The Dream of Doctor Bantam (11 page)

No, I got this, he said. Go ahead. Relax.

I don’t need anything, she said. This is fine. Thank you. Let’s just go.

No, I’m going to get you silverware, he said, and he surged forward again into the storage space. You need silverware.

She stood and watched him for a minute, and she tried to help twice more and he said no, so she just stood behind the chair, resting her arms against the back of it, leaving the seat empty. It took him ten minutes to haul out the silverware and glasses. They were all in a fat cardboard box, taped neatly with clear packing tape along both openings, labeled in Sharpie: KITCHENWARE #2: GLASSES, PLATES, SILVER.

There, he said. What else?

Nothing, she said. Let’s go.

She started walking away, leaving him with the box in his hands. When she realized he wasn’t following her she turned back. He was leaning against the cold white wall and his eyebrow ring was pressing into a rivet just above his wet eyelids.

Sorry, she said. Hey, I’m sorry. Let me help you put this stuff away.

I can do it, he yelped.

She took a step back. He set the cardboard box of KITCHENWARE at her feet and began to pack the furniture up. As he worked she saw a thousand things he was doing wrong. She bit her tongue and she said nothing.

They brought the handtruck back and he entered the code into the metal keypad to bring the elevator, and they loaded the cardboard box into the back of his aunt’s Cherokee and pulled back onto the highway headed north. The sun was going down.

I’m sorry, she said when they were nearly back to the campus area. I’m a bitch, I know.

You’re just having a bad day, he said without looking at her.

She sat without speaking and she closed her eyes and bounced the yellow squash she had bought for Patrice against her foot and flipped the power locks on and off.

We are the mother people we are the other people you’re the other people too
, sang the tape deck. She opened her eyes.

This is Frank Zappa, she said. I know this. This isn’t Sun Ra.

No, it’s totally Sun Ra, he said, shifting lanes. Why would I make that up?

You don’t know who Sun Ra is at all, she said, and she closed her eyes again.

They turned onto the Drag at MLK, rounded the McDonalds and the gas station.

So I think it’s really a positive sign, he said.

What is, she asked.

That tarot card, he insisted. Like I was telling you about earlier. I think it means that you’ll be okay.

From the side she could see through his sunglasses. His eyes were wet, red at the edges, straining. He was keeping his eyes on the road for her. And if she wanted to she could tell him it was okay, she knew he was thinking; she could say she loved him or she’d fuck him; it was so easy for her to do and it was hers to give anyway; why should he have to go through this hellish torture called teenage life alone? Just him and his aunt and his Jeep Cherokee and his storage facility full of furniture while his parents were away, in Dubai. She turned away from him and she put her hand on her chin and she let her forehead rest against the window glass, beaded with rain and cold, and she waited for the drive home to end.

It didn’t take very long to unload all the recycled paper bags and the kitchenware on the counter. Robbie smiled at her as she worked, rocked on his heels.

This is really cool, he said. It’s like—domestic and stuff.

Yeah, she said. I’m a bad host; I’m sorry. Do you want some water or something? Tea?

He shook his head; his eyebrow ring flapped and rattled.

Is that your room? he asked. Back there?

I don’t have a room, she said. I’m the handyman.

So you, you stay on the couch? he asked.

That’s where the handyman sleeps, sure, she said.

He swallowed.

You want to christen it, he said.

Christen what? asked Julie.

You sleep on the couch, said Robbie. So I thought we could, you know. Again. To christen it.

She had no idea what he was talking about for a minute.

Oh, she said. Is it okay if we don’t christen it right now?

No problem, he said, nodding quickly. No problem, really. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. Ha ha.

It’s fine, she said.

No problem, he said. Do you, so do you have a pen?

He took a pen out of his pocket and looked around for paper. Before she knew what was happening he had torn the flyleaf out of Patrice’s copy of
The Dream and Reality of Time Travel
.

This is my number, he said, writing it down. And you know my address, right.

I know your number already, she said, massaging her eyelids.

So, so give me a call, he continued. Or come by sometime.

He handed her the flyleaf, his pen scrawl etched across it. She took it and stuffed it into her pocket.

Okay, sure, she said.

She looked at his eyes, at the gross yearning in them, like she was holding a tennis ball just out of range of his jaws.

I really like you, he said. A lot.

Yeah, said Julie. Thanks.

Even if you don’t like me, he offered. No matter what you feel about me.

Jesus, said Julie. You’re fine. It’s okay. Thank you. Okay?

Okay, Robbie smiled.

She went into the kitchen so she wouldn’t have to look at his goddamned smile.

Okay, so, it’s getting late, she said. You should go.

I could drive you home, offered Robbie.

I am home, she said.

She saw him out and watched his gigantic SUV disappear from the upstairs window. Then she turned and looked at the Christmas lights icicling down, the couch, the Institute paperbacks, the Paris photos on the wall.

I am home, she said again, to no one.

She tried to make a soufflé out of eggs and spinach and managed to completely destroy it. She spent ten minutes chipping burned eggs out of the baking pan with a spatula, piled brown flakes with green lumps of completely raw spinach in them onto two plates, doused them with steak sauce and brought them over to Patrice.

Voilà, she said. Patrice looked up.

Oh, wonderful, she said, and she set down her paperwork and started eating. Julie watched her as she slowly devoured the two plates of burned eggs and undercooked spinach. Halfway through the second plate, Patrice looked up.

What? she said, her mouth full of eggs and spinach.

Nothing, said Julie. What were you like in high school?

Patrice looked back down at her plate. Again, she thought about it before she answered.

I didn’t exist, she said finally, and she kept eating as Julie watched her.

8

Julie came in late to work one night, buzzed from an afternoon with Ira, to find the apartment dark, except for the Christmas lights. The door had been unlocked; Patrice’s papers were in a heap by the door, next to her shoes, like she’d just dropped them there.

Hello? she called; there was no answer.

She found Patrice in the bathroom, on her knees by the bathtub. Her eyes were bulging and there were two wet lines running from her nose down the lower edges of her cheeks. Julie sat down in front of her.

What’s wrong? she asked. Patrice. What’s wrong? Do you need me to make dinner?

I don’t deserve dinner, Patrice said, her voice still even, but quiet, almost not there.

She sat for a moment while Julie watched her. Then she started screaming. Julie rolled back, away from her.

Hey, Julie said, then she shouted. Hey! Hey! Stop!

Patrice banged her fists against her thighs; her navy skirt spread, hiking up. Julie flattened herself as casually as she could against the wall. Finally Patrice stopped screaming. Julie leaned and watched her.

It’s okay, she said finally. Everyone deserves dinner.

Everything is filthy and nothing will be clean, wailed Patrice. Her skirt was still hiked around her thighs.

I’ll clean up, said Julie. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I should have cleaned up before. It’s okay.

Somehow Julie got her to the couch; her own legs shambling, Patrice’s shuffling, every step resigned. Her hair smelled like sweat, like some animal terror; her skin was cold against Julie’s. Julie lowered her onto the cushions.

There, she said, just relax. I’m sorry; I took a bath. Or a few. I was gonna clean the tub later.

Patrice sobbed something; she had no idea what.

I was gonna clean it later, Julie said again. I’ll clean it now. I’ll make us dinner. I’ll do everything. Just lie here and I’ll do everything.

I’m so sorry. That was what Patrice was sobbing. I’m so sorry.

Just lie here and I’ll do everything, said Julie again.

Patrice shifted her weight and sniffled. Then she looked at Julie.

I’m not usually like this, she said. I’m very sorry.

I know you’re not usually like this, said Julie. I know you’re very sorry.

Cover me, said Patrice. I’m cold.

Do you want me to get a blanket from your bedroom? Julie asked.

From the closet, said Patrice.

It’d be much easier just to get the one from the bedroom—

The closet
, shrieked Patrice, and Julie jumped up and ran to grab a thick brown canvas coat. She draped it over Patrice’s shoulders and Patrice scrunched her face, feline, suffering the attention she’d demanded.

Thank you, she whispered, and she turned away. You should clean the bathroom now.

Just give me a second, said Julie, and I will.

She watched Patrice’s hips shift as she breathed underneath the canvas coat. The place where her hand would fit was right between her ribs and the highest point of her hip. Finally Patrice twisted her face around, one eye visible and angry like a cat.

It has been a second, she said.

I know it has, said Julie.

She went to the bathroom, closed the door behind her, exhaled, inhaled again. The pack of Camels was still on the counter. She lit one and ashed in the bathtub, still swirled with soap and filth; who cared if it got worse.

Under the sink was a bottle of bleach, lime scent, and it only took seven minutes and a brush for her to get the tub as clean as it had ever been. The problem was a clog in the drain, knots of hair crusted together with white. She held it between her fingers, feeling her stomach roll: this spider, the remains of desire.

She started another cigarette to clear the air of bleach smells—who knows what was in that shit; all kinds of poison—and in the mirror she watched her white arms unhook the maroon bra and free her breasts, the right one with its tangent freckle. Her face was tired. She put her tank top back on and left the bathroom with the Camel burning.

Patrice was sitting up against the pillows with the overcoat over her legs.

Four o’clock is after ten o’clock, she said. Noon is before midnight. Eleven o’clock is also five o’clock.

Julie cruised past her into the closet and flipped the bra over the metal curtain rod.

Two thirty is two forty, said Patrice. Two forty is one before ten.

Is that a poem or something? asked Julie.

Patrice exhaled and closed her eyes and let her feet slide out from under the overcoat.

It’s a paradox, she said. The statements are at once true and not true. If you try to hold them both in your mind at once, your problems just, they go away.

Julie sat down on the carpet and watched her, but she didn’t start counting again. She just lay there, feet sticking out of the overcoat like a body under a sheet. Slowly she started breathing normally again.

I’m sorry, she said.

Stop being sorry, said Julie. It’s fine. What happened?

I had a very difficult day, said Patrice. Sometimes it’s very difficult for me to get through a day.

Julie flinched, and stood up.

What did I say? Patrice asked. I’m sorry!

You didn’t say anything, said Julie. I’m going to make dinner.

She cooked—pasta and oil and barbecue sauce; this cooking stuff was easy once you got over being afraid of it—and Patrice chewed on the couch, her bowl between her covered knees like a sick girl eating popcorn on a day off, and when her bowl was empty Julie immediately got up and scraped the leftover half of her food into Patrice’s.

There, she said.

Thank you, said Patrice. Sorry.

Quit being sorry, said Julie. I’m going to get angry if you say you’re sorry one more time.

Patrice bit her lip and sat back, her eyes terrified. Julie tried not to look at her.

You work too hard, she said. Ever thought of that?

I don’t work hard enough, Patrice said. If I were working harder, then I’d already be Unbound, and I wouldn’t … this wouldn’t happen to me.

You’re unhinged, at least, Julie said.

Patrice lay back and closed her eyes.

Unbound is a technical term, she said. You start out as timebound. The more you learn, and the further you move along with Dr. Bantam’s technical processes, the less and less time has a grip on you. People who reach Unbound really understand the truth about time: that it’s an illusion. So nothing can hurt them anymore.

Julie watched her.

So how close are you to reaching Unbound? she asked.

I take my test in September, said Patrice. After that—I’ll be free.

Julie blinked.

That soon? she asked.

It isn’t soon, said Patrice. I’ve been working for years. It takes years to cure yourself of the symptoms of believing in causality.

But September, said Julie. So you get to leave the Institute in September?

Patrice looked at her.

Why do you say that? she said.

You won’t need it anymore, right? said Julie. Once you’re unbound, or whatever. You’ll be like, cured. You can go do something else with your life.

Patrice lay on her back.

The whole point is to establish your ideal identity, she said. Being with the Institute is my ideal identity. How would it make sense to leave once I’ve become perfect?

Julie stared at her, then picked up the bowls and got up. She dropped them loudly into the sink and turned on the scalding hot water and put her hands under it, furiously scrubbing.

What’s wrong? asked Patrice.

Nothing, said Julie. That’s totally fine. So you’re never going to leave the Institute, basically? Your whole life is going to be devoted to, I don’t even know. To taking courses all the time? To coming home burned out? To hiring someone to cook you disgusting food?

Your food is good, said Patrice.

Look, I have to go, said Julie. I’ll see you.

She’d made it to the door before Patrice got up and crawled over to sit at her feet. Julie kicked at her, softly, before she realized what she was doing.

Don’t go, said Patrice. Don’t leave me here. What if we did another session on the Machine?

Fuck the Machine, said Julie. I’m leaving.

Will you come back tomorrow? said Patrice.

Julie looked down at her.

I don’t think I will, she said. I’m sorry.

Patrice looked up at her. Then, suddenly, she stood up. She was six inches taller than Julie, and Julie tried to step back, but she was already against the wall.

Let me go, she said.

Are you saying you don’t want to work for me anymore? Patrice asked, and suddenly all the weakness was out of her voice; again, the thrilling, goosepimpling Patrice Mode I. Could you give me a reason for changing your mind about working for me?

No, said Julie. It’s a free country.

Give me a reason, said Patrice, and Julie felt her cheeks flush and her eyes narrow.

All right, she said. I don’t want to work for someone who’s going to spend her entire life in a cult, all right? It’s just depressing and I don’t want to deal with someone who’s throwing her life away. I have better things to do with my time.

Are you done talking? asked Patrice. Because I would like a turn to talk.

Julie laughed.

Do you use a talking stick in the Institute? she asked. We used to do that in kindergarten. It was pretty cool when you realized that the talking stick didn’t give you some magic power to talk or anything, that you could just say stuff whenever. I got in trouble a lot that year.

Is it my turn to talk? asked Patrice.

Julie waved her hands in front of Patrice in mystic designs.

Kazam, she said. Time isn’t real. Go for it.

I have put up with a great deal of hostility and anger from you, said Patrice. Relating to my beliefs. I persisted with offering my help to you because I felt that you were someone who had a special quality, who might possibly become unbound one day herself if she just allowed herself to see the virtues of the Bantam Processes as they related to her own life.

I’m so glad you were putting up with me, shouted Julie. It makes a girl feel special to be tolerated like that.

But if you continue to insult my beliefs, said Patrice, matching her volume, I’ll be forced to conclude that you’re actually nothing but a
destruction addict
. Do you know what a destruction addict is? It’s someone who is literally, physically addicted to confusing and demolishing the positive values and beliefs of other people, in order to ensure that humanity remains enslaved by time.

I’m not a destruction addict, shouted Julie. You’re a total bitch.

And if you are a destruction addict, continued Patrice, then I will have to ask you not to see me anymore, because destruction addicts are much more susceptible to disease than ordinary people, and will invariably die early deaths, often by their own hand, so.

She didn’t get to finish; Julie turned around, her face flushed. She walked quickly to the door.

Don’t walk away from me, commanded Patrice. We have to finish this conversation. We have to resolve these differences between us.

Fuck you, said Julie. That’s the difference between us. Fuck you.

Patrice said something in response to this, something about how her language was imbued with destructive tendencies and how her identity had clearly fragmented, etc. etc.; Julie wasn’t listening; Julie was closing the door behind her. Julie was taking a deep breath in the hallway, listening for the sound of Patrice’s footsteps and the opening door. Julie was sitting down, thinking that she had to be ready to get up as soon as the door opened and Patrice followed her out, that she had to be ready to get up and storm away home, faster than Patrice could follow. There were no footsteps; Patrice was not following. Julie was sitting on the stairs, breathing heavily. Patrice was not following her.

She sat on the steps with Patrice not following her and thought: by their own hand—often by their own hand.

Ira was sitting in the rocking chair at the base of the porch, studying chess pieces.

Hey, he shouted. Come play black. What’s wrong?

Fuck off, Julie said, and she stole his bike and rode away.