those crossbows coming.
Sincerely,
A Former (and for all I know, your only) Subscriber
Tocar: to touch.
XIV
Suppose a person is a genius, Junior wonders, maybe so far in front of other people that he never sees anyone, or speaks to anyone, or has any dealings with anyone, so for him, the petty needs and wants of others do not even exist, then how is that different from being dead? And even if this individual in question speaks with people once in a while—when he is in a store and has to ask where the bathroom is, for example—for those other parts of time when he’s not speaking to anyone, is that the same as being dead? Or if two people live far apart and never say anything to each other, is that the same as each of them being dead?
Anyway, where did this thought come from? Does this have something to do with his father? Sadly, he can’t quite work out that answer.
Or, Junior thinks, if a person is a genius, and surrounded by others who are also geniuses, maybe a think tank or something, and they all speak to each other, and see each other frequently, practically on a daily basis, and share their experiences with each other, how can they be sure they are geniuses?
To answer such a question, Junior would need to be a philosopher.
But Junior is not a philosopher. Not in the least.
Junior is a psychopath, and he is confusing himself with all these questions, one after another.
Roy is a good name, Junior thinks. He would like to have been called Roy.
But no, he had to get Junior.
Living here in the Burrow, what does Heather miss? Sunsets, kittens, grass, having a friend she can tell her secrets to. Feeling special.
What does Jeffery miss? Waterfalls, wind, spending money on things he doesn’t need but feels like buying.
What does Viktor miss? Mud, seeing the sun go down, lying in warm mud.
What does Raymond miss? That’s easy: ducks, geese, and coleslaw, which for some reason they never get in the Burrow because, Madeline says, no one ever leaves cabbage.
Madeline misses flowers, the sound of the ocean, the ability to go to a store and pick out her own groceries. Also a good stove would be nice.
What did Louis miss?
No one will ever know; he may as well be dead.
Instinct. That was what Dr. Barry Schwartz, her mentor in the Professional Practices Program, told her to heed. “Picture it, Tammy,” Dr. Schwartz had said, “there you are in your rented office, no one else around, the security guard—if you are lucky enough to have one, which I doubt you will be—is either down the hall or out for coffee, and you are alone with a man, a patient, but still a man who is telling you his innermost secrets, ones he’s fought to keep inside for years, and now you are prying them out of him bit by painful bit, coming closer and closer to his most guarded treasure, the secret of all secrets. Think about it: as you approach, his heart rate increases, his blood pressure rises, the identical physiological signs that would have exhibited themselves in his primitive past when he was hunting a deer or planning to carry a woman off to some glade for sex. So this man is stimulated; he’s confused; he looks around. What does he see? A lovely, vulnerable attractive woman like yourself, my dear, the kind he has always desired, maybe even preyed upon at some time or other in the past because, after all, he’s crazy, and now you are alone with him—just as the two of us are at this moment—in your rented office or maybe a spare room of your house, the use of which
you are deducting from your taxes, and your legs are crossed, and your hair smells good, like strawberries, maybe a hint of clover too, and there is nothing between him and you but a yellow legal pad and the fat, expensive rollerball such as the one you are holding between your fingers now to scribble your notes.
“Instinct,” Dr. Barry Schwartz repeated, breathing heavily. He touched the rim of his small, dark, Tyrolean hat, which for some reason or another in all the time she had known him she had never even once seen him remove from his head. Then he shut his eyes, reached up to his hatband, where he found a small, colorful duck feather, and he rubbed his index finger lightly over the feather’s top.
He opened his eyes again. “Instinct, Tammy, is your only weapon, and, yes, you are a therapist and are there to help this man. Yet, on the other hand, it’s not a coincidence that many individuals who need help are also dangerous, and now something (your instinct) is telling you to get out of your chair. So do it! Make up some ridiculous excuse, such as you have to use the bathroom or check your parking meter, and, once you are out of his sight, run, run, run to your car and lock the doors. Then, take your cell phone and call 911, because though the person waiting for you in your office, with its cheerful curtains and Persian or Turkish carpet, the person currently checking the clock given to you by a major pharmaceutical company to see how long you’ve been gone, is needy, very needy, and in pain, tremendously in pain, and although your professional obligation is to return and help him, your instinct is correct: he is a monster and you should flee.”
Dr. Barry Schwartz picked up his favorite pipe, a meerschaum carved in the image of Sigmund Freud, from where it had been lying on the desk and sucked in hard, very hard, even though it was currently empty of tobacco. A filthy habit, Tammy thought back then, and one she still abhors.
And what does any of this have to do with Junior’s visit?
Tendrils, growing things, reaching out of the soil into what? And for what reason other than to grow?
Not that Jeffery’s future television show, which will be called The Burrow, is the only seed in his creative garden. He’s also thinking about a children’s book, or maybe a screenplay for a children’s movie, though he should probably work on the book first, then the movie after that to cash in on the success of the book, which will be called Speedy Jack. It will be about a dog named Jack whose back legs are cut off in an accident and who is fitted with a new kind of canine prosthesis made out of old automobile leaf springs, so that while wearing his new rear legs, Jack can jump even higher than before, and run a lot faster, too.
So the book will start, naturally enough, with Jack as a happy young dog. Then comes the story of the accident and, after that, how Jack practices with his new legs until he becomes super comfortable wearing them, first having races with other dogs and winning, then going on to racing deer and antelope, and beating them all until one day his owner takes him to Africa, where Jack races a cheetah, the fastest animal on earth, and Jack winds up winning, seizing the title of fastest animal, at least for the duration of his life, from the disappointed cat. Finally, in the end, Jack will actually turn to face his readers and explain how grateful he is to have had the accident in the first place, because without it, none of his other adventures would ever have happened. In other words, Jeffery’s book will teach children in a subtle way that sometimes life throws people curves, but with hard work and a positive attitude, even a bad situation can be turned around.
It’s a narrative, Jeffery thinks, that will write itself once he can figure out one thing: what kind of accident will set Jack’s story in motion. He’d like to have Jack trying to save someone, but at this very moment it’s hard to imagine how that would work, exactly, when it’s his rear legs, not the front ones, that will have to be cut off. How do you lose your rear legs unless you are running away? Also, if Jack had only tried to save someone and failed, there would be a dead person somewhere, and that could be a problem for children. Plus, there’s the fact that no matter if someone was or wasn’t saved, there’s an accident, which means there’s bound to be a lot of blood, and some parents might object, even though Jeffery plans to have Jack’s owner standing by, watching the whole thing, and because his owner is a doctor he’ll know exactly what to do to keep the bleeding to a minimum—probably tourniquets or something—followed by a rapid operation.
The doctor part makes sense because it will also explain how Jack gets to have a special prosthesis made, while most dogs that have their back legs cut off, whether in the process of saving someone’s life or not, just die. So in the book it will be clear this isn’t a normal event, but is made possible because the doctor knows the perfect person to call who can make Jack a new set of legs, so children will also learn how important it is to know the right people as they go through life, and this person, the prosthesis maker—though he will almost certainly lose money on the deal—makes a pair of them for Jack because he hopes for a ton of referrals from the doctor in the future. In addition, the prosthesis maker decides that the publicity that will come from Jack being a celebrity can only help his business with other doctors as well. In this way the children will learn there’s usually a quid pro quo to most things in life.
So it’s never too late, Jeffery thinks. The only problem is that original accident. Now what could it possibly be?
TRANSCRIPT OF CONVERSATION FROM THE TECHNICAL STAFF
Tech #1: How much do they know?
Tech #2: Just enough, no more. They’re not kept in the dark, exactly, but in a kind of twilight sleep, essentially the same as for a colonoscopy, or when they operate to remove certain growths—not quite awake, but still believing they are here—in a place, wherever that is—in their minds that has not gone away.
Tech #1: And do you ever weep for them?
Tech #2: Are you kidding? Would you weep for a small bird caught in a storm?
Tech #1: And are there a lot of them out there?
Tech #2: A whole lot, and not just the ones that you and I are in charge of, but all the rest being taken care of by other staff like us.
Tech #1: Oh. So what’s it like outside right now—can you tell?
Tech #2: It’s getting dark. Not dark yet, but heading there.
Has Viktor ever attempted to act like something other than a pig? Well, of course he has—who wouldn’t? It’s not as if he hasn’t tried other animal behavior— something more expansive—a horse’s, for example, or a lemur’s, smaller but cute.
To illustrate just one occasion: Once in the seventh grade, he offered his lunch to a girl who’d left hers at home and so she arrived at school with nothing to eat. She was a pretty girl with long blond hair, so it’s true that there may have been self-gratifying motives at work in Viktor’s mind, but then, after she accepted his offer, she just got up from where she was sitting, the place where Viktor had sat down next to her, and walked to a spot two tables away and unpacked Viktor’s lunch, enjoying one after another of his favorite foods, including a fudge brownie, an item his mother never ever put in his lunch before and, had he known it would be there, he most certainly would never have shared. Viktor just went hungry.
And there were other times also, in high school and after, but in the end Viktor has settled on this piece of homemade wisdom: If you can’t love the one you ought to be, love the one you are. Which is, he knows, a pathetic kind of wisdom, but, hey, it’s all he has. So Viktor tells himself, Pigs are pigs, at least. And pigs tend to get very, very rich.
Suppose he just moved into Louis’s room without asking? Nobody would stop him. Louis isn’t coming back. He’s sure of that.
Still, the Captain has one more card to play—his hole card, no pun intended. If his career as a public speaker ever ends due to scandal or general lack of interest, he can always write a book and get rich. He vaguely remembers that one of the vessels he commanded (and there were a lot of them) had a cat as a mascot, until one day the Captain found it sleeping in a drawer in his cabin, getting its hair all over his neatly r
olled socks, and so he took it straight out to the deck and tossed it overboard.
I could write a story about a ship’s cat, he thinks, something warmhearted and aimed at children. Plus, there are advantages to writing a children’s book. First, anyone can write one; second, there are hardly any words, hence fewer chances of making a mistake; third, kids’ books are naturals for sequels; and fourth—and best of all—such books tend to be overpriced. In addition, very few of them hold up under spilled sugary drinks and sticky fingers, so they have to be rebought every time another generation comes around.
That’s settled then. He’s decided the cat should be orange and white, and have a ribbon around its neck. Also there can be battles with rats aboard the ship, but what will he call the cat in his book? Thor? Brutus? Spike? Nope. The actual cat he remembers tossing overboard must have had a name, but he never knew it. So for his book, how about something nonthreatening, a name children can instantly identify with? For example, a simple, harmless name—like Junior.
You keep going forward, girl. Be Positive. These are some of the signs Heather has put up to cover practically every square inch of her room, so, literally, there’s nowhere she can look and not see them helping her. These are the messages that the Good Heather has left behind to aid the Not-Good-Enough Heather when that second one forgets, or gets discouraged, or even wants to sometimes . . . well . . . to make everything go away once and for all.