NFTF: The Dairy, Part II

"My pleasure, Dr. Reinblatt. Victoria? Come with us, and we'll get you all fixed up for tonight's presentation. Ah, there's a smile. Just as the Lord foretold. So saith the Doctor."

whispers 

so saith the lord

wet slicing

laughter muffled screams 

We move toward a door and a lady in too much polyester steps out of an office and I glance in: it's me standing there, in the office, unmoving, staring at something right in front of me. All I can see are ropes cutting into the flesh of ankles, legs pulled wide apart. I gasp and Dr. Mayberry says,

"It's not real, right, Victoria?"

"It's not real," I repeat, looking away. The door shuts and I hear something wet splatter against it

I am blinking hot wet out of my eyes, it stings 

Dr. Mayberry stops at a door with a name plate on it: Dr. Torvald W. Mayberry. He is carrying two plates of strawberry Jell-O. He smiles at me, nodding at the door handle.

"Victoria, would you mind? My hands are full," he's very nice.

breathing in ragged gasping sobs, someone begs for them to stop stop stop stop

I hesitate to touch the door handle, fearing the scene beyond it, the barn, the blood and screaming.

"Okay, I'm sorry, lemme just put these down --" he begins, but I reach out and open the door -- I have to know what's beyond -- 

I gasp, stepping back: rough paneled walls, old framed photographs inside --

the sound of children crying, muffled

-- and a comfortable chair in front of a lovely old desk.

"Thank you, Victoria. Ladies first," he gestures with his Jell-O plates; I look at the Jell-O a second time, at its quivering. Was it always in individual molds? I thought it was in cubes when he arrived. I look at Dr. Mayberry.

"I made these special for you and I, Victoria," he is young and cute and kind. I still have problems looking at his eyes. "Do you want me to go first again, to show it's safe?" 

"No, I --"

not safe not safe, slicing screams I know it's not safe

"I ... ladies first," I finish, stepping in to his office. He's even had barn rafters put in. I'm looking at them as he closes the door with his foot, then sets the Jell-O down on his desk. There is a fresh cup of coffee steaming on his side of the desk. Oh, how I crave a cup of coffee

with a grain of salt a spoon of salt a fucking salt lick to penetrate this obscurity

"I'm an old country boy at heart," he says, following my gaze. "Grew up on a ranch here in the valley. Went to school back East, in Massachusetts," he nods his head up to the right toward a wall covered in diplomas, plaques, credentials. "But my heart has always been here, right here, in San Ramon." He busies himself, arranging some papers, opening my file

file file file their fingernails down to be bone, fingernails melt better when powdered

and selecting a few pens. I focus on the wall of credentials. There's a large, beautiful window right behind him, I think I should ask him about it -- 

"Will you tell me about your window?" I blurt.

"Sure! Yes, I remember, you've asked about it before. It's from my grandparents' farmhouse. They had this one, beautiful window. Well, many, actually -- but this one was my favorite because I could see the sunrise every day over the East side of the valley. So I had it installed here, hoping to shed bright light into the darker corners of my patients' lives ..."

As he's been talking, I've nodded and let my eyes wander the room, focusing mostly on the ego wall. Something about it is off, disconnected. I squint, but I still can't see what it is. And, not wanting to arouse suspicion, I look up at the rafters. There's a stuffed owl up there. I say,

"Whoa," involuntarily.

"My Grandfather's owl. He raised it from the egg, found the nest when he was hiking after a wildfire. The eggs were protected in the tree, but nearby were the owl parents, they'd ... not survived. Anyway, he took the eggs and built an incubator and they hatched. He learned to feed them, he set them free, but this one just stuck around. Imprinted so strongly that he never left. Grampa called him Archie, from Archimedes, Merlin's owl ..."

I've been trying to see his diplomas clearly, but it's like they're blurred out. I look for other details on the wall near them, and can clearly see knots in the wood, a crack that looks like a witch's hand

grasping screaming help me I am not a witch

and as I'm staring at that crack, I see the diploma next to it begin to resolve, swimming into focus. I shift my eyes and it's blurred. I look elsewhere again, not wanting him to know where I'm looking and see what I'm thinking.


"Tad loved -- loves -- I know, he ... he doesn't exist. I know. I'm sorry," I look at the floor, realizing I've said too much.

"Victoria," his voice is so kind. "I understand that it's hard to let go. Maybe if we talk about him, we can find what it is that anchors you to the idea that he was ever there at all. Okay?"

I nod, smiling a little. I'm not sure I can talk about Tad right now without crying. I'll try, though.

"Tell me where you two met," he says, leaning back in his chair a little. He's going to listen to me. I let my eyes wander as I speak. He sips his coffee.

"We met in a musical," I begin. "Reinblatt's Der Verdunkeln Meister --"

Coffee explodes from his mouth and nose in a fit of coughing. I had just let my eyes focus on the witch's hand crack in his ego wall. He hadn't even noticed. But now he's gasping, coughing, mopping the spray of coffee from my file and his desk. No computer monitor on his desk, it's very clean and very clear. Like a little like that poster of John Muir's desk -- no! Theodore Solomons! What was I thinking? Wow. 

"I'm sorry," he's saying. "What was the name of that musical?"

I pause. I can't remember. It's just ... gone. 

"I -- I think -- it's ... it must have been something else. I can't remember the name, but it was German. A very rare, dark comic operetta with a much more contemporary musical theatre sensibility to it than anything else written in the 1890's ... wow, how come I can't remember its name?"

He is staring at me, eyes narrowed a little. I realize I may have tripped myself up. How? How did I stumble? I've got to stay focused. I force myself to look directly into his eyes:

"Self-medication with marijuana has its drawbacks," I say, and he smiles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, their blue-with-brown-flecks all but disappearing. Even the silver at his temples is the same. I want to call out, to ask him why he's faking like this, why he's pretending, just say his name --

"Tad --" I freeze, I shouldn't have said his name.

"Yes? ... Victoria? Go ahead, talk about him," he smiles, encouraging. It's driving me insane to have Tad sitting there in his white doctor's coat, looking like he should be shooting an episode of ForScience!, only without the goggles.

" -- was always talking about musicals. Tad was. We met in a production of ... " I pause, panicked slightly. What should I say? Then out of nowhere, "The Best Little Whore -- house in Texas," I finish, but why did I emphasize 'whore'? Did his eyes widen when I did that? Why? I feel like a puppet.

"You talk a lot about theatre, Victoria, but always in reference to "Tad." Did you know that? Had you noticed this tendency?"

I hadn't, actually, not in any significant way. I mean, it's what he does -- did -- it's what I associate with him. Maybe I can get the doctor talking, get him to go on for a while. I say:

"I ... no. I didn't. What do you think that means, Dr. Mayberry? I mean, what do you think it really, really means -- at its core?"

He blinks. Sips his coffee.

"Well --" he begins. "It seems to me that you have a deep seated need to act out, to embody your fantasies so completely that they become real to you. Your commitment to these fictionalized accounts of your life is truly remarkable. I wonder sometimes what would happen if you were to focus that same dedication on actual professional theatre work, Victoria. You know, there's a story about Sigmund Freud and a production of Hamlet ..."

I let him talk, nodding every so often. My eyes are unfocused, aimed at that witch hand crack near his diplomas. I listen to his words, just letting the images settle in to focus. I can blink, I remind myself. I just can't shift my eyes to the right. Any attempt to look at them directly leads to the blurring. I can still hear his words, and I make the occasional validating, "Mm-hmm," or, "Oooh, yes," wherever appropriate.

"... but there is no reason why you shouldn't consider that a success, even if it's just a small one ..."

The crack that looks like a witch's hand seems to twitch. I blink, breathing, focusing on calm intent. The diploma is starting to swim into focus. I can see the first word. Ark ... ham. I glance a little to the left, resting my eyes slightly, making a, "Hm?" noise when Dr. Mayberry seems to be asking me a question.

"I said, are you going to eat any of your strawberry Jell-O, Victoria?" He is smiling, gesturing at the neatly molded red gelatin gleaming in the morning light that streams through his grandparents' window. 

"Oh, yes! Of course --" I pick up the plate and the plastic spoon. I smile at him and feel some of the still-warm blood slosh off the plate onto my wrist, the pinkish-grey brain tipping slightly. I freeze. I force myself to smile, nodding, but looking at his face I can see a brain on this plate. I look down at it, deliberate and calm. When I do, it's a perfectly-molded red mound of Jell-O. There are chunks of strawberry suspended in it. It smells delicious, like strawberry. This was not scooped from the cranium of a still-living woman, a Rachel bolted to the wall through her clavicles, screaming as an old foot-pump bone saw's rusting edge snagged on her scalp and ripped half of it off to whirr around like an old wig caught in a food processor --

I force my eyes back to his. He's taking a bite of his Jell-O, smiling. "Mmm," he says, eyes lighting up. "I see why you love Strawberry Jell-O so much, Veronica."

screaming but not anymore, her brain is gone and she's leaning forward as a bolt is yanked from the wall and bloody saliva pours from her mouth

"What?" I ask, before I can control myself.

"What," he says. Then I see him realize he just called me by that other name. I have the distinct feeling I am on thin ice, and that the ice knows it.

"What, uhm ... what do you think I should do, I mean, what is the significance of my stories about Tad always being in musicals. Instead of, like, non-musicals? Or working at ... the pound, or something?" I'm grasping for something that doesn't make me sound like an idiot. I raise the spoon and dig in to the Jell-O -- should it be this firm? -- then wait, expectant, for his answer. His eyes are glued to the spoon.

A howl. Far away, but closer. We're looking directly at one another when we hear it. I see him hear it. I know who it is and before I can stop myself,

"Max!"

His expression flashes, for the briefest second, to rage. He catches it, smiles, shakes his head and says, "Who?"

I want to poke at him a little, I don't know why. I say, "Max The Wonderdog!"

Dr. Mayberry takes a breath, and I see another face beneath his face for a moment, a face broken and twisted as the soul inside. I think he's going to shout at me, launch himself over the desk. There are flashes of shaking, envenomed rage under that calm exterior. He masters it, though, and says:

"I remember now. "Max" is the serio-comic hero dog you invented, the noble companion to "Tad", his trusty sidekick -- a dog with unnatural, uncanny abilities and an apparent telepathic understanding of your needs, yes?" Dr. Mayberry is smiling, gentle, and oh so condescending at the same time. He's pitying me, or pretending to. "Pity," in quotes.

"Max isn't real either?" I ask. "Is he related to musicals at all? Like maybe Fiddler on the Roof or The Producers?" I know this guy knows nothing about musicals. Maybe I can fluster him.

"Well, the power of an imaginary dog in a musical could be very significant," he begins, and I let my eyes drift to the witch hand crack again. It's easier, now, a little faster: the words are swimming into focus.

"... there's a kind of noble strength in you that you haven't acknowledged, Victoria, and maybe that's why you invented "Max" ..."

The first word is clear: Arkham.

"... but I think it's significant that you depend on "Tad" and "Max" to save you, instead of saving yourself. Is this because you're female and therefore significantly weaker ..."

I can't let his bullshit distract me ... the second word is swimming into focus: Conservatory.

"Holy shit, you went to The Arkham Conservatory!" I shout, elated for no reason I can understand. But it throws him. It throws him! He sits back, actually throws himself back in his chair like I've slapped him and there is blood spattered across his chest. I pretend not to see it.

"What -- what do you mean -- ?" he is staring, intense, his upper lip twitching.

"It's right there on the wall, silly," I say, like it's nothing. I stand and move to the wall, pushing forward, following this line of happiness because it leads to revelation, reading aloud: "On this day, this year, blah blah blah, The Arkham Conservatory bestows upon Torvald Walter Mayberry a Baccalaureate Degree in ... Divinity?" I glance at him, there's more spattered blood now and some of his hair is missing. "Wait, wait, wait," I take a breath. "You have a degree in candy? You make ... candy?"

"How can you see that?" he demands, his voice low and broken, rasping. 

"It's right here, below this other one," I say, and the witch hand crack twitches again as I read: "The Arkham Conservatory ... Doctor of Divinity, as well! Holy shit, Torvald! You're a Doctor of White Fudge!"

"Cunt!" he bellows, raising a hand to backhand me, but someone else speaks from the corner behind me:

"Showing any shreds of past, he feels, would be ghastly, lastly." The tone is warning and I recognize Dr. Reinblatt's voice but I didn't know he came in with us. I pretend not to hear it or

no no no please no not my girl not my baby no please oh god oh god no

"Con--tinue. Continue, please, Victoria. Why is my first Alma Mater significant to you?"

I have moved back from the wall toward my chair. I don't remember doing this. I glance at the witch hand crack. It doesn't move. I sit, choosing to put him (them?) at ease by my apparent compliance.

"Tad went to Arkham, as well. He and Dexter Tremblay were classmates. Of course, you were there before their time, but no doubt you've heard of Dexter's work? He's a writer," I say, remembering that Mayberry probably doesn't get out much. But not knowing about Dexter Tremblay is like not knowing about Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. I continue, "He disappeared, remember? Leaving behind an incredible manuscript? ... And people keep reporting sightings of him in Nevada, Washington, Oregon?"

Am I making this shit up, or is it true? Hard to tell. Dr. Mayberry has sat back down. The blood appears to be fading from his clothes, his hair has grown back. If I really am hallucinating all of this, I'm amazing at hallucination.

"Victoria," he says, smiling, but with a brittle tone that makes me think he's struggling. "I think it really is time that you take ... a bite ... of your Strawberry Jell-O."

I realize I put the Jell-O on his desk when I stood. Looking at him, I can see where I shoved the spoon into the top of the brain. It's sticking up, out, slightly to the left, blood congealing underneath this brain on a thick paper plate. Looking at the Jell-O, it gleams in the morning light, the light that is shining into this room at the exact same angle as when we entered. That's odd.

no please please please please please not her, please

"Dr. Mayberry, I'm actually still full from breakfast --" I begin.

"Nonsense! It's delicious! Try some!" Dr. Mayberry is grinning and shoveling Strawberry Jell-O into his mouth; I glance away, but the brain on his plate becomes very clear, so I have to watch him, watch the chunks falling onto his tie, his white coat. I have to know that the squishing sound I hear as he eats is a human brain, and if I think about that too much, I will puke. So I turn my head to gaze at his diplomas.

He stands and moves into my line of sight, taking a huge bite of Jell-O. "Strawberry," he says. "It's your faaaaavorite!"

I look at my own plate and he moves to the corner of his desk to my left. "Let's take a bite at the same time," he says, so enthusiastic, and there's a hard, cold rage in his eyes that clashes with his smile. It's too hard, to see Tad this way. To see Mayberry wearing Tad's face and form like a mask. How does he do this? How am I trapped here like this? Am I, after all, suffering paranoid delusions as they say? That would explain everything.

Dr. Mayberry is still staring at me. The smile is fading from his face. I look at the plate again and he says, "Victoria. Do I have to make you eat your Jell-O? Again?"

Oh, God. Have I already eaten some of this before? I look at the spoon. I can't tell. 

I pick up the plate. There's only the mark from the side where I took a scoop, but that scoop is sitting on the plate next to the rest of America's Favorite Dessert. I turn the plate around.

Most of the other side of the Jell-O is gone, great scoops missing, looking like someone just could not get enough of this taste sensation. I look at Dr. Mayberry. 

"See?" he says, grinning, red stuff between his teeth. And pale chunks. "You like it! Take more, Veronica, take more and seal the pact."

He called me Veronica. I've had enough of this shit. I stand and throw the Brain-O at the window where the light doesn't move and it hits with a dull thwack-glop.

hands holding the large mirror falter

"Veronica! That is uncalled-for! Clean it up!" Dr. Mayberry sounds more like an angry father now.

"I kicked your ass once, Torvald Walter Mayberry, I can do it again!" I shout.

the brain slides down the surface

"I have no idea what you're talking about. We have made such progress. Do I have to call the orderlies?" Dr. Mayberry sounds reasonable, but there is blood on is coat again. Not Jell-O of any flavor. 

I am reflected in the mirror, someone obscured behind me, whispering

The walls of the room look like they're moving slightly, like they're being held up by hands too weak to support them. 

smell of burning hair, smell of blood, smell of shit

I need to break something. I grab his lamp and hurl it at the window -- he shouts, "No! The mirror -- !" and before he is finished with the sentence ("...must remain intact!") --

The window pivots neatly to the side, the cheap battery-powered LED lantern smashing against the barn wall beyond. The window pivots back and I see hands holding the sides of this large, heavy, ornate mirror spattered with fluid and brains and blood and, at the corners, what looks like shit with eyeballs and fingers sticking out of it.

"Well now, it looks like someone needs her medication to be extra-strong today," Mayberry says. I turn my head and see, in a gap between the walls of his office, a Rachel's head slide wetly to the blood-soaked straw beneath, half of her face cleanly sliced away on what looks like a very large mandoline. Mayberry steps into my field of vision. 

Oh, God. He's completely nude under a blood-soaked doctor's coat, his man teats sagging but the jagged, sharpened, splintered wooden pole he's strapped on over his missing genitals is very erect, glistening wet and red with blood. He says, through a broken jaw and shattered teeth, "Der she wann her injercshn or, werr she eeah her Jerr-O?"

There is a face looking at me from behind the beam behind me, I can see in the mirror, as long as I don't look directly at the face: bright, crazed, laughing eyes, focused on mine. Whispering laughter.