We Are Monsters (3 page)

“You the man,” Devon said. He smirked and gave a two-finger salute before he turned and walked away.

Eli continued down the hall, scowling.
“That ain't how Dr. Drexler do things.”
He'd have to have a talk with Alex when he returned. He could sense some tension with Angela when he'd mentioned his name, and now this. Perhaps he'd given his protégé a bit more leeway than he was ready for. He couldn't afford any loose ends with the board review looming.

Just the thought of the upcoming board meeting caused Eli's stomach to clench. He knew his resistance towards more traditional care methods and modern medicine was unpopular. But how ignorant of history must everyone be to immediately embrace new therapeutic methods without erring on the side of caution. During the last century, every decade had ushered in a new form of treatment to be crowned the new cure, from bloodletting to waterboarding to shock therapy to lobotomy to innocuous pills that steal a patient's personality. The only form of therapy that has ever stood the test of time is humanistic—to treat patients like people, not deranged beasts.

If it weren't for Sugar Hill's sterling record for patient recovery, Eli knew he would have been replaced long ago. And, even still, his job was in jeopardy. More than that, his legacy. Which is why it was so important for Alex to carry the torch forward. To ensure that his humanistic philosophies endured and to avoid the pitfalls of the past.

As Eli made the turn back towards his office, he recalled his first job as a young psychiatrist, and another voice whispered in his head. This one his own.
You are the harbinger of death. Only pretending to make man sane.

Chapter Five

The building was made up of 6,452 bricks. He had counted every one. And, like snowflakes, no two were the same.

They varied in color from orange to peach, to pink, to crimson, to red. Blood red, Jerry thought. They varied in texture, some rough and jagged, others flat and smooth. When he closed his eyes, he could picture each one being picked up, slathered with cement and placed in its own special spot by the bricklayers, stacking them in a staggered line, side by side, one atop the next. The surface of each brick was porous, pricked with hundreds of tiny air holes. On certain days, Jerry could hear them breathe.

The building's breathing was comforting. It was the calm, steady breathing that marked the rhythm of routine life. Never ragged. Never labored. It reminded Jerry of being a little boy and falling asleep with his father on the couch after returning home from Sunday brunch. Rocking to the gentle rise and fall of his father's chest, tucked under the soft throw blanket like some stowaway aboard a seafaring ship. The building walls would expand and contract with the same reassuring regularity as his father's chest, and, at such times, the entire world would come alive, unveiling its hidden beauty, disclosing ancient secrets through whispered words.

His companion landscaper, Manny, plucked a dandelion from the flowerbed and began to stuff it in his bag, but hesitated. He raised it to his face and studied it. “Ain't these supposed to grant you three wishes?” he said.

Jerry had dropped the garden hose and was standing catatonic, paralyzed by the overload of information, the brilliant spectrum of colors, the dance of inanimate objects, the truth and connectivity that unite all things. He was back on his father's chest, but it was earth's heartbeat that he was hearing, and it was more than his human mind could take.

“Nah, that ain't it,” Manny said. “Just one wish, if you blow on it like a birthday candle.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it in. Then he opened his eyes and blew across the bulb, sending dozens of feathery dandelion seeds floating through the air. “Ha! Looks like I'm getting laid tonight,” he said, turning and smiling up at Jerry. Manny shook his head and pushed himself to his feet.
Damn, poor
muchacho
's lost his marbles again.

“Hey, Earth to Jerry!” he called as he came walking up, waving his arms before Jerry's vacant stare. “Yo, back to reality,
mi amigo
.”

Jerry remained motionless; the only sign of life was the occasional blinking of his eyes. Manny removed his garden gloves and used them to wipe sweat from the back of his neck. “Shit,” he said, scanning the grounds for nurses or guards. The expansive lawn was empty at the moment. That was good.

Manny grabbed Jerry by the shoulder and shook him back and forth. “Hey, wake up, man. Jerry! Jerry! Man, they're going to take you off detail, bro. They're going to put you back inside. Come on, amigo.”

A reedy sound escaped Jerry's mouth. It sounded like he was trying to speak. Manny put his ear near Jerry's lips. “What's that? Come on. Talk to me, Jerry.”

“I can see,” Jerry said in a small, wavering whisper, “the world speak.”

“Shit!” Manny said, spooking a sparrow, which leapt from the roofline of the storage shed and flew to the fountain in the center of a seating area near the building entrance. It hopped into the water and began bathing itself as the building doors swung outward and two orderlies strolled through. Their mouths were open, shoulders shaking, but their laughter came seconds late, a slight delay as the sound traveled across the open air.

One looked like Carl, who Manny shared smokes with on occasion. He wouldn't create any waves. The other, though. It looked like Devon, that loudmouth man-child who acted like he was second in charge behind Dr. Alpert. Devon was the gatekeeper of hospital gossip. His eyes and ears were everywhere.

Manny bent over and retrieved the hose, then put his arm across Jerry's shoulders and started walking him towards the door to the supplies building. They only made it a few shuffling steps before Manny heard Carl call from across the yard. He cursed and looked back over his shoulder. Carl was waving a hand in the air and trotting forward, Devon keeping pace with his long, lumbering stride.

Manny waved back as he stared sideways into Jerry's eyes. They were blank, his pupils constricted down to little pinpricks. A string of drool dripped from his slack mouth. He placed the hose back in Jerry's hand and wrapped his fingers around it, then pushed him closer to the flowerbed. The spray fell a few feet short.

“Yo, Manny! What's up, what's up?” Carl said as he approached, slapping Manny's hand and bringing him in for a half hug. Devon stayed back and lifted his head in a curt greeting before shifting his weight and gazing off across the yard. It felt as though a timer had started. Carl pointed to Manny's pocket and said, “You got a couple extra smokes?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Manny reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels. He shook out three sticks and passed them around.

“Yo, let's go take a seat,” Manny said, trying to corral them back towards the central seating area. Carl turned to go, but Devon stood in place.

“Nah, man. I'm straight right here. Some crazy motherfucker be creeping up on us back that way. That's what I'm trying to take a break from.” Devon reached out and grabbed Manny's lighter and sparked his smoke. He tossed it to Carl who wasn't looking, so it bounced off his shoulder and hit the ground.

“Man, no patients are going to bust up on us. It ain't break time,” Manny said.

“Still.” Devon shrugged and took a deep pull off his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his large, pimply nose.

“Whatever,” Manny said. He met eyes with Carl and they both took a drag to hide their smiles. “Come on. Let's at least get in the shade.” Again he tried to walk them around the corner of the supplies shed.

This time they turned and began to walk away, and then Carl spun around. “Hey yo, Jerry! Come have a smoke,” he said.

Manny cringed as Jerry continued facing the storage shed, saturating a single patch of grass. Carl looked at Manny and raised his eyebrows. Manny shrugged. “Man, he don't want to be bothered, come on.”

“Yo, what's up with him?” Devon said, then walked forward and peered over his shoulder. “Man, he's all fucked up.” Devon waved his hand in front of Jerry's face. “You're supposed to report this shit,” he said.

Manny smiled. He came forward and patted Jerry on the back. “What? Man, you know how Jerry gets. He'll snap out of it any minute. It ain't nothing.”

“Yeah, I know how he gets. He gets batshit crazy. He ain't supposed to be out here when he's like that.” Devon took another drag, squinting at Jerry through the ribbons of smoke, then exhaled the plume directly into his face.

Jerry blinked his eyes and flared his nostrils. Just like that, his body reanimated and he looked around.

Manny came forward and put his hand on Jerry's back. “Hey, brother, you okay—”

Jerry jerked away from him, frightened. His eyes grew wide and his mouth peeled back, baring his tobacco-stained teeth. “Put that away,” he said, leaning back. “You're burning me.”

“Hey, it's cool, it's cool,” Manny said. He dropped the cigarette and held up his hands. “You're all right.”

Carl followed cue, snubbing his cigarette out under his shoe and showing his empty hands. Devon took another drag and stepped forward. “Ain't nobody burning you,” he said.

“Get that away from me,” Jerry said, cowering back another step.

Devon kept coming forward. “It's just a cigarette,” he said, holding it out in front of him.

Jerry raised the hose, plugging his thumb into the spout, and sprayed Devon with a fan of water, extinguishing the cigarette and soaking his clothes.

Devon held out his hand to block the spray, then his lips peeled back in a sneer of rage and he charged. He collared Jerry around the neck and hip-tossed him to the ground, landing on him with all his weight. The hose went flying from Jerry's hand, flopping on the ground like an angry snake.

Jerry squirmed and tried to bridge his back, but he was stuck under Devon's larger frame.

“What the fuck?” Manny said, rushing forward and trying to pull Devon off of him.

“Back off!” Devon gasped, already short of breath. He cranked Jerry's neck, watching as his face turned from pale to pink to purple. “I'm trying to subdue him.”

Jerry began to kick frantically with his legs, and Devon squeezed tighter still, crushing his face against his chest, arching his back. Then Devon screamed in pain and released him. He raised his arm and checked under his armpit, hissing in pain. “Motherfucker bit me.” Driblets of red began to emerge through his blue shirt. He stalked forward and Manny restrained him from behind.

“That's enough,” Manny said.

Devon turned and shoved Manny backwards.

He had to pinwheel his arms to keep from falling.

“I told you, man. That's why you can't have crazy-ass motherfuckers running free out here. I don't care whose brother he is. You in it as much as he is for covering up.”

Manny walked past him, diverting his eyes, and helped Jerry stand up. His eyes were still wild, his breathing ragged and wheezing, but he allowed Manny to help guide him back towards the hospital.

“You okay?” Manny asked as they approached the building entrance.

“The world is hurting,” Jerry said. He had started to tremble. “They want to burn the world.”

Manny patted him on the back as he ushered him inside. “You're okay,” he told him. “You're okay.”

Chapter Six

Alex awoke to an empty bed. He pulled aside the sheets and skulked into the bathroom to shower.
What a fucking nightmare,
he thought, wishing that it were.

He had dumped Popeye's body in the outdoor garbage bin before coming into the house, but that wasn't good enough for Rachel. She wanted him buried.

“Where the fuck do you want me to bury him?” Alex had yelled, finally losing his temper. “In the fucking flowerbeds?”

“Bury him under the dogwood.”

This had made him laugh. “Right. How fitting.”

Rachel hadn't found it funny.

It had taken him an hour of strenuous digging to realize there was no way to penetrate the root system directly under the dogwood. And he was not willing to dig up the expensive zoysia that had just been sodded last spring. In the end, he buried Popeye in an unceremonious grave back behind the outdoor AC units. It saved him from having to make a headstone.

Alex turned the shower handle to Hot in an effort to scour away the residue from the previous day. First, his failed test trial. His fifth and, most likely, final test trial. For Philax, at least. Not that he had any additional suitors. The Philax opportunity had virtually fallen into his lap; otherwise he never would have sought it out. But his overconfidence in the medicine's success had buried him in a financial hole so deep he could scarcely see a way out. Not without selling off most of their assets, coming clean to Rachel, exposing his lies to Eli. None of those were viable options at the moment. Comparatively, Popeye had gotten off easy.

He dried off and dressed in his pleated pants and starched shirt, posing in front of the mirror for the fiftieth time before heading downstairs for breakfast. He smelled fresh coffee and wasn't sure whether to be happy or apprehensive. That meant Rachel was still home.

She was at the breakfast table, huddled over a coffee mug, her long, black hair twisted into a loose ponytail and slung over her right shoulder. Pale sunlight streamed through the bay window behind her like a stage light spotlighting a somber scene. Alex paused at the entrance and watched as she raised the mug to her mouth with both hands and took a pensive sip. Her eyes were distant, and for as long as he watched she never blinked.

“Morning,” Alex said as he entered the kitchen.

Rachel kept staring straight ahead.

He walked to the breadbox, pulled out a bag of bagels and sliced one in two. He smothered each side with cream cheese and began eating it at the kitchen counter.

“Your phone has been ringing all morning,” Rachel said.

He glanced to where he had left it recharging. “Okay,” he said.

Rachel lifted her head. She looked more weary than angry. Smudges darkened the undersides of her eyes and the lines framing her mouth appeared deeper than usual. “No,” she said. “It's been ringing all morning. You should check it. Like, now.”

Alex activated the phone and peered at the display screen. There were four missed calls from Sugar Hill, two from the main line, two from Angela and one from Eli. A flash of heat erupted in his chest.
And the hits just keep on coming.
Rachel watched as he listened to the messages, and took a long sip of her coffee as he set the phone down.

“Goddammit,” he said, bracing himself against the counter with both hands.

“What?” Rachel asked, sounding concerned. He saw an opportunity in her tone of voice and let the silence stretch. After several seconds, she asked again, “Honey, what is it?” Over his shoulder he could see her straighten and begin tugging on her hair.

“It's Jerry,” he said. He turned and faced her, marshaling his most sympathetic expression. “He's had another episode and has been committed. They're holding him at the hospital.”

“Oh no. What happened?” Rachel said. She had set aside the coffee cup and was now fiddling with her sleeve. Alex poured himself a cup of coffee and took it to the table, huddling over the mug with a heavy head, as Rachel had before.

“I don't know. That's all they said. I guess I'll find out when I show up.”

“But…” Rachel scooted closer to Alex and placed a hand on his arm, “…is he okay?”

Alex shrugged. “Depends on how severe it is. They're not likely to give him another work detail, that's for sure.”

“What? But, that's terrible. How could they do that? They know Jerry. Isn't there anything you can do?”

Alex sighed. He placed his hand on hers and squeezed, then looked into her eyes. “I'll do everything I can.”

As boys, Alex had always looked up to Jerry, his older brother by four years. They shared a room until Jerry became a teenager, and it had felt like an exclusive clubhouse where Alex was the initiate, becoming indoctrinated in all the secret ways of the world. Jerry had introduced him to comics, which they would read together, huddled under a tented bedsheet with an electric lantern, rooting on Batman, the Hulk and Hawkeye as they brought justice to a miscreant society.

Inspired by their cartoon superheroes, they had set out to form their own real-life dynamic duo. Jerry had created costumes to conceal their alter egos. A black ski mask for him, with zigzagging lightning bolts etched onto each cheek. And, for Alex, an old pair of tighty-whiteys turned upside down, with crude holes cut out for the eyes. Jerry was Bolt Lightning. And, due to the faded brown stain that ran down Alex's forehead, he was called the Streak. Alex was too enthusiastic about their escapades to realize that he was literally the butt of his brother's joke.

Their first mission was to rescue the neighbor's cat, which Jerry had planted in a tree. It was an old, overweight Cheshire that had been declawed. And when placed upon the branch, had fallen contentedly asleep.

Jerry pointed up to the limb of the old elm, maybe fifteen feet aboveground, struggling to keep from laughing at the sight of Alex's eager eyes framing his wash-resilient shit stain. “There's nothing I can do. The electric powers of Bolt Lightning will set the tree aflame. It's up to you. This is a job for…” he paused, biting the side of his tongue, “…the Streak!”

Alex had been overcome with excitement. Unfortunately, his climbing abilities were not up to the task. He was shimmying out onto the limb holding the snoozing cat when he slipped and fell, pinballing off a branch below and breaking his arm on the ground.

Still, the first thing Alex asked for when he returned from the hospital was his mask. Disgusted, his mother had thrown it away. So Jerry made another one. To Alex's delight, the new one had an even darker streak.

As they grew older, Alex's admiration for his big brother slowly turned to envy, as the vast differences between the two became more pronounced. Jerry was their father's son: handsome, charismatic, athletic. Popular at school and successful in sports. Whereas Alex appeared to have emerged from another gene pool altogether, always buried in a book, more interested in science than chasing skirt.

Their father would take them fishing and Jerry would reel them in, one after the other, while Alex organized the tackle box and dissected the worms. After school, the house was always filled with the gregarious laughter of Jerry's friends, while Alex would stay holed up in his room, reading the Encyclopedia Britannica for fun.

Still, Jerry would make a point to include Alex in his endeavors, asking him to join in on a pickup baseball game or catch a movie. Even inviting him to high-school senior keg parties when Alex was only in the eighth grade. But by then Alex had either lost interest or was intimidated by Jerry's activities. He was clumsy where Jerry was coordinated, shy where Jerry was sociable, weak where Jerry was strong.

The last time they played catch, their father interrupted after watching from the window, too agitated for words. He spent the next hour working to correct Alex's form. Trying to teach him not to throw like a girl.

When Jerry left for Ole Miss on a full baseball scholarship, their father cried. Later, he got drunk. He started with a small glass of rye whiskey before dinner, then poured another, this one slightly larger. By the time dinner was through, he was on his fifth glass, the amber liquid shimmering just below the brim, a single cube of ice quickly succumbing to the drink's fiery heat. By then, Mr. Drexler had stopped crying, but his eyes were still rimmed with red, and his grief had turned to aggression.

“You got some big shoes to fill,” he said. They were sitting at the four-top kitchen table with three place settings. The empty space in front of the fourth had felt like a memorial. There was a crescent-shaped water stain where Jerry's glass used to go. His mother was clearing the table, sniffling. She had been crying all day as well.

“I know,” Alex said. He didn't know what else to say. His brother had only been gone a few hours, and the mood in the house had already changed perceptibly. It had darkened. The familiar sights and sounds of each room now seemed foreign, inhospitable. He was beginning to feel like a stranger, as if he had learned he was an orphan and no longer welcome, and would soon be asked to leave.

“What do you know?” his father said, sneering, taking a large sip of whiskey and hissing against the burn. “What can you possibly know when all you do is sit in your room by yourself, doing what? Reading about a bunch of stuff other people have gone and figured out? Try living a little. You don't want to waste your whole life reading about the experiences of better men.” His hands clenched into fists and he grimaced like a man preparing to fight. He chewed his tongue. “Boy, you've got big shoes to fill. I want you to know that.”

“Don, please,” Mrs. Drexler said. She opened her mouth to say more, then exploded into tears and buried her face in a dirty dish towel. Her crying was not quiet. It was the apotheosis of sadness, great heaving wails that sounded like a wounded water beast. It overwhelmed the small kitchen nook, cramming itself into every corner.

“Damn it, look at your mother,” Mr. Drexler said. He began to squirm in his seat and his face began to twitch, turning darker shades of red as he worked to rein in his emotions. “Look at her, damn you.” Then his lip curled in and he began crying again himself. An ugly, unpracticed cry after decades of disuse.

“What do you want from me?” Alex stammered, raising his arms in supplication. “I miss him too.” Then he broke down as well, as much from fear and confusion as from sadness over Jerry's departure.

The three of them sat and cried together, each harder than the other. But the crying did not bring closeness. It felt more like shame. Like they were all exposing sides of themselves they never meant the other to see.

Finally, Alex pushed away and put himself to bed, falling asleep to the sound of his mother crying and his father's slurred, angry speech. The experience awoke something in him, however. A new sense of determination. Not to follow in his brother's footsteps, exactly, but to push himself to the limit of his own potential. And he found that potential to be immense, rising to the top of his class at school, winning national awards for his projects in science.

Still, it hadn't been enough to win his father's respect. He remained an outcast in his own home, even as he began earning the admiration of his instructors and accolades from the science community for his pronounced intellect.

Then, they received the call. It was from Jerry's college roommate. Jerry was acting strange. He was losing weight, behaving erratically, violently. He was convinced that there was a conspiracy on campus, that it had all been a trap to lure him in and control him. To get information from him. Information that only he had.

The night Jerry had left for college was nothing compared to the night he came back home. To Mr. Drexler, the world had lost coherence. The shy science nerd was excelling and the promising sports star was self-destructing. It was like a personal insult from God. It was also the night Alex decided to begin studying psychology, igniting the chain of events that led him to his present place.

Alex patted Rachel on the hand and squeezed it again before letting go. “I should go. I'll keep you posted.”

Rachel grabbed his hand and looked at him with her large, expressive eyes. The look was like telepathy, a show of silent support.

“I'm sorry,” she said, giving a deep nod that suggested she meant for more than just Jerry. “Call me as soon as you can. Okay?”

“I will,” he said, and kissed her cheek. Then stood from the table and set off for Sugar Hill, a half-concealed smile on his face.