Edelhart's mental porridge cost $150 an hour, and Jackson considered it a bargain. He settled in the chair as Edelhart closed the door and adjusted the window shades. Since the office was on the seventh floor, the traffic sounds below were muted. Jackson was almost able to forget his fear of cars. And windows. And the faces on either side of them.
Jackson closed his eyes. Edelhart's chair squeaked behind his polished mahogany desk. The room had an aroma of carpet cleaner and sweat. Or maybe Jackson was smelling his own panic. He tried to breath deeply and evenly, but he was too aware of his racing heartbeat. And the past, where he would soon be headed.
"So, where were we, Jeffrey?" The doctor's voice was deep, resonant, a soul-singer’s pipes. Even this familiar question took on a musical quality, a sonorous bass. Or maybe he was stereotyping. After all, not every black had the rid’dem.
"We were..." Jackson swallowed. "Going back."
Jackson didn't have to look to visualize the doctor's head gravely nodding. "Ah, yes," said Dr. Edelhart. The shuffling of papers, a quick perusal of notes, Jackson's round peg of a head being fitted into this square hole and that triangular niche. "So you've accepted that present life conflicts and traumas can have their roots in past lifetimes?"
"Of course, Doctor.” Jackson was too eager to please and too afraid to do otherwise. “Especially that one past life."
"We each have at least one bad former life, Jeffrey. Otherwise, there would be no reason to live again. Nothing to resolve."
Jackson wanted to ask which of the doctor's past lives were the most haunting. But of course that was wrong. Dr. Edelhart was the one behind the desk, the one with the pencil. He was the doctor, for Christ's sake. The answer man. The black dude delivering The Word to the square honky.
Sheesh, no wonder you're on the teeter brink of bumblefuck crazy. Starting to shrink the SHRINK. And this guy’s the only thing standing between you and a rubber room. Good thing dear Dr. Edelhart doesn't believe in medication, or you'd be on a brain salad of Prozac, Thorazine, lithium, Xanax, Xanadu, whatever.
No, the only drug that Edelhart believed in was plain and simple holism. Jackson's soul fragments were all over the place, in both space and time. Edelhart was the shaman, the quest leader, the spirit guide. His job was to take Jackson to those far corners of the universe where the fragments were buried or broken. Once the fragments were recovered, then all it took was a little psychic superglue and Jackson would “Become Authentic.”
Jackson just wished Edelhart would hurry the hell up. Seven months of regression therapy and they were just now getting to the good stuff. The tongue in the sore tooth. The fly in the ointment. The nail in the karmic wheel. The past life that pain built.
"I'm ready to go all the way," Jackson said, surer now. After all, what was a century-and-a-half of forgotten existence compared to thirty-plus years of real, remembered anxiety?
"Okay, Jeffrey. Breathe, count down from ten, your eyes are closed and looking through the ceiling, past the sky, past the long night above..."
Jackson could handle this. He fell into the meditation with practiced ease, and by the time the doctor reached "Seven, a gate awakens," Jackson was swaddled in the tender arms of a hypnotic trance. He scarcely heard Dr. Edelhart's feet approaching across the soft carpet. The doctor's breath was like a sea breeze on his cheek, the deep voice quieter now.
"You're on the plantation, Jeffrey. The wheat is golden, the cotton fields rolling out like a blanket of snow. The oaks are in bloom, the air sweet with the ripeness of the earth. Somebody's frying chicken in the main house. The sun is Carolina hot but it will go down soon."
Jackson smiled, distantly, drowsily. The Doc was good. It was almost like the man was there himself, simultaneously living Jackson's past life. But Jackson had described this scene so well, it was seared so deeply into his subconsciousness, that it was no wonder Dr. Edelhart could almost watch it like a movie.
Part of Jackson knew he was half-dreaming, that he was actually sitting in a chair in a Charlotte high rise. But the image was vivid, the farm spread out around him, the boots heavy on his feet, the smell of horses drifting from the barn, a cool draft on his neck from the creek. This wasn't real, but it was. He was this farmer, edging along the fence line, poking along the rim of the cornfield.
Past visits to this past life had made it familiar.
He was Dell Bedford, Southern gentleman, landowner, a colonel in the Tryon militia. Because they all knew Lincoln and them Federalist hogwashers were going to try to muscle the South back into the Union. But what Lincoln and his boot-licker McLellan didn't figure on was that the Confederate States of America might have other plans.
The nerve of that Lincoln, telling them what to do with their niggers.
Jackson swallowed hard, back in the modern padded chair, sweat ringing his scalp line. This part bothered him. He wasn't a racist, not anymore, not now. He'd voted against Jesse Helms, he supported illegal immigrants. He even saw a black therapist. He was cool with it all, brotherhood of man, harmony of one people.
But he had no proof that he hadn't once been Dell Bedford, slave master and arrogant white swine. How could he deny the word "nigger" that sat on his tongue, ready to be spat over and over again, a sick well of hate that never ran dry? He was Dell, or had been, or...
"Are you there, Jeffrey?" came Dr. Edelhart's voice. Decades away, yet right on the plantation with him, like a bee hovering around his ear.
"Yep," Jackson/Bedford said. "Corn's come in, gone to yeller on top. If I can round me up some niggers, might get an ear or two in before first frost."
"Those slaves. Always causing you problems, aren't they? Building up stress, making your chest burn with rage." Dr. Edelhart's voice was nigger-rich with sympathy.
"Damned right." Jackson/Bedford felt the muscles in his neck go rigid. He thrashed at the corn, then hollered. "Claybo!"
The shout scurried across the stalks of corn, rattled the corners of Dr. Edelhart's office. "Never can find that Claybo when you need him, can you?" said the doctor.
Bedford left Jackson, had no use for him, just as well let him sit in a chair and talk to a dandified free boy. Bedford had chores to get done. And there was only one way to get them done. Work the niggers.
"Claybo," he shouted again.
Sweat ran down the back of his neck, the brim of his hat serving hell for shade. Bedford hurried into the field, leather coiled in his taut right hand. His oldest son was on horseback in a far meadow, galloping toward the Johnson place to scramble hay with one of Johnson's bucolic daughters. Bedford gritted his teeth and waded into the corn.
"Claybo, if I ever get my hands on you..."
"Then what, Dell?" It was the dandy nigger. Dell shook his head. A damned voice from nowhere. The nerve of an invisible nigger to mess in a white man's business. A white man’s dreams.
"Then I'll kick his uppity ass. What else can you do with a sorry nigger?"
"He's not in the cornfield, Dell. You know that, don't you? We've already been through this."
"Shut up, nigger." Bedford tore through the corn, knocking over stalks, heading toward the thin stand of pines where the slaves were quartered. "Bet that damned good-for-nothing Claybo is taking himself a little snooze. And the sun ain't even barely touched the trees yet."
"That Claybo. He's nothing but trouble. Probably even learning to read. Bet he's got a spelling book under his strawtick."
"Niggers. Don’t let ‘em read. The first word they teach each other is 'no.' Well, I know how to drive the book-learning out of them." Bedford let the whip play out as he ran, jerked his wrist so that the length of leather undulated like a snake.
"That's it, Bedford,” came the easy voice. “Feel the anger. Embrace it. Breathe it."
Bedford scratched at his ear and ran on. He burst from the cornrows and crossed the bare patch of dirt that served as nigger-town square. Six cabins of rough logs and mud squatted under the spindly pines. A little pickaninnie sat in front of one of the
m, playing with a rag doll. She'd be able to walk soon, and finally be able to work for her keep.
Bedford went to the last cabin and kicked at the door. It fell open, and Bedford shouted into the dark. Then he saw them, three pairs of white eyes. There was nothing quite like a nigger in the dark. Hell, he didn't even mind when his neighbors had runaways, because they were so much fun to hunt.
"Tell me what you see," said the distant voice. Smooth-talking nigger, like one of them Yankee preachers that come down once in a while to rub in their faces that, up North, niggers were free. How Northern niggers owned all kinds of land, while Bedford had only thirty hardscrabble acres of Carolina clay.
"What the hell you think I see? You were here with me last time I done this." Bedford was nearly as mad at the invisible nigger as he was at Claybo. He hurried into the cramped dark.
"Don't hurt me, Mar's Bedford," Claybo pleaded. Like a little sissy girl who was going to get a hickory switch across the bloomers. "My baby's took sick. I swear, I was going to go back and work. I just had to come look in—"
“Shut up, nigger.” Bedford's eyes had adjusted now, and he could make their outlines. The woman on the bed, holding the infant, both of them slick with sweat. Claybo kneeling beside the bed, hands lifted up like Bedford was Jesus Christ the Holy Savior, but Claybo should know that Jesus never helped niggers, only good, holy whites.
The woman wailed, then the baby started crying. Bedford's blood coursed hot through his veins, his pulse was a hammer against the anvil of his temples, his head was a powder keg with a beeswax fuse.
"You're right to feel anger," whispered the educated nigger, the one that was so far away. "You've been wounded. This is where your soul bleeds, Jeffrey."
Bedford wondered who the hell Jeffrey was, but that didn’t matter, that was another world and another worry. He grabbed Claybo by the shirt and tugged him toward the door. As much as he would have loved to stripe the nigger in front of his woman, the cabin didn't allow for good elbow room. Claybo only half resisted, dead weight. He didn't dare struggle too much. Because the nigger knew if he did, his woman would be next.
Bedford's anger settled lower, took a turn, became something warm and light in his stomach.
Joy.
He loved beating a nigger.
He pushed Claybo to the ground, tore at the big man's shirt. He gave the nigger a kick in the ribs to get the juices flowing. The whip handle almost throbbed in his hand, as if it had a turgid life of its own.
"Seize the fragment," came that confounded, invisible nigger, the one in his head. "Look at yourself, Jeffrey. You're splintered, apart from the world. Outside the circle of your own soul."
"My fragment." Bedford grunted through clenched teeth.
"These are the traumatic emotions and body sensations that have tracked you through the years. This is where your pain comes from. This is your unfinished business. This is your wound."
Bedford tried to ignore the nigger-talk. He stepped back, hefted the whip, sensed the graceful leather unfurling, rolled his arm in an easy motion, sent the knotted tip into Claybo's broad back. The ebony flesh split like a dropped melon.
A sweet pleasure surged through Bedford, a fever that was better than what he found between his wife's legs, even between the nigger cook's, a honey-hot heaven. He whisked the whip back to deliver another blow—
"This is your discarnate self, Jeffrey. Doesn't it sicken you? Don't you see why your soul is so far from releasement?"
Bedford paused, the leather dripping red, hungry for a second taste.
"Restore balance, Jeffrey."
Bedford/Jackson looked down at the huddled, quivering Claybo.
Dr. Edelhart spoke again, gentle, encouraging. "Resolve the conflict and heal the emotional vulnerability. Seek your spiritual reattachment."
Jackson felt dizzy. The whip wilted in his hand. He wanted to vomit. He couldn't believe he had ever been so brutal. Not in any of his lives. "I didn't..."
"Denial is not the path to wholeness, Jeffrey. Empower yourself."
Tears trickled down Jackson's face. He could feel the eyes watching Bedford from the cabin door. A witness to his spiritual fracture. How could he possibly make this right? How could he become a soul-mind healed?
Sobbing, he turned to the only one he could trust. "What do I do now, Dr. Edelhart?"
"You know the answer. I can only lead you to the door. The final steps are yours."
Jackson bent to his victim. Claybo looked at him, wide-eyed, wary. Jackson placed the whip at Claybo's feet. Then he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, his skin pale in the sunset.
Jackson knelt on the ground. He put his face against the dirt, pine needles scratching his cheek, dust clinging to his tears. "Free me," he said to the man he had whipped.
"Mar's?" Claybo’s voice was wracked with hidden hurt.
“Do it.”
“Yes, suh.” Claybo slowly lifted himself, his shirt hanging in rags from his dark muscles. Both men were on their knees, equal.
"Whip me," Jackson commanded. Then, begging, "Please."
Claybo stood, six-three, a man, black anger. He fumbled with the whip, making an awkward arc in the air with its length. He snapped his wrist and the leather slapped against Jackson's bare back.
Not a strong blow, yet the pain sluiced along Jackson's spinal cord.
Jackson swallowed a scream, his lungs feeling stuffed with embers. He gasped, then panted, "Harder."
The agony was soul-searing, but Jackson knew the blow wasn't nearly hard enough to drive the transpersonal residue from his soiled psyche.
The whip descended again, more controlled this time, scattering sparks across Jackson's fragmented but hopeful spirit-flesh. Claybo was intelligent for a darkie. A fast learner. The whip fell a third time, inflicting a deeper, more meaningful misery. Flogging Jackson closer to whole.
"Your hour's up," Dr. Edelhart interrupted.
Jackson came around, brought back by the words that he'd been trained to recognize as the trigger that would pull him from hypnosis. He blinked as he looked around the office. He was soaked with sweat, his muscles aching, his throat dry. Dr. Edelhart was standing over him.
"How do you feel?" said the doctor, eyes half-closed as if studying a rare insect.
Jackson tried the air, found that it came into his lungs, then out, though it tasted of tannin. He was alive, back in the reality he knew. Years away from the scarred night of his soul. A strange peace descended, though he was tired, drained.
"I...I feel..." He searched through Dr. Edelhart's catalog of catch phrases, then found one that seemed to fit. "I feel a little more integrated."
Dr. Edelhart smiled. "I feel that we've made true progress today, Jeffrey."
Jackson sat up in the chair, energy returning. "Wow. I haven't felt this good in years."
"A hundred and forty, give or take a few."
"How...how did you know?"
Dr. Edelhart waved at the diplomas and framed certificates on the wall behind his desk. "I'm the doctor. I'm supposed to know."
Jackson stood, walked the soreness from his legs. "I could run through a crowd right now, and not even notice all the eyes watching me. I don’t feel angry at all. Nobody to hate."
"Progress through regression. But. . . " Dr. Edelhart's word hung suspended in the air, like a tiny sliver of discarnate spirit.
"But what?" Jackson said.
"Let's not forget. This is only the beginning. A giant step, to be sure. But only a step."
Jackson looked at the carpet. "I should have guessed it wouldn't be that easy. Not after spending months just to get to this point."
"Now we know where your spiritual bondage is. Next time, we can go a little farther."
Jackson gave a smile, enjoying this moment of enlightenment. He was on the road to recovery. Sure, it might take months, maybe years. But he'd be whole. Even if it killed him.
Or rather, killed Dell Bedford.
"Funny, isn't it?" Jackson said. He always fe
lt a little more informal at the end of a session. He'd be on top of the world for the next few days, no worries, the spiders at bay, the clowns snoozing in circus shadows. He'd even be able to take the elevator to the street.
Dr. Edelhart seemed to be in a good mood as well. "What's funny?"
"My fragmented past life. That my psychic wound would be racism. Well, racism, sadism, masochism, the whole laundry list we've already been through."
"What's so funny about that?"
"Well, you being black and all. Or should I say African-American?"
"Black's fine. Maybe it's not a coincidence at all, Jeffrey. Spiritual paths do have a way of intersecting here and there along the way. Sometimes more than once."
Jackson looked into the doctor's eyes. For just a second. Then the brightness was gone, the doctor shielded behind his clinical expression, lost behind the other end of the magnifying glass.
But for just that one second, Jackson had seen Claybo in there, hunted, haunted, vengeful. Wet with his own psychic scars.
No. Jackson shook the image from his head. He wasn't here to drive himself crazy. He was here to be healed.
"See you next week, same time?" Jackson said.
Dr. Edelhart smiled. "I'm looking forward to it."
THE END
Head Cases Table of Contents
Master Table of Contents
###
METABOLISM
By Scott Nicholson
The city had eyes.
It watched Elise from the glass squares set into its walls, walls that were sheer cliff faces of mortar and brick. She held her breath, waiting for them to blink. No, not eyes, only windows. She kept walking.
And the street was not a tongue, a long black ribbon of asphalt flesh that would roll her into the city's hot jaws at any second. The parking meter poles were not needly teeth, eager to gnash. The city would not swallow her, here in front of everybody. The city kept its secrets.
And the people on the sidewalk- how much did they know? Were they enemy agents or blissful cattle? The man in the charcoal-gray London Fog trench coat, the Times tucked under his elbow, dark head down and hands in pockets. A gesture of submission or a crafted stance of neutrality?
Mad Stacks: Story Collection Box Set Page 19