Mr Wicker

by Maria Alexander

  The philosophical wheels boring into familiar ruts at a steady speed, Alicia headed for the kitchen to make some tea.

  She halted at the threshold when she saw the couple fucking in front of her refrigerator.

  Ashes, ashes...we all fall...

  Dr. Dulac bowed his head, hands folded as if in prayer. He’d pushed the file toward Dr. Farron, watching. “I hate to say this, James, but it was poor judgment on your part to advocate violence with that child.”

  The child psychiatrist sat dumbfounded on the other side of the chairman’s desk. “Leonard—I had a breakthrough with that kid! And when did it become not okay to role play in therapy?”

  “You put a weapon in his hand!”

  “His mother forced me to take him into session with a toy gun, Leonard. I asked her not to, but she wouldn’t listen.” Bolstered by the reality of his success, he slid forward to the edge of his seat. “Look, if I hadn’t used the approach that I did, I would still have no idea why that boy was so withdrawn and defiant. His yoga-going, cell phone–blathering mother didn’t bother to tell me anything, even on questioning. And do you know why? Because she’d moved her lover into the house after she’d kicked out her husband. Brilliant, huh?” Dr. Dulac started to interrupt. “It’s a free country. She can take her child to another therapist if she doesn’t like my techniques—there’s no law against that—but she’s not angry because of a plastic gun. She’s mad because I suggested that what she’d done was having a negative effect on her child. She’s pissed off and she’s threatening me, when all I did was point out the source of her child’s unhappiness. The very thing she’d wanted to know.” Dr. Dulac seemed to listen now, albeit Dr. Farron knew he wasn’t completely on board. “You know there’s nothing we can do when the parents are more screwed up than their kids. I can’t be held responsible for that.”

  The older doctor sighed. “She’s reported you to the medical board. I wish I could dictate human resource policy based on your reports, but I can’t use those alone. I have to go by feedback from patients and parents. This...” he tapped the report with his finger tips, “...is just as important. And I don’t have enough of these.”

  Dr. Farron let the awful truth about his practice slither into his brain and coil up somewhere profoundly uncomfortable.

  “James, you did very well with that woman. She’s going to be fine. You should be proud.”

  “Which is why I’m suspended and not fired, right?” Dr. Farron stood and extended his hand to Dr. Dulac. “Goodbye, Leonard.”

  Dr. Dulac shook his head slowly. “Think about where your true calling lies.”

  “I will.”

  He drove home as water poured down on his windshield, the thrum of his wipers as sluggish as his heartbeat. He examined the shards of his career. Never in his life had he failed at anything, much less his work. Not anything.

  Crossing the bridge into Alameda, he considered briefly calling his own therapist, Stanley, but thought better of it. It was too much to explain in a very short period of time. To have lived it was enough to know it was real; to describe it to someone else would thin its impact—and if he wasn’t believed, it would be crazy-making. Then he’d have to add resentment to the emotional laundry pile. Now he understood why Alicia was reluctant to tell him that it was Mr. Wicker on the dispatch. He had not even gone into any detail with Rachelle, figuring it was best that she think of Alicia’s condition as involving potentially potent spiritual and psychological factors. Of course, she knew he was bullshitting her, but he had no choice but to beg off telling her the full story until he was in a better place to explain—if ever. He considered calling one of his many friends for sympathy about his suspension, most of whom he’d graduated with from Cal and not med school. Derrick, who now practiced occupational therapy in San Jose, was too busy with kids and wife to be available for any lengthy discussions; Donald the audio engineer for Thomas Dolby had fourteen girlfriends and three jobs; Ahmed, who lived in Marin but drove to Mountain View three times a week to play Silicon Valley corporate psychologist, would be too exhausted, especially with his bad health; Natisha and Ben were both teaching down at UCLA, but they had a newborn child who shrieked from two p.m. to eleven p.m. every day.

  Isolation was best for now anyway, he thought, as the white Lexus glided into the garage of his house on the Isle. He loved Alameda, the island burb in the middle of the Bay. Gina had been particularly taken with the award-winning Christmas decorations on the houses at holiday time. They’d strolled in the frosty streets with dozens of other families that Christmas when visiting her friends. Spectacular webs of light had been laid by some Christmas spider over the roofs and trees. There were elaborate electric displays of reindeer with light bulb hides, and even bright pink flamingos pulled a sleigh spilling over with a “Divine” Santa. It convinced them to buy a house there and stage their own PG&E diorama come the following holiday season.

  He sat for several moments in the dimly lit garage before sliding out of the leather seat and making his way into the house. He stoically wrestled off his tie and dropped his pocket contents on the kitchen counter. Soon, the cappuccino machine burped out some rich dark brew into a yawning cup that he filled with whole milk and heaping teaspoons of sugar. His drug of choice to chase off depression.

  The television flickered on to some college basketball game that gabbled in the background as he leaned against the bookcase and stared at his books.

  Creative Therapy with Children and Adolescents

  Handbook of Art Therapy

  The Applications of Play Therapy

  Drawing On the Child’s Creativity

  Contemporary Art History

  Early Medieval Art

  Archaic and Classical Roman Sculpture

  The Art and History of Egypt

  Renaissance, Mannerism, Baroque

  The Art of Faery

  Fantasy Art: Techniques and Illustration

  Dreams: The Art of Boris Vallejo

  Second Slice: The Art of Olivia

  The Encyclopedia of Fantasy and Science Fiction Art Techniques

  Struwwelpeter: Fearful Stories & Vile Pictures to Instruct Good Little Folks

  Small, framed pictures cluttered the shelves. Formal portraits with his family from ten years ago. Candid shots of him and Gina at parties together. (She didn’t look anything like Alicia, contrary to what that pompous ass said.) A graduation picture from his last days at Cal. He had taken the wedding pictures and shunted them away in a box up in the attic.

  Large boxes of his life lurked in the attic, several versions of him lying in cardboard coffins to decay in memory. If only he could discard them once and for all. For some time he hadn’t the courage to creep up there and converse with the dusty haunts. Intensely introspective this evening, he decided to make the journey up as he downed the last of his coffee. Something new had entered his life and he was ready to move on, even in the face of uncertainty about his career. Setting the empty cappuccino cup on a bookshelf, he switched off the TV and gathered the rest of the photos of himself and Gina from the bookshelves. He passed the fifty-two-year-old mahogany baby grand that he kept shut and polished since Gina’s death, the French doors that gracefully framed it from behind streaked with rain. Even with that musical sarcophagus sprawling in the living room, the house felt twice as empty as ever. He strode back to the kitchen to go out to the garage, which also suffered a sort of lingering neglect by housing a rotting bicycle and a number of half-finished house projects. Dr. Farron found the attic door, switched on the stairway light, and ascended into the cedar-scented murk.

  He yanked on a thin chain hanging from the beam above the stair landing. Click! A weak light from a dusty, exposed bulb flooded the 1500-square-foot attic. The rain roared against the roof, just inches from his head as he stooped inside. Where normally bits of daylight would probe into the attic from the perimeter, the powerful bouquet of dampness wafted through. Dr. Farron’s steps stirred a storm of dust motes as he paced betw
een the neatly packed boxes crowding the space. Their contents were scrawled hastily in black marker across the top flaps and along the sides, but the bulb was too dim to read them. He pushed the boxes this way and that with his foot to expose their sides to the light until he found the box he was looking for.

  “Wedding Photos.”

  Dropping to his knees, he placed the photos from the bookshelves on the floor and pried open the flaps. The white satin photo album was cool to the touch. He resisted a faint urge to look inside and started layering over it with the other photos.

  From the open attic door, piano music rose eerily behind him.

  Phantoms of Alicia and Eric. Naked and sweating, passing ice cubes between their lips as their hands stroked moisture from each other’s necks and shoulders in front of the refrigerator. Unmailed wedding invitations spilled from the counter.

  At first, Alicia’s hand flailed for the doorjamb and clung to it. What the hell was happening? How had Rachelle’s admonition come to truth? Had Mr. Wicker’s touch altered the way her memories manifested?

  She shivered.

  The phantoms continued to sigh and giggle as she opened the cupboard and retrieved a box of tea bags. Phantom Eric moaned as Phantom Alicia lapped his nipples with her cold tongue.

  She tried leaving the kitchen and returning to the family room to start picking up books, but Phantom Eric was fucking Phantom Alicia on the deep burgundy velvet couch. Alicia left the family room and passed Phantom Alicia moaning as she leaned against the wall, Phantom Eric kneeling before her, his face burrowing into the sweet, soft dampness between her legs. Exasperated and tired, Alicia returned to the kitchen and, grabbing the kettle from the counter, thrust it under the water dispenser in the refrigerator, inches from Phantom Alicia’s naked ass. She set the kettle on the stove and turned on the burner. As the water steamed, she paced out of the kitchen and back in. As soon as the kettle whistled, the phantoms disappeared.

  On the counter, she found an envelope marked, “Just In Case.” Her grandmother’s handwriting. The envelope was full of hundreds and twenties.

  Thanks again, Grandma.

  She poured the steaming water over a crumpled tea bag into a mug. As she leaned against the counter, coaxing clouds of tea from the bag with her spoon, she remembered names and faces. And conversations. Mostly conversations. Copious notes from her editor. The rejections of outlines and proposals for future books. Her agent’s letter announcing her termination. The last royalty check sliding into an ATM envelope.

  Can’t you at least clean around here? Eric’s voice again. His phantom threw dishes he’d pulled out of the dishwasher, his face carved with rage. Alicia’s phantom tried to dodge the flying dish. Alicia herself stood her ground, watching him this time instead of screaming. Instead of throwing her hands over her face and twisting away. Instead of folding to her knees in the porcelain debris as her chest heaved with anguish. Alicia just wanted to hold herself, her phantom. She hated seeing herself so gutted, especially by the undeserved hostilities of this terrible man.

  Somewhere outside, a dog barked as she cried. And then it was silent.

  The loss of her mother, her father, Eric, her grandfather, her career, the loss of her life. She’d watched it all drop away, like brittle leaves snapping from grizzled trees, fleeing from autumn breezes into an endless winter.

  The grand piano faintly trilled with a music box waltz. Dr. Farron froze, the sound running over his arms and neck with a thousand nibbly feet. The music swelled as hands ran up and down the keys with the precision of a master pianist. Dr. Farron slapped shut the box flaps over the pictures, but the piano continued to natter.

  Did someone break in?

  Dr. Farron glanced around for a weapon, but the boxes were full of things entirely useless against intruders. He crept down the attic stairs to find something in the garage, trying not to let the steps squeak as he descended. As he grabbed a tire iron from the garage wall, the music broke for a moment. Except for the beating of his heart, the house sounded empty. Then, as he entered the house, he heard a sprinkling of notes—a reworking of the last passage he’d heard as he searched for his weapon. The music swirled around that passage and then picked up momentum, launching itself into another phrase.

  A phrase he recognized from the last piece of music Gina was writing before she died.

  Who could be so cruel? And how did they enter his home to commit this brazen act of inhumanity?

  It didn’t matter. He was going to rip the pianist’s fucking head off.

  He plunged into the house, iron ready to swing into the first skull he met. “Whoever you are, you’re fucking dead!” he shouted, charging into the living room.

  The grand piano stood open, lightning ripping behind the French doors beyond, brilliance skittering across the polished mahogany. Slender arms moved up and down the keys, attached to delicate shoulders covered in a blue knitted shawl. And then her sharp chin dipped below the slanted lip of the baby grand, red curls sliding down her cheek. Dr. Farron held his breath. Many years ago, in that pub in Chicago, he’d written off the ghost to lager logic and had forgotten it as the romance reached a fever pitch. But now he could not deny what he saw. Gina moved as if she lived, petite and pregnant, her hands moving skillfully over the keys. Music paper and pencils covered the piano top.

  Suddenly she left off playing and picked up a pencil, scribbling on one of the papers as thunder rattled against the French doors. “James!”

  Dr. Farron stopped when he heard her say his name.

  “James,” she called again, laying a hand on her belly. She was five months along. They were leaving in a few days to go to DC for a brief vacation and to see her family.

  And then his brain sizzled when he heard someone else—himself—reply.

  “Coming, your majesty!”

  The sleeves of his sweatshirt rolled up over his elbows, another Farron, a phantom, carried a tray of food from the kitchen to the living room. The sweatshirt was stained with daubs and drips of colorful paint. Phantom Gina gathered up the music paper so the Phantom Farron could set the tray of food on top. “Thank you, sweetie! You rule.” He scooted onto the piano bench with her and she kissed him, her fingers noodling a few sweet, silly notes.

  Dr. Farron gripped the tire iron, his insides boiling with torment. He backed away slowly and then dodged into the hallway opening, peeking around the corner into the family room. He was too frightened to question how this was happening. It just was and it hurt like hell.

  The Phantom Farron reluctantly slid off the piano bench, grabbed a sandwich, and winked at her.

  “So can I see?”

  “Nope, not yet.”

  “But when? It’s been forever!”

  “Some day,” he said.

  “Oh, come on!” she pleaded. “We wanna see!”

  “Uh-uh,” he said. “Not until it’s ready.”

  That Phantom Farron, already stuffed on happiness, bit into his sandwich as he headed into the hallway. He stopped inches from Dr. Farron, who pressed his back against the hallway wall, as if that would keep the Phantom Farron from noticing him. Phantom Farron grinned at Phantom Gina. “All good things to those who wait.”

  Phantom Gina pouted and played a dark jig—her own version of “The March of the Marionettes”—as the Phantom Farron continued into the hallway.

  Dr. Farron followed the phantom down the hallway and around the corner to where his study was...

  ...but instead entered a vast canvas of forest and fantasy. The Phantom Farron picked up a palette and brush, evaluating a section of the wall where he had left off fleshing out the multicolored foliage in which a pearlescent unicorn lay awake. The mythical beast resembled the medieval tapestry of “The Lady and the Unicorn,” which he’d seen at the Musée de Cluny in Paris. He’d jokingly called it the George Clooney Museum. Gina had wanted Paddington Bear, but Dr. Farron had wanted something more special. He’d instead depicted Pooh and Piglet holding hands as they peered into the f
ace of the ancient unicorn from the leafy pile. A nice juxtaposition of old and new stories. The unicorn was sitting above the bassinette her parents had given them. The colors of the mythical forest fell around him like autumn. Lots of primary colors with some rust and subtler shades to soften the overall effect. In time, baby’s eyes would appreciate them all.

  Overwhelmed with memory, Dr. Farron ignored Phantom Farron and approached the mural. But as soon as his fingertips touched the brilliant brushstrokes, rivulets of white ran across the wall as if his touch caused the paint to bleed. In a flash, the wall went white.

  The palette vanished and the piano fell silent. Dr. Farron dropped the tire iron and climbed on the desk as he his fingers dug into the wallpaper’s edge. With a tentative tug, he peeled back a portion of the covering to reveal leafy hints of the mural buried beneath.

  Daylight faded and the kitchen would soon be glutted with murk. It was time to begin Alicia’s ritual. One by one just before twilight, she would flip on the house lights, starting in the kitchen and ending in the bedroom. This childhood fear had resurrected itself a year ago, the night Alicia came home and found Eric’s goodbye note. He had abandoned her, the house (in her name), and the bills, and left like a houseguest who had to catch an early flight, quickly and quietly. She had always been afraid of the dark. Having another person in the house somehow disarmed the nightmarish prowlers, but with Eric gone, the creatures of her imagination were free to swipe at her ankles from the shadows with their sticky, bristling limbs. She almost wished her grandmother was well enough to stay with her, but she knew the old woman wouldn’t stay here even if she was that well. Not in the house where her granddaughter had tried to kill herself. And not with the person from whom she’d hidden so much her entire life.