by Alan Spencer
“What’s wrong with you people?”
He could talk again.
Dr. Krone sighed. “Inject him with a numbing agent. We can’t have him yammering while we work.”
“Stop this right now.” Craig couldn’t move his limbs. The fresh injection served to further numb his processes. “I’ll call the police. You can’t silence me. People will miss me. They know I’ve gone to Dr. Richard Herbert.”
And that was the problem.
“This isn’t a real clinic. I’m not where I'm supposed to be.”
“It sure is a clinic,” the doctor said. “I have an address. You can enter and leave my practice as you wish, but you’re required by law to stay. You signed the court document. You had a choice. It’s the best decision you’ve made in your lifetime. I’m saving you and the public any future harm. Now, let us get to work. Give my treatment a chance. You’ll enjoy it, Craig, I promise.”
“I didn’t want this. Stop what you’re doing to me!”
Rachael seized his jaw. A needle pierced his lips, clacked against his jawbone, and he was instantly anesthetized.
He yipped in his throat when she unbuckled his khakis pants. She dragged them down to his knees. The room was colder now. He shivered, holding his breath without realizing it.
“He’s very serious about helping you.” Rachael removed his underwear and installed a catheter. “You don’t have to be scared. This will be a therapeutic experience. You’ll thank us later.”
Dr. Krone inserted an IV needle into each arm. One was a morphine drip, the other a feeding tube.
Rachel stared at him apologetically. “This looks intimidating. This is the hardest part of the process. Please, try your best to relax. We’ll be done shortly. I know you’re scared. But don’t be.”
A blanket was draped over his legs.
Ca-clink. The machine was charging up once again. It was like eleven furnaces kicking on to fight the dead cold of winter.
The metal gears churned faster. Crrrrrrrrink.
The seizure was one swift motion. Two steel prongs swung down, connected to robotic arms. The plastic at the ends of the arms were fingers that pried open his eyelids.
“This is the hardest step,” Dr. Krone warned. “Brace yourself.”
The machine worked at deafening levels.
The doctor had to raise his voice to be heard, “Stay strong, Mr. Horsy!”
The spinning motor’s hum now sounded like a dentist’s drill held up to a microphone. Two new robotic arms were posed before his eyes. At the end of each arm was a metal circle. Thin needles lined the circumference of each circle.
Oh God!
The needles pierced the wet tissue around his eyeballs and dug two inches deep. They touched specific parts of his brain. New sensory were activated, while other functions were terminated. Electric impulses seized him, circulating into his bloodstream, his nervous system, every vital process hooked up to a power source. His skull crackled and his hair popped with static electricity. Drool spooled from his lips. Tears trailed down his cheeks.
Dr. Krone stepped into his line of vision, beholding Craig, before he flipped on the final switch.
“Now the therapy begins, Mr. Horsy!”
Lake Jacomo
Craig clutched the rope in both hands. It was soaking wet and slippery. He was standing on one of the Shagbark Hickory tree’s thickest branches that extended over the surface of Lake Jacomo. The scent of dead fish was kicked up in the breeze, and he took it in willingly, that dose of nostalgia he so much enjoyed. The lake extended for half a mile in each direction, the surface muddy brown. The water would be the source of numerous ear infections in Craig’s future.
J.J. Kidd, one of his best elementary school friends, hollered at him from below. “Hurry up, Craig. I’m swinging next!”
Neil Jablanski was already scaling the tree, ready for his turn after Craig’s. And there was Alice Denny, who wore her one-piece bathing suit decorated with watermelons. She sat on a boulder far enough from the boys to be ignored. She’d have nothing to do with the high dives, but she liked to watch them.
Craig stood on the branch like a king of the mountain. If his parents knew about this, they’d cut the rope down. His father, Brandon, had scolded him previously, “You remember Junior Conners? He broke his leg falling from that branch. I don’t want to pay expensive medical bills because of your stupidity.”
His father’s warnings vanished. Lake Jacomo begged to be jumped into. He had to muster a cool dive first, but before Craig could decide, it was too late. Neil grabbed the limb by both his hands and shook it, ruining Craig’s footing.
“You’re going down!” Neil cheered. “You know the rules. You take too long, you go down!”
Craig teetered, then, losing his balance, he crashed on his side into the lake.
“Yeah, fall!” J.J. cheered, clapping his hands. “Did you see that, Neil? You’re awesome. Knocked him on his ass. He went down!”
“I said I was next,” Neil bragged. “I warned him he’d go down.”
The slap of landing awkwardly against the water had him near tears, but Craig couldn’t lose it, not in front of his friends. When he touched down, his feet graced the mud at the bottom. He imagined a creature grabbing his ankle and forcing him down. The mud monster. The images of the mud monster impelled him to the surface so fast he almost lost his blue swim trunks. He lifted them back up fully to his waist, and once he stepped onto shore, he waited for another chance to perform a cool dive from the tree.
Standing there, Alice eyed him shyly. The boys were ten years old, and she was eight. She tagged along with them. It was an unspoken neighborhood kid understanding that she could hang out with them as long as she didn’t interfere.
“Good landing,” she mumbled, her best attempt at making conversation. “You okay?”
“No thanks to Neil.” He balled up his fists. “Jerk.”
Neil launched down from the tree limb in a ball. The cannonball landing shot water onto land, pelting him and Alice.
J.J. was already halfway up the trunk, ready to followup with a better midair trick. Craig waited for his turn again, thinking that these summer days were the best of his life. He didn’t really know how much he enjoyed himself back then until he relived it with the benefit of adult hindsight…
Lake Jacomo’s fetid waft of dead fish was refreshing compared to the brazen winter cold in Franklin, Indiana. Winter offered no natural smells. Everything was buried under ice and rendered characterless by the cold. This was the perfect escape from the city. The warmth of summer, the thriving of life, it was so easy to absorb and experience a reinvigoration.
This is what Dr. Daniel Krone enjoyed as he canoed the lake and watched the children play.
Brandon Horsy
Craig was crouched beneath the basement stairs inside the crawlspace, clueless as to how he arrived in the dark place. He spent his time observing the scene rather than trying to pick at the mystery of how he showed up here. The plastic Christmas tree, the Halloween decorations crammed into one bulging box, the second-hand clothes, and old records were all stored in the claustrophobic corner. Dusty sheets draped the items. He once discovered birthday presents in here, including a Huffy ten-speed bicycle. Craig learned later that his dad, Brandon, had worked overtime to afford it. The man worked for the city repairing potholes and broken water pipes, and performed basic street maintenance. Brandon wore a neon green vest and thick brown overalls to work. He’d stamp out his black leather boots on the porch after work and dirt clots would be strewn about the steps. He was a hulking man, and Craig feared his father’s temper. He hid here when his parents argued, and that’s what he was doing right now in the crawlspace.
The basement was his father’s getaway. It was off-limits and mysterious to a nine-year-old. The bench press, the rack of free weights, and the treadmill manned one corner. Posters of bikini-clad women and other lesser-clad women highlighted the walls. The refrigerator in the corner was a giant-size
d Budweiser can, which stood adjacent to the pool table and dart board. Brandon’s friends often joked and lounged down here. The place exuded a mystery that compelled Craig to search it when he was home alone.
Overhearing his parents argue in that special room, Craig peeked out of the crawlspace in the desperate hope his mother didn’t get harmed by the giant who was now shouting at her, both of them in the grips of a heated fight. Brandon towered over Craig’s mother. Broad shoulders, thick chest, a modest pot belly, he was two hundred and thirty pounds. Tina, Craig’s mother, had the opposite figure. She was only one hundred pounds, and closer to five feet tall. Craig was nine at this moment in his life, and he was already more than half his mother’s weight, and almost as tall. Her dark auburn hair was cropped at her shoulders.
Today was a Friday, he recalled. What his mother called “Clean House” day. She overhauled every room in the house, including Brandon’s bachelor pad—that’s what Craig referred to it as after his parents divorced when he was twenty-two.
His father shouted, the source of their argument coming to light. “Where the fuck is my Cindy Crawford poster? She doesn’t even show her tits in that one. What’s the big deal?”
“It leaked downstairs,” Tina said, defending her choice to throw away the poster. “They were damaged. They would’ve mildewed.”
“You mean the ceiling leaked? I know it rained, but the rain doesn’t sneak in through the ceiling. Are you dumb?”
She was caught in a lie. “I-I just don’t want so many nudie posters up, okay? Craig wanders down here. He sees them.”
“And so what? It’ll grow some hair on the boy’s chest. He doesn’t know what these mean. Big deal.”
“But he’ll see woman as objects.”
“So you’re saying I see women as objects?”
She hid her face in her hands then dared to look at him again. “It’s not healthy for him to look at them. Kids learn about sex too young. He’ll knock up some girl, and who’ll take care of the kid? Me.”
“I’m a good father.” He swigged the remainder of his Budweiser can then placed it on the edge of the pool table. “I’m a man. I’m an adult man, Tina. I don’t tell you what you can or cannot do. I enjoy myself. I don’t cheat on you.”
It slipped out of her, “You did once.”
“Ah, fuck this!” He swatted the can off the pool table. It slammed into the wall, froth shooting up like spit and striking them both. He grabbed her by both shoulders and shook her hard once. Craig winced, praying she wouldn’t be hit.
“That was two years ago. I said I was sorry. Forgive me or leave me, but don’t hold it over my head. It was a mistake. God, you piss me off so much sometimes when you bring that shit up.”
Craig once overheard Tina talking to their neighbor in the backyard about how to protect themselves. She too had a husband who lost his temper and the control of his fists. “Clutch your head,” Jill had advised her. “Don’t let him bruise your face. Hank hasn’t hit me after our counseling sessions, but I know what to do if he ever hits me again. And don’t get me wrong, I’d leave his ass. I have a suitcase packed in case he ever does and enough money to last me three month’s rent in some crackerjack apartment. You should have a plan too, Tina.”
They formed an abused wives club, didn’t they, Craig thought.
Hey, wait—!
Craig stared at his hands. They were so small. His palm was patched with a Snoopy Band-Aid. He’d cut it on the lava rocks in his front yard. He got tackled in a game of football and landed on them. He was dressed in Nike shorts and a green T-shirt with the beverage logo Slice across the chest. He was an adult in a child’s body.
Tina wept and wrapped her arms around Brandon. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
He patted her hair and released a great breath of air. “It’s a stupid poster.”
She gave up the fight. “It’s fine.”
Craig sensed her disappointment. She’d conceded to her husband once again. “I shouldn’t have taken it down.” She softened her words. “I’m prettier than them, aren’t I?”
He stroked her hair. “Yes, you are. They’re stupid posters. It’s a man thing. It’s nothing.”
You’re a goddamn liar. You like the posters better than my mom. All you care about is sex.
He locked his fists, channeling rage into them. “I’ll fucking show him.” The words were strange—morbid—escaping from a child’s throat.
He launched out of the crawlspace, throwing open the door so hard it snapped the top hinge. Stomping toward his parents, he questioned what damage he could do to his old man. He located the rack of pool cues. He cradled one like a baseball bat and charged toward his dad with fury escaping his throat. “No-mooooooore!”
Brandon was shocked, his eyes bulging as he took in his incoming son. He finally let go of Tina and tried to intercept his child, but Craig was too fast. He slammed the cue over his back three times, his dad shrieking in pain, the stick snapping after the last thwack.
Brandon was on his knees and clutching at his back. His face twisted up at him, his buzzed head glistening with new sweat. “Boy, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“You cheated on Mom!” Craig shouted, cracking his throat to unleash his contempt. The child’s body couldn’t translate the adult emotions. “You fucked those ugly hookers at the strip club. What’s her name, you told me once after you divorced Mom—as if I’m supposed to be proud of you! Temptress, yeah, that’s it. And you’ve slept with Paula again since your first affair. You can’t keep your mind off snatch. And that’s what you called it, you called it ‘snatch’. You don’t deserve Mom.” He turned to his mother. “Don’t put up with his shit on my account. Don’t stay in this marriage for me, not for this asshole.”
He was unleashing his father’s future secrets, but at this point, they had yet to happen.
Collecting his lung capacity, Brandon growled, “You brat, you’re making shit up. I haven’t cheated on your mom—not what you’re saying.”
The giant rose up and twisted Craig’s arm around his back and shoved him against the wall. “Now why are you saying those things about me? I taught you common sense and respect. You don’t disrespect your elders, and you sure as shit don’t disrespect me.”
“Because everything I’m saying is true.” Craig’s lips were wedged against the wall. He was inches from a poster with bare breasts—the breasts were all he could see, shiny, and glossy, and flat. “You told me about it all when you two finally divorced. You tried to treat our talks as a confessional. You tried to keep your boy from hating you for the rest of your life. You’re a scumbag, and you know it.”
Tina was puzzled, but somehow, she was able to speak, though meekly. “We’re not divorced, kiddo. Your dad hasn’t done any of those things. Craig, what’s gotten into you? You’ve never behaved this way. And those words, who taught you to talk like that?”
She stole Craig from Brandon, wrenching him from the man’s hold, and hugged him close. She was trembling. A deep-down part of her knew what he was saying was true, but this was the earliest stages of her doubt, and she couldn’t act on her instincts yet.
“You shouldn’t pamper him. Answer your mother. Who taught you to talk to your father like that? Speak up.”
“You did,” Craig said.
The man landed the back of his hand across his face. It hurt as much as it did in the past. The mean tingles. The blood beneath the skin spread the pain. The emotional overcame the physical, and he stared at his dad with venom seething in his eyes.
“You hit me like you hit Mom. And you like it, don’t you? Once a deadbeat, always a deadbeat. Hit me so you can shut me up. Hit Mom so you can shut her up. You can go to hell, you bastard!”
Tina charged up the stairs, wailing. Craig’s protector had fled the scene. It wasn’t long before he was wrestled to the floor by the shoulder and neck and flung down hard. He landed stomach first, every ounce of fight dashed to nothing in two seconds. Brandon shov
ed his knee into his back to anchor his son in place.
“You’re not going unpunished for this.” The man was beside himself, confused and fighting the guilt of harming his child. “Boy’s making up shit about me. It’s not true…not true at all. What would possess you to say those things?”
He unloosed his belt, and Craig imagined what his father was thinking—How do I punish this kid enough to silence him in the future?
But Dad doesn’t know he’ll cheat on Mom in the future. Why the hell is he so worked up? How does he know what I’m saying is true? It should be nonsense to him.
Brandon was wrapping the leather of his belt around his fist, the stretch audible. “This is unacceptable. Children live in their parents’ shadow, boy, not the other way around.”
The belt was raised, prepared to deliver an expedient punishment. Brandon’s face was locked in an absent expression. He was moments from landing the animal skin across Craig’s back when the words came as a deadly warning, “You leave my son the hell alone.”
They both turned to Tina.
She cradled a .28 Brown Eagle pistol.
Brandon lowered the belt and stood in awe at the wife who finally stood up to her husband.
Dr. Krone furiously jotted notes onto his steno pad. He hid behind the crawlspace door, listening in. He completed his notations. What else would pop out of Craig’s mind, he wondered, knowing the machine would soon answer him. Enough had been accomplished in this moment that he decided it was time to move on to the next memory…
Lake Jacomo
The snow was falling in thick downy flakes. Lake Jacomo was frozen over and thick enough to ice skate on, though it was absent of people. Standing there on the lake, Craig was dressed in the same thing he wore at Dr. Krone’s office—a dress-up shirt, khaki pants, and black leather Hanover shoes. The bitter winds were howling, but he didn’t feel any of it. Shrugging the odd sensation of being numb to the elements, he scanned the area once again and caught the man standing behind the wooden bench two feet from the frozen shore.