While considering his vexing condition during the Alles ride to the medical center, Merlin thought of old reruns of The Addams Family he had watched as a child and a character in the series that was a single, very expressive hand called Thing. He was beginning to think of his left hand as such a disembodied adversary in his life. Could this be what the old orators and writers were alluding to when they spoke of a red-handed mutiny? The moniker would seem appropriate as he had noticed the blood-flushed surface of his palm after its defiant morning romps in his crotch. What a boon that he happened to be on his way to plotting its imminent defeat.
After exiting the Alles car and entering the bazillion-dollar opulence of the Witlock Tower, whose soaring public spaces on the elevated lobby floor rivaled and indeed surpassed those of some of the most palatial of contemporary hotel lobbies, Merlin took the elevator to Dr. Swearingen’s office. After responding when a nurse called him by his first name to an examination room with the indulgent upward-lilting sing-songiness of a pediatrician’s or veterinarian’s assistant, he found himself seated on an examination table awaiting the doctor’s entrance.
Merlin went to Dr. Swearingen because he was one of Arthur McNaughton’s best younger friends. But with the passing of time, the good doctor was now no spring chicken himself. Initially, he agreed to see Merlin as a patient as an homage to his friendship with taciturn old Arthur. As time elapsed, however, he had developed a genuine avuncular affection for the young man. He had noticed people flee from Merlin on sight when happening onto his path at church or at the club, and after registering it too many times for him to count, he resolved that, however outlandish the young man’s appearance or topic of conversation, he would never disrespect him publicly and would make his best effort to silence anyone he heard doing so.
This morning’s interchange with Merlin tried his resolve to the uttermost as his patient, with great passion and seriousness, explained that he believed he suffered from alien hand syndrome. When the doctor asked for examples, Merlin finally confessed, with much reticence and embarrassment, the singular activity that had established this belief in his oversize coconut of a head. At this point, the good doctor looked at his smart phone, acted as if he had just received an emergency message, and excused himself from the room to release a barely controlled snicker before gathering himself and retuning with his serious clinician’s face in place. He asked Merlin to perform some simple motor tasks involving touching his nose with his right and then left index fingers. Then, with utmost gravity, he looked at something on a computer monitor and returned his attention to Merlin before pronouncing his diagnosis.
“I think I can say unequivocally that you do not suffer from alien hand syndrome.”
Merlin’s face dropped, and his eyes and brows took on a look of mild hopelessness. “I don’t?”
“No, Merlin. I think we may be dealing with something else that will require a little more reflection on my part before I can get a grip on … uh, that is, a full assessment to you.”
“Oh,” Merlin offered, “I understand.” His chin dropped toward his chest.
Doctor Swearingen’s posture changed somewhat, and he attempted to take Merlin’s attention elsewhere. “I have a completely out-of-the-blue question for you.”
“Okay,” Merlin replied with guile-free sheepishness.
“Have you ever thought about looking for a special lady friend? You know, like a girlfriend?”
Merlin sat up straight on the examination table. It was with lingering surprise and building insecurity that he said, “The world of potentially amatory forays with members of the opposite sex has never been a field in which I have shown great aptitude.”
“Well, you know, I hear there are dating sites on the internet that put all kinds of people together—even folks who may not necessarily have seen eye to eye with anyone prior to registering with one of the services.”
Merlin’s back stiffened more, and he froze with terror. His eyes filled with the fear and bewilderment of a cornered animal.
“I’m not entirely certain of the motives of the owners of these sites. I have heard that in some cases they may be dubious.”
The good doctor looked a bit surprised. “Really? What kind of motives?”
“My understanding is that some of these sites are owned by foreign companies interested in controlling the population through a kind of subtle eugenics experiment carried out through their matchmaking software.”
Now it was the doctor who demonstrated wide-eyed bewilderment as he came face to face with a bona fide conspiracy theory proffered by the immensely odd and oddly immense young man who was probably one of its truest believers.
“I declare. I’ve never heard such a thing, Merlin.” The doctor’s nervous discomfort betrayed itself by his sudden default to a Texas folksiness peppered with mild oaths.
“Yes, some of my research has revealed that dark players may be pulling the strings of these seemingly harmless so-called dating sites. Some theorists say that is part of their strategy.”
“Well, I’ll be dipped!” The doctor seemed ready to shed his lab coat and stethoscope for a pair of overalls and a banjo.
“Yes, this is part of the reason for the quandary in which I find myself. Most of the women I honor are heroines of yore with grand missions and independent minds—very different from the sheeple traversing these questionable dating sites. I seem to have been born out of time, as it were, as my tastes and thought trajectories are so out of step with the mores of today.”
That’s not all that’s out of step with you, son, thought the doctor.
“Perhaps I would have been better suited to the era of arranged marriages between scions and heiresses of palatinates and city states or shires and kingdoms. Surely the wisdom of kings, queens, and their sage loyal retainers of bygone centuries far outstripped that of the owners of these dubious so-called dating sites whose questionable motives may be inching daily now toward being uncovered and reproved by the authorities. No, Doctor Mac. I greatly appreciate the concern, but, alas, I find myself beached on the ebb and shoal of an era with a gait of which I seem consigned to be ever out of step.”
Beached is right, thought the doctor as he stared at his patient whose proportions called forth images of the fluked baleen masters of the high seas, and “out of step” he once again registered as the understatement of the year, coming as it did from this marcher to a drummer of seemingly unknowable origin.
A lingering few seconds passed as bewilderment blanched Doctor Swearingen’s wizened visage. Then, recognizing the uncomfortable unbroken silence, Dr. Mac Swearingen went back into Southern avuncular family-friend mode as he and Merlin exchanged pleasantries while departing the examination room, Merlin heading for the front desk and exit door, and the doctor in the opposite direction toward the safe harbor of his office to gather himself before resuming his duties on one of the higher floors of the gleaming state-of-the-art medical tower whose glass and steel exterior shone like a freshly unwrapped scalpel in the flat midday glare of the relentless subtropical sunlight.
• Four
On the Alles drive homeward, Merlin stared through the rear window of the nondescript Japanese sedan across the back seat of which he reclined in an angular sprawl to conform to its tight confines. As he gazed skyward, his thoughts ranged, discipline-free, across a host of barely interrelated subjects: From which direction were the clouds coming? Was it the southeast? Or the east? What was average full takeoff weight of the gargantuan Emirates A380 that would leave this evening on its daily marathon flight from Houston to Dubai? What was the average rate of rotation of a long-distance spiral pass thrown by a starting NFL quarterback? Would the local professional football franchise be looking down the barrels of doom for yet another excruciating season? Would the offensive line at St. James’ stand a chance of holding together against its rivals’ defenses nearly as well as it did when he was its anchor at right tackle during his high school days?
Although he was fore
most a man of ideas, Merlin’s cerebral nature had never snuffed out his interest in the world of athletics. Noting Merlin’s dimensions early in his middle school years, the football coaches at St. James’ encouraged him to try out for the team. Speed and quickness were not the obvious appeal. It was the sheer mass their little college prep line lacked that had them salivating over the potential wall the elephantine young man could present on the gridiron. The same coaches were pleasantly surprised to learn that, in addition to his size, he possessed an almost preternatural strength to match, of which he seemed barely aware.
When the coaches began to stress the role of the lineman as a protector of the quarterback, Merlin’s interest was piqued. Additionally, they spoke of opening up running lanes for the other offensive backs, which also appealed, but it was this idea of defending and protecting that really seemed to excite the young recruit. Not wanting to risk losing this coup for their line, the savvy coaching staff spoke of “protecting the ball carrier’s forward progress” and “defending and protecting the running lane” versus “opening up a hole,” et cetera. Merlin took the bait and became a standout lineman, bringing his singular focus to the football field and intimidating defenses with his astounding dimensions and tonnage.
As the car turned northward from the tree-lined calm of the boulevard alongside Rice University to the retail jungle of Kirby Drive on the southern reaches of which the professional football stadium was situated, Merlin lamented the fate of the Houston Texans. Tales of the heart breaking Oilers’ choke during the playoff game against the Buffalo Bills tormented him along with stories of excruciating defeats at the hands of the Pittsburgh Steelers. The Oilers were champions before the AFC and NFC were united, but since the dawn of the era of Super Bowls, no victories had accrued for the Bayou City’s pigskin pros. Would the Texans ever rise to the occasion, if the occasion presented itself? Surely, this city of wild-eyed redneck football fans on the very buckle of the football belt should expect a victory, but the waiting continued. It must be the malaise brought on by the negative vortical energy and unfortunate rotation of the city’s psycho-spiritual gyre, he deduced. The nineties bore witness to two Houston Rockets NBA championships and, more recently, in a post–Hurricane Harvey thumbing of the nose at the gyre of the malaise, the 2017 Astros brought a first World Series victory home to Houston, but a Super Bowl victory, much less appearance, remained elusive. A Texan Super Bowl victory would be the acid test that would prove a definitive energy reversal had occurred.
On his arrival home, Merlin entered the front door of the main house and sorted through the mail, leaving everything addressed to Mickey McNaughton on a front hall table and taking everything pertaining to him back to his refuge. As he approached his observatory, he noticed what looked like a raw egg and encrusted broken shell smashed against the lower part of the tower. Perhaps a nest had fallen from a tree. As he washed the mess away with a garden hose and brush, he noted the runic phrases he had painted near the entryway of his abode were in much need of a touch-up. Ruminating on their significance did not lift his spirits, so he entered the door and trudged up the staircase to his residence with his stack of mail. Downcast, he opened his door and looked across the room to his bookshelf.
The first book to catch his eye he always left leaning perpendicularly against other books behind it, so he could see its cover facing the room. It was his favorite from childhood and brought back memories of his beloved nanny who spent much more time with him than did his parents in his formative years. The book was The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf, and its timeworn cover featured a colorful drawing of the big bull dreamily sniffing a beautiful red rose under the shade of an ancient tree in some fantastical rural Spanish locale, distant in both time and place. His pause on seeing this favorite story brought a melancholic smile to Merlin’s otherwise droopy visage. “Ferdinand the Bull,” he mused. Why did he like that story so much? He couldn’t really come up with a good answer but thought that his preference for it came from its exotic Iberian setting.
A monthly newsletter from Bayou Boughs Country Club dropped from the stack of mail he was still clutching. He picked it up from the floor and put it on top of the other pieces while enjoying more pleasant childhood memories of reading about Ferdinand. That moment fled with jackrabbit dispatch as he looked down at the club newsletter on top of the mail stack and in frozen disbelief saw Tite Dûche’s photograph on the front page of the monthly bulletin and his name and signature beneath the president’s letter. Merlin dropped the remaining mail on a side table and went to his window wall to read the letter.
What an honor to realize a lifelong goal of being elected President of Bayou Boughs Country Club! I am grateful for the confidence shown in me on the part of the Board of Directors of Your Club.
Merlin hesitated before continuing, noting Tite Dûche’s penchant for capitalizing the initial letters of random nouns and other parts of speech. As noun capitalization is compulsory in German, was this evidence of Dûche’s Teutonic roots showing?
Providing the Premier Club Experience is the goal of Your Board and my foremost responsibility as Your President. Part of that charge is to make certain that all Club Members follow all Club Rules to ensure a calm and respectable Club Environment. I will publish a comprehensive list of Club Rules in the next issue of the Bough Branch, but for now, I would like to bring to your attention a new rule that Your Board believes requires immediate attention and enforcement.
We all know that hats are not allowed inside any part of Club Property. Of course, out-of-doors, hats are appropriate, and we particularly encourage members’ wearing Bayou Boughs’ branded hats, visors, caps, and sportswear, but even out-of-doors, it has come to Your President’s attention that certain types of headgear are completely inappropriate and therefore, from now forward, have been banned by Your Board.
Certain Members seem to have deemed it necessary to wear unusual headgear improvised with various antennae and electronics. It would be improper of Your President to name names, but the offenders are hereby served with notice that Your Board and Club Staff have been alerted and Know Who They Are. Specifically, effective immediately, no headwear of any kind may be worn that contains improvised electronics, dials, levers, or antennae—protruding, retractable, or otherwise within the confines of Club Property or Airspace—both Indoor and Outdoor. Offenders will be dealt with harshly, swiftly, and appropriately.
It is Your President’s goal to make Bayou Boughs a comfortable, welcoming place for all Members and Their Families. Compliance with the new headwear rule is one more way to achieve this stated goal. Thank you for your continued support.
Sincerely,
N. Teitel Dûche V
(and with a handwritten signature)
“Tite”
Merlin noted that in the handwritten reproduction of Dûche’s signature, the dot of the i in “Tite” was drawn with great care to make it look like a golf ball, while the i was tweaked ever so slightly to represent a tee. Stunned, Merlin collapsed into a large easy chair. In his place of refuge since his earliest memories, he would now be under attack. “It’s open season on Merlin McNaughton,” he lamented. How would he survive this onslaught? The full authority of the board was behind it, and Tite’s animus toward him had now found a way to throw a wrench capable of lodging itself squarely in the gears of Merlin’s spinning world.
Were more bans and constraints on his horizon? Merlin stared out the window toward the golf course and the top of a tree line behind a perfectly groomed, impossibly green fairway. Above it, a hawk wheeled in a tight predatory circle, its vision fixed intently on its next meal, most likely an unsuspecting bunny rabbit, Merlin mused, grazing at the course’s edge where it abutted the relatively savage wilds of Buffalo Bayou.
• Five
Merlin shambled down the street in a neutral tone outfit, a plain beige baseball cap corralling the unruly mop of hair on a downcast head. He stumbled over a protruding section of sidewalk as neighborhood lawn spec
ialists enacted their rite of stepping aside and silencing their leaf blowers and edgers as the gargantuan gringo traversed a strip of their outdoor workplaces. Merlin had never thought about it, but none of them had ever made fun of him as he passed. Always minding his manners, he tried to give each a slight smile and a nod as he walked by, and perhaps it was this modicum of noncondescending respect that the yard men sensed and returned in kind as appreciation of the simple gesture.
When the Dûche family walked through Bayou Boughs, if any of this type of personnel were working near street or sidewalk, they actively ignored them as they strutted with jutting chins, frowning pursed lips and wrinkled noses that had become a kind of behavioral trademark of the family. All the Dûches seemed hell-bent on letting the world know that they were in charge and said world just needed to get out of the way.
Merlin’s only fleeting thought, however, as he passed the workers was conjecture as to whether they had all graduated from specialized vo-techs or trade schools in Mexico or Central America. He imagined a ceremony that included the graduates walking across a stage at the far end of which the dean of horticultural management slipped the harness of each graduate’s very own gas-powered leaf blower or weed whacker over neck and shoulder in sash-like fashion, announcing to the world the individual’s readiness to depart to the land where leaves needed to be blown and weeds whacked incessantly.
Merlin of the Magnolias Page 4