A Lonely and Curious Country (23 page)

              “It’s not just the skin, though. There were very specific instructions. The third eye is the key—it allows some to see into realms invisible to most people. I’m sure you’ve read about it in your research, though. The pineal gland. Right here.” He tapped in the lower center of Ahlstrom’s forehead. “Well, it’s a few inches inside, but this is where we access it.”

              He picked up the strange tool with its saw-edged cylinder and placed it against Ahlstrom’s forehead. Finally, Ahlstrom recognized it: an old trepanning tool. Conroy lifted it above Ahlstrom’s field of vision, then Ahlstrom felt the pressure as Conroy began to crank. Pressure and sound—a grinding sound that rumbled inside his head. Conroy remained silent as he cranked forcefully. Then the pressure and the noise stopped. Conroy smiled and pulled the tool back; in its cylindrical hollow was a bone white piece stained with blood.

              “The most important step, though is the preparation of the skin. It has be tanned very carefully, using just the right method. Have you heard of brain tanning, Dr. Ahlstrom? It’s been around for centuries—maybe for millennia. One brain is enough to tan one hide, they say. But I don’t need your hide, Dr. Ahlstrom—just the doorway to the third eye. And I don’t need the whole brain... just enough to fill this freezer bag will be fine.” He used another tool to push deep into the trepanning orifice; he knew exactly where the pineal gland was located. He skillfully extracted it, placed it in the bag, then supplemented it with just enough brain matter to complete the tanning process. Conroy had become quite the expert—apparently practice did make perfect.

              “And there we have it.” He began to pack everything away once again. “In a few days I’ll have your contribution to my anthology, containing an essential condensation of Ascuns La Vedere. You should be proud, Dr. Ahlstrom... you’ll be published after all!”

After Birth

Brian M. Sammons & Jamie D. Jenkins

Jane stared out the window of the family sedan as it barreled down a desolate highway, bitter winter rain pelting the pane. She imagined the sting of those near frozen pellets would be less than the sting of the man behind the wheel. Her father was the chauffeur as the family driver was not required for this clandestine outing in the wee hours of this frigid March morning. Her father, Jamison Chatham III, sat scrunched in the driver's seat, his wool overcoat bundled tightly, a cashmere scarf framing the scowl that he had worn for as long as Jane could recall. But today, the deep set lines of his face seemed to be forged in steel. He grumbled to himself as he navigated the unlit, winding road. Jane was crying in silence, doing her best not to call attention to her presence. If only her mother were there. She served as a buffer between Jane and her father's ire, but this night she stayed home, curled up with a handful of barbiturates and a bottle of sherry in an attempt to chase away the shame that Jane had lowered onto the family.

Jane felt eyes on her and glanced up into the rear view mirror to see her father glowering at her. She cast her head down and began to finger the fringe that danced at the end of her own scarf. She hated that look in his eyes, that look of pure scorn. Her mind wandered to the day that began this regrettable chapter of her life. She had been ill for some time, unable to keep anything down. When the cook served her eggs at the breakfast table that morning she'd had to bolt from the room to empty the contents of her roiling stomach. As she looked up from the porcelain bowl in the servant's bathroom off the kitchen, she came eye to eye with her mother whose silhouette blocked the daylight that had been streaming through the open door. One glance told her that her mother knew.

“Who?'

“Wh..what?,” she stammered. But the guilt was on her face. She could feel it glowing red as if her cheeks had burst into flames.

“Don't play with me, Jane. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Who did it? I know it can't be Jonathan because he shipped out months ago. I want you to tell me right now who did this to you.” Jonathan was a reference to her betrothed, Jonathan Chamberlain, youngest son of the Massachusetts Chamberlains whose family was the wealthiest, most respected Catholic family in the state, probably in the region. And Jane was to be married to him when he returned from the war, a match that Jane's father had been doing his best to arrange since the minute she had been born.

Jane sat still for a moment before she decided that honesty would be her only recourse. She steeled herself then muttered the name, “Thomas.”

At first Jane wasn't sure her mother had heard her, it been little more than a squeak to her own ears. But the ghost-white wave that crossed her face, followed by the resounding thud of her mother fainting onto the tile floor, confirmed that she'd been heard.

Jane's condition, as bad as it was, was made worse by the fact that the offending party was the grounds keeper's son. That family wasn't wealthy, it wasn't well-received or respected. And they weren't white.

But she didn't love Jonathan; he was cold. His touch, his hand-holding, his hugs were always stiff, almost compensatory. He was a mere two years her senior but he treated her like a child. He acted as if he were doing her a favor by courting her. He may have been the
right
man for her to marry, but Jane imagined her future with him would be the duplicate of her mother's existence. She feared that she would be sentenced to a life that was void of affection, the pain of her loneliness kept at arm's length by alcohol, dulled by tranquilizers.

So this last New Year's Eve, when her mother had allowed her some celebratory champagne, she'd found herself wandering around her expansive home long after the rest of the family had stumbled to bed in a post-countdown stupor. She'd seen Thomas in the kitchen while looking for some of the party leftovers to quell the drunken hunger. She followed him back to his quarters. For a brief moment she felt beautiful and alive. And she wasn't sorry.

Jane's life from that moment of confession had been a series of arguments, chastisements and beatings. Her father disowned her then thought better of that idea. He
needed
her to marry Jonathan. But that marriage could never take place if she carried the bastard child of a Negro gardener. Jane spent her days and nights in her room, awaiting her fate. While attempting to avoid the burning stares of her angry father. Her mother sat crumpled in her bed, alternating between bursts of tears and near catatonia. The family doctor had made several visits, not for Jane's welfare, but to keep her mother sedated. They'd told him she'd received some bad news from back home in Virginia and left it at that.

A week went by, then two, with no further words on the subject from her father. Then, last night, she'd awakened to find him standing at the foot of her bed.

“Get up,” he barked.

“Why?”

“Get up!”

Jane scrambled to her feet, fumbling with her robe and slippers, as her father shoved her out of her room and toward the stairs.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We're going to fix this problem you've created.”

“But how?”

“We're getting rid of it.”

“But Daddy...”

“Don't talk to me, I can't even stand the sound of your voice right now.” He turned to look at her at last with his cold, hard eyes. “God damn it, girl, you’ve made a mess of everything.”

Jane hesitated then continued, “But that's illegal
and
we're Catholic. I can't.” She pulled from his grip and stood her ground. “I won't.”

Jane had never seen rage like that which emanated from her father at those words. She wondered if he even
was
her father. His face was twisted and distorted, his eyes glowed. Jamison drew back his right arm and landed a blow to the side of Jane's face that sent her skidding across the floor in the foyer.

“You will never defy me, girl. You don't have a choice in the matter. You should have thought of that when you were trysting with a colored servant. You are not going to ruin our lives with your harlotry. I will rip that bastard from you with my bare hands if I have to.”

Jane was sobbing and crying for her mother, but her mother was standing, arms at her sides, in the doorway of the sitting room. She reeked of alcohol; her eyes were vacant and unseeing. She knew none of this. Jamison dragged her outside where the car was idling and tossed her into the backseat, not waiting to see if she was inside before slamming the door. Jane had mere seconds to pull her feet into the car. Her father then got behind the wheel, turned to her one last time to tell her to stop bawling, then threw the car into gear and sped out onto the road. She was stunned.

***

Jane was snapped out of her reverie as her nostrils were assailed by a stench so overwhelming that she felt her gorge rise; it threatened to spew last night's supper all over her father's back seat. She reached for the crank to roll down the window then realized that it was coming from outside the car. The air was heavy with the smell of rotting fish. Jane pressed her face against the glass in an attempt to see where it could be coming from and her mouth dropped in horror. It looked like how she imagined those horrible P.O.W. camps she'd heard about from news reels of the war. There were tall, sprawling fences topped with barbed wire, her view was spotted with signs on posts that were long ago rusted beyond being readable. They passed one that allowed her to make out some words between the patches of rust: BY ORDER OF THE
rust
GOVERN
rust
THIS ARE
rust
OFF
rust
MITS. Startled, Jane looked at her father. He showed no signs of emotion one way or the other. She opened her mouth to ask him where they were but thought better of it. She wiped away the fog from the glass and continued to peer outside. She could have sworn she saw something dragging itself through the darkness between what appeared to be two houses that were now little more than ruins. When she'd gotten her eyes to focus, the car had already passed. All she could make out were buildings in varying states of dereliction. Her skin turned clammy as the cloying odor gained strength. She shuddered, pulled her coat closer around her and sank deeper into the seat.
Maybe I’m better off not knowing,
she thought.

Then the car skidded to a stop in what may once have been a parking lot, the best she could tell through the steamy window. There did not appear to be any lights outside but there were a few other cars of various ages and models parked in the vicinity. She could see the outline of a building with a few glowing windows.
This must be a mistake
. Before her brain could register that her father had parked and gotten out, the car door was opened and she was pulled from her seat by rough hands into the cold drizzle outside. It was her father. He marched her up to the door, told her to wait, then went inside. She gagged with every breath of the fetid air as the cold dampness attempted to worm its way into her winter coat. A few moments later he returned with a man dressed in what used to be a white orderly's uniform, but the white had long given way to the yellowed discoloration of age and multiple washings. The man grinned at her with a broad mouth and bulging eyes. She felt his clammy hand grasp her forearm and pull her toward the door but he said nothing. Her father never looked at her but dismissed her with a wave and a sharp “I’ll be back later to pick you up” as he headed back to the car. Jane stood in the doorway, rain washing away the tears that streamed from her swollen eyes.
Where has Father abandoned me?

The squat orderly tugged at her arm then ushered her into a cramped waiting room. There were two other women there, neither of whom would look at her. Jane busied herself again with the fringe on her scarf. It felt like hours before she heard her name. She looked up to see the smiling face of what may have been a nurse. The woman had those same wide, staring eyes as the orderly. Her smile, though broad, was bereft of warmth. Jane rose to her feet with timidity and allowed the woman to take her by the arm. The clamminess of her touch crawled all over Jane's skin. Jane cast her eyes down as the woman weaved her through the chairs toward the back of the room. She noticed that the woman's gait was more a drag; her feet never seemed to leave the ground. She looked at the door as they shuffled through. The worn letters spelled out PROCEDURE ROOM.

Upon entering the room, Jane could smell a hint of disinfectant beneath the pervasive fishy odor that served as ambiance for this whole area. There was a dull metal table in the center of the room with what looked like some bizarre handles at one end. The nurse guided her toward the table and instructed her to disrobe and climb onto it. Her words dripped from her mouth in a garbled stream. Jane was unable to decipher most of what she said and relied, instead, on her ability to understand the hand motions that accompanied the instructions. Shaking, Jane peeled off her coat, then her robe. She started to remove her nightgown but the nurse waved at her saying what sounded like that would be fine. Jane climbed atop the freezing table and sat, legs dangling over the side, awaiting further direction. The nurse was busying herself with a canister that she had pulled alongside the gurney as a door in the corner of the room swung open. A tall, blond man strode into the room, white coat gleaming in contrast to the dinginess of everything else in her sight. His smile seemed genuine. Jane felt instant relaxation. The man arrived gurney-side with an outstretched hand. Jane accepted the proffered hand and it closed around hers, pumping it up and down.