Mr Wicker

by Maria Alexander

  Dr. Dulac nodded.

  “I realized when I got back to my office that some kind of stunt had been played on us both. Now, do you want to talk about credibility? Or do you want to discuss a formal complaint against your unit? Because no one was checking her that night when she was supposed to be on watch. I know. I was there.”

  As Dr. Sark coldly absorbed the story, Dr. Farron wondered for a moment if that concoction was not the truth. The swift hand of guilt stifled any desire to rationalize what had happened or deny the phenomenon he had witnessed in the children’s ward. Phenomena, he corrected himself. She didn’t show up on the security cameras, he reminded himself. Another point for the Twilight Zone. And why hadn’t anyone found them both before morning? He definitely had one cheek pressed against the window of insanity, but the rest of him remained comfortably indoors with reality.

  “Well, Mason?” Dr. Dulac said, folding his hands on the desk. The disapproving look Dr. Dulac now wore for Dr. Sark came out of some dirty steamer trunk Dr. Farron had never before seen opened.

  “I don’t know what happened, but I will investigate, Leonard. I promise.” His barely guarded hatred reached between the bars of his professional façade and swiped at Dr. Farron. “As for Ms. Baum, her very presence in this hospital is a liability. I said so at the evaluation and I stand by that assessment.”

  “How is Ms. Baum’s grandmother, James?”

  “Not great,” Dr. Farron said. “She had another stroke yesterday.” He held back the information about her mammogram results. One more day and they could tackle that problem, too.

  Dr. Dulac raised his frosty eyebrows and sighed. “Do you think Ms. Baum is almost ready to receive the news?”

  “Very close. This morning’s shock aside, her mood has stabilized considerably. She even told me why she attempted suicide.” He registered Dr. Dulac’s approval. “That’s a first. That’s big.”

  Dr. Dulac paged through the chart. “How did she get a security badge, Mason?”

  “I haven’t the slightest notion. But we need funding to prevent incidents like this. The staffing caps have us hamstrung.”

  Dr. Farron stifled an urge to make a crass remark about Dr. Sark spending his budget on nurses instead of whores, but he decided to stop while he was ahead on this one. “Ms. Baum told me that she found Nurse Hannon’s lost security badge. It hadn’t been reported lost or deactivated.”

  “Christ! Mason, this is unacceptable! You have enough funding to hire competent people. I expect to see major changes in personnel and protocol.” Dr. Dulac then closed the chart and handed it to Dr. Farron. “Ms. Baum stays here for one more night under observation. If you feel her meds are on track in her appointment tomorrow morning, we’ll discharge her. She can report to the outpatient clinic.”

  Dr. Farron thanked him and ducked out of the office. In the hallway, he resisted launching into an ecstatic series of hip-thrusting, Jim Carrey-like, yes-yes-yes gyrations. Instead, he sighed as if a thousand sins had been pardoned, sailed out of the hospital, and prepared for a final session with Alicia by visiting the U.C. Berkeley library.

  On the way there, he called Jesse’s mother. He had an idea of how to get through to him that just might work.

  Chapter 31

  Alicia watched with agony as the soot sluiced into the drain just feet from another patient who spoke in strange, slippery sentences that went nowhere. Under the tepid torrent, the Librarian slipped away from her as she washed. She could have refused to shower but she feared the repercussions. She just wanted to leave. That meant cooperating, even if she had to let go of everything most precious. To her art, she had always been dedicated and disciplined. She summoned those qualities for this present emergency.

  Besides, some things they could never wash away, the bastards.

  She left the shower, peeled off the plastic bags taped over her hands and wrists, dried off, and dressed before they dragged her to another suicide-proof breakfast. Arnie gave her a clean gown and a band to tie back her hair. Every day was like Victorian high tea with these finger sandwiches and pre-cut fruit. Well, not so much high tea as high apple juice. They did let her have tea with breakfast, but it was tepid.

  During the meal, Alicia observed Rachelle’s shoulders and mouth sagging as if she had been battered. The head nurse shuffled past the cafeteria several times as she worked. Alicia stung with a profound suspicion that she’d missed something important. Rachelle circled back past the cafeteria and met Arnie near the secondary station, where he prepared afternoon medications with another nurse. The three spoke in hushed voices.

  Arnie wheeled the medication cart into the cafeteria. “Hey there, Ms. Baum!” he said. He handed her a cup of pills and a slightly larger cup of water. She took them, as part of being newly sworn to cooperation.

  “Hey,” she said back. “Is Rachelle all right?”

  “Oh, is something wrong? I didn’t notice.”

  “I don’t know. It sure looks like it. She seems sad.”

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Baum. It’s just Dr. Sark has been in one of his moods.” Arnie rolled his eyes and leaned into his cart. “See ya!”

  Yeah, she could imagine that Dr. Shark was in a “mood.” A really vile mood that oozed alien sludge like some kind of Lovecraftian nightmare. She wondered now what he would do. Alicia was definitely afraid of him. He was so brazen. It suddenly occurred to Alicia that Dr. Sark probably took out his ire for her escape on Rachelle.

  Sore with guilt, Alicia scuttled toward the nurses’ station. Rachelle glumly talked on the phone, one hand with a pen making notes on her pad. Alicia waited until Rachelle hung up.

  “Arnie will take you to Dr. Farron as soon as he’s finished,” Rachelle offered.

  “I just wanted to tell you something,” Alicia said. “I’m sorry if I got you in trouble. You and Dr. Farron have been really good to me, and I hate the thought that you might have suffered because of something I did.”

  “Angel, you don’t have to apologize.”

  “I do,” she said. “I never dreamed this would hurt anyone other than myself.”

  “Now you don’t worry about me,” Rachelle said. “You make sure to take your meds and do what Dr. Farron says. But...” Rachelle’s face brightened. “Thank you, Angel,” she said with a weary smile. “I appreciate your concern.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Why don’t you talk to Dr. Farron about it?”

  “I will,” she said. “But there is something else I need to tell you. Am I the only one who’s afraid of Dr. Sark?”

  Rachelle leaned in, brows furrowed. “Why do you say that, Angel?”

  “I can’t say, but I’m afraid. He really scares me.”

  “Can’t say or won’t?”

  At that moment, Arnie appeared to escort her to Dr. Farron. “Well, hey there, Ms. Baum! Are you ready?”

  “Make sure you talk to Dr. Farron about that this afternoon,” Rachelle said. Alicia nodded and let Arnie lead her to the elevator. Something about the way Rachelle stared at the telephone console made her wonder if the head nurse was debating an overdue call.

  MEANWHILE. WITH JESSE.

  Jesse stood before the big stupid doctor door, his space gun hanging at his side. His mother had wandered off down the hallway, talking on her cell phone. Her new dusky sunburst tattoo rode up on her back just above her low-riding yoga pants. That guy made her get it. He hated that guy. But for now, he had no choice. He had to go inside and talk to the big boring doctor who would show him cards and stuff. Well, he was the Galactic Avenger. He did whatever he wanted to. He would show the big dopey doctor what for.

  He laid a hand on the doorknob. A voice boomed from within.

  “GALACTIC AVENGER, HAVE YOU COME TO RECLAIM YOUR GALACTIC CASTLE?”

  Jesse quivered in awe. He pushed open the door and slowly entered, eyes wide.

  “Raffabarf?”

  The office was dark except for a nightlight from somewhere behind the dopey doctor’s desk. Sudde
nly, an immense figure rustled in the far corner of the office.

  Rafarius Bart stood before him. Black plastic garbage bags were tacked around his legs, torso, and arms. A newspaper folded into a Samauri hat cut a sharp bow over a white hockey mask. Rafarius Bart lowered a humongous, Conan-the-Barbarian glow-in-the-dark toy sword and pointed it at Jesse. “ARE YOU, OR ARE YOU NOT, THE GALACTIC AVENGER?”

  Stunned, Jesse shut the door. Emboldened by the threat of his arch nemesis, he slipped into his fantasy. “Raffabarf! What have you done with my doctor?”

  “I ATE HIM. NOW WHY HAVE YOU DARED TO COME HERE?”

  “I have come for the woman I love, Raffabarf! Bow before my Lasers of Death!”

  At that, Jesse lifted his ray gun and master-blasted Rafarius Bart, the big plastic gun rattling and flashing.

  Rafarius Bart “deflected” each shot with his sword. He jumped with each shot like a crazed tennis player and made vague martial arts sounds. “Heeya! Hooya!” When his Samurai newspaper hat slid off, he caught it and put it back on. Abruptly he stopped and pointed the sword at Jesse.

  “YOU HAVE FAILED TO LAY ME LOW WITH YOUR LASERS OF DEATH, GALACTIC AVENGER. DESCRIBE THIS WOMAN YOU SEEK—OR SUFFER MY DRAGON MONSTERS!”

  Jesse thought that was the most ridiculous request, but he decided to go along with it because maybe Rafarius Bart had forgotten.

  “She’s the Galactic Princess! She’s powerful...and...smells good...and,” he struggled as the feelings kicked at each other. “And...she makes the best peabutt-nutter sandwiches in the world.” Jesse’s lip quivered. His space gun drooped at his side. “I don’t want you in my castle anymore! I want Daddy!”

  Rafarius-Farron slipped off his hat and mask, and knelt beside him. “What am I doing in your castle?”

  “Mommy doesn’t love Daddy anymore and it’s all your fault!” Jesse shouted. “I hate him! I HATE HIM!” Jesse dropped to his knees and threw down the gun. “I...HATE...HIM!” As he cried, he tore off the silver mask and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Hate who, Jesse?”

  The name came through in pieces between his sobs. “Al—al– bert!” It was that guy’s name. The guy his mommy loved now instead of Daddy.

  Dr. Farron let him cry for a few moments. “Can you do something for me, sport?”

  Jesse wiped his eyes. “What?”

  “Wanna draw?”

  Chapter 32

  Mr. Wicker sat at his desk, cheek propped on hand as he scowled out the lavender window. Muninn perched on one shoulder, preening himself in oblivion to his master’s brooding. He squawked into his ear, the edges of his wings splitting and bristling.

  “Huginn has work to do yet,” he said, his basso profundo voice threatening to dip below human hearing. Under his hand sat the still-blank book of Georgeta Spinosa. That morning she came to him. She stood mutely at his elbow for about five minutes, her one good eye welded to the movements of his hands, before skipping back into the light. “My dear bird will bring down this whole charade and Sirona will see that she belongs back here with me.”

  If only Dr. Farron didn’t know about the Librarian. It wasn’t that Mr. Wicker was afraid of Dr. Farron getting through to the occasional child. Or even many children. He couldn’t possibly take them all away. They came to the Library from the world over and the doctor’s reach was limited. But if Dr. Farron began to publish articles in psychiatric journals, then a problem could start. Granted, it would take great acceptance from the psychiatric community worldwide before anything would change, but it could. But for now, there were only a few nurses, a doctor or two, and maybe a few parents who had heard the children speaking to him. Yet no one communicated about it. So, no one understood.

  Except Dr. Farron.

  Mr. Wicker pushed away Georgeta’s book and picked up Alicia’s instead. The heady burn of obsession warmed his eyes and expectation hung heavily in the air. Perhaps he could shake this dream of her as his racing thoughts dragged his sore desires over the cobblestones of disappointment. He would open his hands Christ-wide and let the stones scrape his back and legs. He would lose her in rips, in bits of flesh, in crimson drops. Every bit of her. If only he were so fortunate.

  No, Mr. Wicker wasn’t afraid of Dr. Farron taking away the children. He was afraid of him taking away Alicia. Sirona. Alicia, who warmed him in ways that no one ever had since her betrayal over two thousand years ago. Alicia, who appreciated who he was and what he was as no one ever had.

  But no worry. If Huginn and the other raven out in the world did their work, Alicia would be back.

  Soon.

  IN THE CAFETERIA. LUNCHTIME.

  Dr. Farron dragged his lunch tray from the cashier to the table where Rachelle sat poking a long spoon in a thermos of milk. She crumbled fat pieces of homemade cornbread into the thermos as she worked the spoon up and down like an oil drill. The tray scraped the booth table and clattered to a stop. Rachelle glanced at the miserable cup of chocolate frozen yogurt, bag of chips and huge cup of coffee. “That ain’t lunch,” she said. “More like culinary self torture. Your stomach is going to hate you for weeks.”

  The doctor had already leaned over the table, a fist digging into his cheek as one hand poked the frozen yogurt with a spork. He said nothing.

  “Nothin’ like comfort food,” she continued. “We were so poor, we used to eat cornbread and milk sweetened with honey. Had chicken on Sundays, if we were lucky. You look like you need some comfort food.” She dipped her spoon into the thermos, shoveled out some soggy cornbread, and stuck it in his face.

  Dr. Farron grimaced at the heap of cornbread.

  “Suit yourself.” She shrugged, eating with gusto. “Are you going to kindly tell me then what happened last night? ’Cause I got the chewing out of my life from Shark this morning. Lord, that man can’t take responsibility for anything!”

  He withered. Then, under his breath, lyrically: “Let Mr. Wicker wash your sicker memories in sand.”

  Rachelle leaned forward and stage whispered, “I already think you’re the craziest man on earth. And you are not disappointing me.”

  Dr. Farron sighed. “Rachelle, what I have to tell you is crazy enough that it could jeopardize our friendship.”

  “Our friendship is already in trouble, James.” She wadded the plastic wrap from the cornbread in a ball with her napkin. “But if you don’t feel like talkin’ about it, I can’t make you. I can say that whatever happened last night got me in more trouble than I ever care to be in.”

  “I’m sorry. If you knew what was at stake, you’d understand, but there’s patient confidentiality.” He paused as his feelings for Alicia momentarily rioted. He wished he could tell Rachelle exactly what had happened with no preface or postscript—exactly what transpired in the hallway, what he witnessed, what he felt—but even just that slice of the whole bizarre pie would taste like insanity. Still, he couldn’t have Rachelle mad at him. He felt terrible that she had gotten the brunt of Sark’s narcissistic chastening. “Rachelle, do you believe people can...go places...in their dreams?”

  Rachelle lowered her spoon, seemingly entirely by the question. “I suppose. That’s what dreams are supposed to be. Your soul travels around to distant planes and things. They say a silver cord connects you to your body. That’s in the Bible.”

  He speared the yogurt with the spork and let it stand. “In the Bible?”

  “Mmmm-hmm! Old Testament. In Ecclesiastes.”

  Wriggling his jaw in place, he considered the strangeness of that. He and his über-talented sisters were raised as Easter-Christmas-Catholics. When he grew older, he seldom gave Christianity another thought, believing it to be outdated and arrogant like so many other religions that thought they had a monopoly on truth. Although people were free to believe what they wanted, it seemed downright unhealthy. This tidbit made him wonder if he ought to have read more. “But...well, that’s too weird.”

  “You can’t tell me anything too weird,” Rachelle said, resuming her exca
vation of the thermos. “But it better get back to the original topic, if you know what I mean.”

  “What about real life. Waking life. I mean, can people physically go places... maybe the same places they go in dreams?” The excitement of the idea crackled in his spine and fingers. “I don’t mean, can they really go. I mean, can they go...as in...you know...theoretically. Like in the old myths and legends.”

  “Honey, that’s called ‘transmigration.’ Remember your Sunday school? When the prophet Elijah was taken away in a chariot to heaven? But all the major religions believe in that. Not just Christianity or Judaism. It’s not a new idea, I guarantee.”

  He must have had the words OH FUCK sandblasted across his forehead because Rachelle eyed him strangely.

  “You thinkin’ of goin’ somewhere?” She raised an eyebrow as she shoveled the last of the cornbread into her mouth.

  “If I tell you what’s been happening, you wouldn’t believe it,” he said, rubbing the stress from his eyes and temples. “That, I guarantee.”

  “Look, I know Mindy lost her badge,” Rachelle said. “But that man said you blamed my staff for a practical joke and now I’m on the carpet for running a shoddy ship. I figured you were in a tight spot to say such a thing, and that I don’t mind. I don’t even mind if we need some disciplinary action. But I gotta know what happened, James. I gotta know what I’m dealing with.”