The Dream of Doctor Bantam (14 page)

The way Patrice rolled her cigarette between her index and middle fingers, the cherry of it describing a clock-face of lazy fire in the Lysol air.

It means two things, Patrice said. Bound like you are going somewhere. And bound like you are tied to something.

Julie gave her a look. She met it.

Do you have the feeling that you are waiting for something? she pressed. Something that, maybe, you aren’t sure will ever arrive. Or maybe you have the feeling that you missed something, something that passed you by, and you never got a chance to touch it as it passed you.

Everyone feels like that, said Julie.

No, said Patrice, suddenly, so urgently that she flicked the cigarette in her hand like a cat’s tail and ash knocked onto the knee of her skirt, staining it gray. You can’t let yourself think like that. You can’t give up before you start.
There is another way
.

Her hand was on Julie’s knee, like that. Was that the first time Patrice had ever touched her?

There is another way, she said. You can escape from time.

Robbie with the tarot cards; the answer to her question.

She got up and put the end of her cigarette under the cold water.

Julie, you can escape from time, coaxed Patrice. Time isn’t real.

Uh huh, said Julie. And that’s how you feel? You’ve escaped from time?

Not yet, said Patrice. I learn a little more, work a little more every day.

Every day, said Julie. Okay.

And every day, I feel a little bit less afraid, said Patrice. I get a little bit stronger. And you could be stronger, too.

In the mirror over the sink, in the roar of the tap water against the tile: two reflections, one tall and wilting and its eyes overflowing like a fountain of chocolate in a Hershey’s commercial, the other squat, solid like the earth, a soggy cigarette in its hands, its feet poised, ready to cannonball out the door.

I want you to be stronger, too, Patrice said.

Julie turned toward her again. Her cigarette had fallen apart; the cherry burned on the tile, its poison smoke circling her bare leg.

So many times I’ve wanted you to come in and start on courses with me, Patrice said, alone in the space before her. It would be such an adventure, Julie.

She wanted Patrice to stop talking—on one side of her golden head, one white hand; on the other side, another, and Patrice stopped talking.

In this moment, she was holding Patrice’s head in her hands for the first time—in this moment, Patrice was looking up at her for the first time, realizing for the first time; in this moment Julie was pulling her head down, feeling the snort of surprise; in this moment she was pressing her lips onto the hot, high curve of Patrice’s skull. And in a moment it would be over; her lips would have to separate; instead of the salt and CVS perfume she would smell tobacco and Lysol; she would have to take her hands off of Patrice’s shoulders (how had they gotten there?); she would have to force herself backwards, out of Patrice’s fingers, suddenly closed tight over her spine. And then the moment came; time moved forward; they stepped apart, six inches between, one reflection in the mirror becoming two, each checking her hair, making sure it was straight.

They made plans to meet up outside Patrice’s later and Patrice led Julie out to get busted by the cops.

Getting busted by the cops took very little time. There was just one of them, a lady, her hair dyed henna and curled like a Ren Faire princess. Julie let Officer Kate lead her next door to the Retrograde and buy her a croissant and a cup of coffee, black.

Can I get it with milk? she asked Officer Kate.

I don’t care what you do, said Officer Kate.

She asked the gawky barista to add some milk and then she and Officer Kate sat on the couch together for fifteen minutes, and Officer Kate explained to her that she was sorry, that the Institute made these kinds of calls every four days,
at least
, usually for some nonsense, one time she had had to run a homeless woman off, this woman who was just sleeping on the sidewalk outside, for having a gun, which was actually just a brush, and as far as she was concerned those Institute people were total scum, complete abusers of the police system, that she wouldn’t answer their constant calls to the station if there wasn’t some kind of fundamental police oath that made you have to answer constant calls to the station like that, it’s terrible how some people take advantage, there are so many better things she could be doing, so anyway, kids like you ought to stay away from them, and she won’t cite you this time, but she may have to if you go back there, all right, even if it’s stupid, even if this whole legal system is stupid, she’s getting a refill, do you want anything?

Another coffee with milk, said Julie.

Officer Kate brought back two cups of coffee, one with milk and one black. She took out a flask in a leatherworked slipcase engraved with runes, and poured a tiny splash into the coffee, then drank it in a slow, hissy sip.

Remember, she said. Don’t go back there, okay? Those people are crazy. They’re menaces.

She tipped the rest of the flask into her coffee, radioed to the dispatcher, and left Julie with half of her croissant and an hour to go before Patrice got off work.

She let herself into the apartment with the key Patrice had given her. It had been nearly two weeks and Patrice hadn’t thought to change the lock.

For this reason
, she read as she sat on the couch waiting for Patrice to come home,
the timebound are essentially grafted into a reality of moments, not of facts. To the timebound, this statement would seem nonsense: to a perspective confined to fourspace, there could be no such thing as a fact without that fact’s grounding in time. Facts—which are true and which, as we have seen, are eternal—are distinct from events—which are bound up in particulars, causality, and other false perspectives of this kind.

Imagine trying to describe a person by saying: “At noon he has a mustache; at three his eyes are blue; at five he has a deep voice.” This would not only miss the point, but it would be redundant, nonsensical, and false—as false as the life of the timebound.

She wanted a reality of moments for Patrice—new moments, moments in which Patrice was free, was alive.

The door opened; Patrice came in; Julie sat up on her knees. Patrice smiled at her as she slid her shoes off, held an arm over her chest as she bent—suddenly modest, like a bride.

I have to finish some of this work, Patrice said. And then we can talk, all you like.

I’ll provide you with moral support, said Julie, hands in her pockets.

They went into the bedroom. Julie shifted some of the clothes over and set herself down on the bedspread. With a grunt, Patrice lifted the Machine from its place and set it on the chair beside her with a metal thunk.

You do that every time you need to use the desk? asked Julie.

I am used to it, said Patrice.

I’d change it, said Julie. I’d steal a TV tray for you, or a cabinet or something. I’d make it so you’d never have to lift a finger again.

Patrice smiled, dippily, then took papers out of the suitcase.

She worked for a while, mostly reviewing the papers, comparing them with other papers, marking quick notes in a quadrille pad identical to the diary Julie wasn’t really supposed to know about. Julie liked watching her work. The way her wrist tensed and released when she made the long loop at the end of her letters, like a cat’s paw shaking off water. The way she rapped each triplicate form three times against her desk before putting them away. The way she pinched dogears between her fingers, tight, like killing horseflies. The way she pumped on the stapler violently, like she was digging a posthole. The way she made clerical work seem like being a ranch hand; this was her country, this Institute work, ranging all around her. She had a sweetly fascist expression while she worked.

Tell me what you’re doing, said Julie.

She stopped, flustered, the spell broken.

I’m, nothing, she said. These are our students, at the Institute, who come in for free sessions to determine whether or not they want to join. It’s called pre-INTAKE, kind of an outreach.

You should take a break, said Julie. You should sit with me, on the bed.

I need to work, said Patrice. My identity is as a student of the Institute, so I need to work.

That sounds so creepy, said Julie.

I am sorry it sounds
creepy
, said Patrice.

Your identity should be to sit here with me, on the bed, said Julie.

She had just been saying things, enjoying how it flustered her. But Patrice stopped writing altogether, sat with her palm down on the desk, her head hung.

Sorry, said Julie. You should work. I know.

Then Patrice lifted her head and turned the chair around to face her.

I need to smoke, she said. Let’s go in the other room.

No, I like it here, said Julie. We’ll smoke in here.

Here is where I work, said Patrice. Here I can’t work if I smell smoke.

I’ll fix it, said Julie. I’ll take care of everything. Come here.

Patrice turned in her chair. One hand gripped the edge of the desk like it was the railing around a tiger pit.

Come here, said Julie. She patted the spot next to her on the paisley blanket. Come here. Trust Julie.

Patrice got up. Looking up at her, her face was like a falcon’s face; the long, straight nose; the eyes beady and hungry behind it. Julie smiled and patted the spot on the blanket one, two, three times. On the third pat Patrice marched forward and sat.

The weight of her like a seesaw, shifting the balance of the springs. The smell of her; the heat of her just six inches away. The force of her crazy eyes—still there, even in this quieter form, still there. She looked at Julie openly; with no part of her was she smiling. She had come to do what duty at last made her do. Julie smiled at this, welcomed her in with her smile, made her feel comfortable. Then she pounced.

Patrice gave a shriek as Julie fell across her lap—
her breasts were touching Patrice’s thighs
—and Patrice tried to get up, but Julie was too heavy for her, held her down as she grabbed the other end of the paisley sheet and pulled it off the mattress and over their heads. She held Patrice’s wrists together and stroked the inside of them with her fingers as Patrice whimpered in the darkness.

Shh, said Julie. Shh. Give me your cigarettes.

Patrice didn’t move. Julie poked her head out of the blanket, saw the pack on the table, dragged it inside. She drew out a cigarette with her left hand and found Patrice’s mouth with the fingers of her right.

Soft skin, wet surface, hidden mesas of bone. Julie worked Patrice’s lips open; she didn’t resist; she allowed it to happen. Her heartbeat, pressed against Julie’s leg, was fast, frightened, thrilled as it echoed against the cloth walls of the paisley cave. Julie set the cigarette in her mouth; she found the matches in her pocket. The flicker, old and red, against the walls. The hints of her face in the burning cherry: the shadowed hollow at the base of the neck, the cartoon slit of a mouth, two bright dots dancing in black-and-brown pools. She coughed a little, shifted against Julie.

Shh, said Julie. You’ll knock the cave down. You’ll get smoke everywhere.

You don’t have a cigarette, said Patrice.

I have you, said Julie. You’re smoking. I’m smoking you.

She closed her eyes in the dark and opened her mouth; she found Patrice’s lips; she breathed in the smoke from her mouth.

Maybe it was the nicotine: her heart, tick-tocking away in her ribs against Julie’s ear, skipped its beat.

What are you doing, Patrice breathed.

Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m thinking, Julie said into Patrice’s lips.

Lunch line in third grade, shuffling along with the same forty kids for the same five interminable minutes. Eyes on Bethany Whitney ahead of her, on Bethany’s Hypercolor T-shirt, its shadows brighter than its highlights. Eyes on Bethany’s shuffling white shorts.

She thought about all the possible ways girls and boys could combine. Boys had a presence and girls had an absence. They could complement one another; this seemed best. Boys and boys was second best: they could clash with one another, swordfight, maybe invert a presence into an absence. Girls were shit out of luck. She thought about it as she took her tray of spaghetti with butter and followed Bethany Whitney’s ass to the long cafeteria tables. Two Thermos cups banging, trying to find a way into one another. Two milk cartons trying to pour into one another, only pouring the same old nonsense back and forth until it went bad.

But it wasn’t that. It was easing a long silk scarf through the crack underneath a door, slowly, slowly, being careful not to tear it. It was the thrill of watching it catch for a moment, watching the fine strands that made it up stretch, watching them break, watching it jump free. Watching it fill with air, like a sail, then luff, then float to the carpet, come to rest.

Fuck the cave, she said, and so they lay on the bare mattress, the twisted remains of the fitted sheet between them, the paisley blanket wrapped around their feet like clouds of foam out of the sea. Patrice was smoking, quiet.

I can’t feel my legs, said Julie. Jesus. Can you feel your legs?

Mm, said Patrice.

Who can feel her legs better? asked Julie. Should we have a race?

She dug at Patrice’s side with her pinching fingers. Patrice slapped her hand away.

I’m sorry I called you a destruction addict, she said. I was so afraid you’d go away, I wouldn’t see you anymore. I was so stupid to be so afraid.

Her eyes got wide and she turned away.

I was so stupid to be afraid, she wailed.

Hey, said Julie. It’s fine. Hey.

Three o’clock is after six o’clock, she said into the pillow.

It’s fine, said Julie, sitting up on an elbow, shaking her. It’s fine!

She rolled onto her back. Those eyes again, that body exposed, those arms hanging defenseless at its sides. The lines of the pillow still pressed into her face. The deep flush of her cheeks in the darkness, the thing possessing her still hanging in the air, a cloud of wicked smoke, escaped from their blanket cave, in the air above her face.