Candy

by Terry Southern

  The others looked on in disapproval at the telltale sound of bottles clinking together in the satchel, but Uncle Jack, who had been supine in his bed, sat up with interest. “I could do with a drop of bourbon,” he observed earnestly.

  “Not bourbon, old boy,” Livia corrected, extracting two bottles from her satchel and winking lewdly, “Schnapps! Steinhagen from the Tyrol! It’ll juice you to the gills!”

  “Now Livia, that’s a darn silly idea to have brought that here,” said Luther, puffing anxiously.

  “Nonsense!” Livia snapped. “Just the thing for a hangover. Matter of fact, we could all probably stand a quick one. How about it. Ida? Neat or on the rocks? How about it, Can? Think you can scare up some ice cubes in this mausoleum?”

  Candy was so angry she could have wept. “This—this is incredible,” she said with a tiny stamp of rage.

  “Oh really!” said Uncle Jack, sounding very lucid and urbane. “I don’t see how a quick one could possibly do me any harm.” He accompanied this remark with a look of calm severity—not to be gainsaid—in Candy’s direction.

  Aunt Livia had brought glasses too, and now set about improvising a bar on a large hospital wheeling-table. “There’s a good girl, Can,” she urged. “Ice cubes! And with all due dispatch! Remember, there’s a brave little sick boy waiting for you to get back with the serum. So hurry! Mush! Mush!”

  Candy flounced out of the room and cracked the door shut behind her.

  Scarcely knowing where she was going or what she was going to do, she wandered blindly through the immaculate hospital halls. . . . In her mind, of course, was the desire to find Krankeit, but she soon became lost in the labyrinthine passages and stairways, and had no idea where to seek him.

  Rounding a corner she faced yet another long corridor. Had she already traversed it? It was identical with the others and she felt the confused beginning sting of tears in her eyes as she started down it. Abruptly, a door on her left opened; a massive red arm reached out, seized her, and drew her into the room. . . .

  She was in a kind of dimly lit, oversized closet full of brooms, mops and pails. . . . She stood there, petrified with fright, hardly daring to look at the person who had pulled her so fiercely into this sinister place.

  Audrey, the squat, evil-tempered scrubwoman, leaned back against the door and eyed Candy impassively.

  “You should excuse me,” she said suddenly, “from yenking your arm so brutal.”

  Candy’s arm did hurt, and she rubbed the spot ruefully, but she was vastly relieved that the terrifying little woman was merely talking to her—she had feared, at first, that her very life might be in danger.

  “I wanted to have a chat with you,” Audrey disclosed.

  “Certainly,” Candy agreed nervously.

  “Just this: LEAVE MINE BOY ALONE!”

  “Leave who? I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “Please!” cut in the stumpy scrubwoman. “I saw you with mine Irving! Lookin’ at him—”

  Candy regarded the powerful gray-haired woman with astonishment.

  “—like salami wouldn’t melt in your mouth!”

  “Irving is your—your ‘boy’?”

  “Leave him alone! LEAVE MINE BOY ALONE!”

  “Do—do you mean that you are Mrs. Krankeit—Dr. Krankeit’s mother?”

  “Yes. I am Irving’s mother, but Mrs. Krankeit I am not. ‘Krankeit’ is a name that Irving made up because he didn’t like our real name.”

  “Made it up? But why, what is your real name?”

  “Semite,” the squat little woman gravely replied. “Mrs. Silvia Semite.”

  Candy understood. She could guess at the untold hell the name “Irving Semite” must have caused Krankeit as a lad in his student days. But good grief, what a person’s name was wasn’t the important thing! She would make him see that. She would show him, when the time came, that she would be proud to become “Candy Semite.”

  “Irving changed his name because he’s so sensitive,” the scrubwoman pointed out proudly.

  “But I don’t understand. Why are you—” Candy stopped, staring at Mrs. Semite’s soiled workclothes in utter bewilderment.

  “You mean this?” and Irving’s mother waved contemptuously at the mops and pails.

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “It’s so that I can be here, close to mine boy.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Candy looked about hopelessly at the brooms and dripping brushes.

  “Irving, my son, is a genius,” Mrs. Semite reminded Candy. “I want to be near him, to see him—every day. In his office I can’t stay, I know—it ‘embarrasses’ him, and to the patients it looks funny to have his mother always standing there. All right, I understand that.”

  “And so you’ve taken on this job in order—in order to be near your son?”

  “Exzectly. And no one should know I’m his mother . . . but to you I tell it, because I want you should leave Irving alone. You’re not a nize girl for him!”

  Candy looked away self-consciously and steeled herself for what was coming. No doubt Irving’s mother had also heard the story about her and was going to revile her now as Dr. Dunlap had done.

  But the older woman had become silent. She was standing with her ear to the wall and seemed to be intently listening to something. . . .

  In another instant she sped to a shelf stacked with bars of soap and packages of detergent. Scurrying like a mother squirrel, she moved these objects aside, and presently uncovered a part of the wall where there was a small sliding panel. She cautioned Candy to silence, holding her finger to her lips, then slid the panel open and put her face to the aperture. After a few seconds she turned back toward Candy with a bemused smile on her face. “There he is!” she whispered ecstatically.

  Candy stepped to the opening, which seemed to have been intended for a movie-projector window, and found herself gazing down into a good-sized amphitheater. The vast room was empty save for Dr. Dunlap, who was sitting under a strong light in the very center, and Krankeit himself, standing high in the uppermost tier of seats and barely discernible in the shadows.

  Dr. Dunlap had a device of some sort clamped to his head: there were electrodes taped to his temples, and wires from them led to a screen coated with some fluorescent material, which stood a few feet before him. On the screen danced a jagged pattern of lines—wave lengths of the electrical impulses of his brain, apparently—and the distinguished-looking doctor, leaning forward slightly, stared wide-eyed at them as if hypnotized.

  “Can you give me an ‘all-clear?’” called Krankeit tersely, a small megaphone raised to his mouth.

  “All clear!” replied Dunlap, tight-lipped.

  “Ready for your little standby?” demanded Krankeit.

  “Ready for little standby!” snapped Dunlap.

  Krankeit leaned over into space, his keen eyes riveted to the patterned screen and the flashing instrument panel, as he lifted the miniature megaphone to his lips again.

  “Ready for your little countdown?”

  “Ready for little countdown!”

  Krankeit regarded his wristwatch, stared at the sweeping second-hand.

  “8. . . 7. . . stand by for standby. . .6. . . ready for ready . . . 5. . . 4. . . stand by! . . . 3. . . 2. . . 1! Ready for your big standby?” He was practically shouting now, and both men had the intensity of children at a game of magic.

  “Ready for big standby!”

  “Ready for your big countdown?”

  “Ready for big countdown!”

  “Stand by!” shouted Krankeit, and, as he continued, his voice took on an odd metallic quality as though it were coming through a large public-address system: “100 . . . 99 . . . 98 . . . 97 . . . 96 . . . 95 . . . 94 . . . 93 . . . 92 . . . 91 . . . 90 . . . 89 . . . 88 . . . 87 . . . 86 . . . 85 . . . 84 . . . 83 . . . 82 . . . 81 . . . 80 . . . 79 . . . 78 . . . 77 . . . 76 . . . 75 . . . 74 . . . 73 . . . 72 . . . 71 . . . 70 . . . 69 . . . 68 . . . 67 . . . 66 . . . 65 . . . 64 . . . 63 . . . 62 . . . 61.
. . 60 . . . 59 . . . 58 . . . 57 . . . 56 . . . 55 . . . 54 . . . 53 . . . 52 . . . 51 . . . 50 . . . 49 . . . 48 . . . 47 . . . 46 . . . 45 . . . 44 . . . 43 . . . 42 . . . 41 . . . 40 . . . 39 . . . 38 . . . 37 . . . 36 . . . 35 . . . 34 . . . 33 . . . 32 . . . 31 . . . 30 . . . 29 . . . 28 . . . 27 . . . 26 . . . 25 . . . 24 . . . 23 . . . 22 . . . 21 . . . 20 . . . 19 . . . 18 . . . 17 . . . 16 . . . 15 . . . 14 . . . 13 . . . 12 . . . 11 . . . 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . . 6 . . . 5! . . . 4! . . . 3! . . . 2! . . . 1 . . . .

  JACK OFF!”

  Stationed at her tiny window, Candy looked on incredulously at what took place when Krankeit’s thunderous command had ceased echoing in the amphitheater. After a minute she turned weakly from the wall and said, “I think I’d better leave now, if you don’t mind. I’m afraid I’m getting a bit of a headache.”

  “Don’t forget what I told you,” said Krankeit’s mother, eying her pugnaciously. “Leave Irving alone!”

  She wandered again in the maze of white corridors, trying to find her way back to the sickroom. Walking slowly, she considered the outlandish things that had been happening to her—the scene with Dr. Dunlap, the strange meeting with Mrs. Semite, and now, this upsetting incident she’d witnessed in the amphitheater. She’d heard about Krankeit’s unprecedented theories from the nurse, of course, but seeing them put to practice had been something of a shock. She was disturbed, bewildered, and, more than anything else, she was terribly tired. She dabbed her moist forehead with a hanky and wished she could sit down. . . .

  A few minutes later a burst of wild laughter, coming from one of the rooms, told her where the others were.

  She opened the door and was presented with the spectacle of Uncle Jack and Luther performing a primitive dance together.

  “Daddy” had gotten out of bed in his bathrobe and turban of bandages, and he and Luther were grunting and shuffle-stamping about each other in American Indian style. Luther was in his undershirt, and from time to time, would lock his hands behind his neck and do an obscene wiggle like a burlesque dancer. It was the sight of this bald little roly-poly man doing bumps and grinds in his undershirt that was provoking Livia’s hilarious shrieking.

  Obviously, they hadn’t waited for Candy to return with the ice cubes to begin their merrymaking.

  Seated in a corner, Aunt Ida—insanely calm—was reading a hospital-bound copy of Popular Mechanics.

  When they saw Candy standing in the doorway, the men abruptly ceased their barbaric squirming and changed to a chaste and stately minuet. Uncle Jack bowing sedately and fat little Luther doing a charming curtsy.

  “Too much! Too much!” Livia howled, falling on the bed helplessly.

  Good Grief! Candy thought. They’ve gotten completely hysterical!

  The two men soon tired of doing the minuet and reverted to their primitive technique—Luther scuffling around the room on his knees, Uncle Jack war-whooping and stamping his feet.

  Just then the door opened and Krankeit entered.

  To everyone’s surprise, he didn’t seem to be shocked by what was happening, and actually waved his hand to the dancers as if to tell them not to bother about him but to go on with their fun.

  Perhaps it was for her sake, Candy thought with a catch in her throat, to save her from the painful embarrassment of a scene.

  In gratitude for Krankeit’s good sportsmanship, Uncle Jack and Luther linked arms like chorus girls and began kicking rhythmically to the tune “Give My Regards to Broadway.”

  The young doctor smiled good-naturedly, but refused to go as far as taking part himself when Luther beckoned him to come and join the chorus line.

  “I take it back!” Livia cried gaily to Krankeit from the bed. “I thought you were going to be one of those melancholy ones, but you’re not a bad chap at all—God, if there’s one thing depresses me it’s to have some mopey Hebe around when people are trying to be cheerful, don’t you agree?”

  At this remark, a nervous tic appeared in Krankeit’s cheek, but he soon mastered it and said to Uncle Jack, “Well, I’m glad to see you’re up out of bed and getting the kinks out of your bones. Mustn’t overdo it though. Mustn’t take on too much the first day. . . . Careful your bandage doesn’t come off. . . .”

  Uncle Jack’s dressing had come undone, and he was waving a loose yard of gauze, can-can style, in time to the step. Now, with amusing versatility, he changed again, metamorphosing into a gorilla—lumbering about, scratching himself under the arms, and pouting his lips disdainfully.

  “Sid has become a real scream since he got that bang in the head,” Livia commented.

  The “ape” lurched to where Ida, deathly pale, was still reading Popular Mechanics; gripping her magazine tightly, she kept her eyes trained on the page and did not look up.

  Uncle Jack made an insulting monkey-face in her direction, and turned to the wall. He seemed to be making some rapid adjustments in his costume. From time to time, he made a soft hooting sound in imitation of a chimpanzee. Then, finally ready, he turned to face the crowd—he had undone his bathrobe, lifted his nightgown, and, with a fatuous leer, was exposing his member!

  Good Lord! Candy thought in panic. Not again!

  “You can’t say he’s not the life of the party,” Livia quipped in high spirits.

  Poor Luther, who had taken one brief look at what was happening, had buried his face in a chair, like an ostrich.

  Uncle Jack stood not more than two feet from Ida and cynically waved his member at her. At last she looked up from her magazine. “Well—uh—well, perhaps something should be done,” she suggested in a discreetly unruffled voice, catching Krankeit’s eye.

  “Oh my no!” Krankeit declared, with a scowl of professional concern.

  “Well, after all—I mean don’t you think—uh—” (The ape-man was very close to her. His gross organ virtually loomed in the corner of her sight.)

  “Oh heavens no!” Krankeit assured her. “Perfectly okay. Best thing in the world for him.”

  “Dr. Krankeit feels that the way to clear up our mental problems is to . . . to masturbate, Aunt Ida,” Candy explained.

  Ida listened to this information calmly, but she had become rather green and was swallowing continuously.

  “AH!”

  Everyone turned and looked at Livia, who had suddenly staggered to her feet. She held her palm to her mouth as if to suppress a screech of fright, and, with the other hand, she pointed an accusing finger at Uncle Jack’s member. “JACK! . . . AH!” she gasped in certain recognition—and crumbled to the floor.

  Uncle Jack and Luther set to work immediately to mimic her—falling and getting up in a series of imitations of people passing out from drink.

  “Great Scott!” Krankeit exclaimed, looking at Livia lying motionless on the floor. “We’d better get her to the dispensary at once! I’m afraid she’s had a bit too much” and, signifying to the others to continue with their fun, he lifted the unconscious young woman onto the wheeling-table and rolled her smoothly away.

  Now that their audience was gone, and with Candy and Ida glaring at them, the two men finally stopped their cavorting and sat down exhausted on the bed.

  “Whew!” panted Luther, trying to make it seem as if their insensate exhibition had been an innocent lark, “I don’t know when I’ve had a workout like that in the last six years.” He chuckled and glanced sheepishly at the women, who looked back at him in grim silence. “Well, Sidney,” he said, getting up and retrieving his shirt from the floor, “this has been an awfully pleasant visit, and I hope—uh—I hope we’ve helped you get your mind off your troubles a bit—”

  “Wait a minute!” Uncle Jack said excitedly, and sprang from the bed. “I just thought of one we forgot to do!” and he began to hum the familiar strains of the Parisian “Apache Dance,” took several ominous strides, and froze ludicrously, having just knocked an imaginary Mademoiselle to the floor. “Right?” he said to Luther. “Come on!” he roared. “LET’S GO!” motioning for the chubby Luther to perform the painful ro
le of the girl.

  “Now Sidney, maybe we’d better not get started again,” Luther observed apprehensively. “You know the doctor just told you to take it easy—”

  “COME ON!” Uncle Jack bellowed, and whether he was furious at his partner’s reluctance, or whether it was simply part of the dance, he stalked up to his brother-in-law and slapped him smartly in the face.

  This was too much for Ida, who finally passed to the attack and began pushing Uncle Jack vigorously toward his bed.

  “Hands off!” he shouted in astonished protest. “Hands off, you sow!”

  I can’t stand another minute of this, Candy thought. Good Grief! And she rushed blindly out of the room to find help.

  She flew down the hall, and with a little sob of despair, flung open the first door she came to, but was startled to find herself again in the service room, full of mops and buckets, where she’d made the acquaintance of Irving Krankeit’s mother.

  It seemed impossible . . . she could have sworn that the tiny room was whole floors and corridors distant, tucked away in some obscure corner of the colossal building. Hadn’t it taken her ten minutes to find her way back from it to Daddy’s room?

  She stepped to the shelf and moved aside some packages of detergent. . . . Yes, there was the little sliding panel!

  It was still partially open, and as she looked she heard someone in the amphitheater say something that sounded like “Ping!” Candy had an almost physical premonition warning her not to look; but some still louder inner force fiercely compelled her to peer into the vastness below. . . .

  “Chiang!”

  Aunt Livia—naked, unconscious, attached by the wrists to the vertical operating table—looked like a handsome animal offered for sacrifice.

  Seated immediately behind her was Krankeit. The young doctor sat silently as if meditating on the form before him, then he took something from a table at his side, leaned forward, and inserted it in Livia’s girlish right buttock.

  “Moo!” he said distinctly, settling back into his seat.

  This was Krankeit’s “ancient Chinese therapy,” Candy thought, with a tinge of reverence. These were the Chinese pins with which he had treated her, the same silver pins. . . .