Case and the Dreamer (37 page)

“So he open up the back and there was a stack of pictures, you know painting like on canvas. He hauled ’em all out and put them all down flat on the ground and walked up and back looking at them. He says, ‘David, you like these?’ and David he said, ‘Hell no,’ and Grimme walked the whole line, one big boot in the middle of each and every picture. And he says at the first step that woman screamed like it was her face he was stepping on and she hollered, ‘Don’t, don’t, they mean everything in the world to him!’ she meant the perfessor, but Grimme went ahead anyway. And then she just quit, she said go ahead, and Dave tooken her into the van and Grimme sat on the perfessor till he was done, then Grimme went in and got his while Dave sat on the man, after that they got into their van and come here to get drunk and tell about it. And if you really want to know why I don’t believe any of it, those people never tried to call the law.” And the barman gave a vehement nod and drank deep.

“So what happened to them?”

“Who—the city people? I told you—I don’t even believe there was any.”

“Grimme.”

“Oh. Them.” The barman gave a strange chuckle and said with sudden piety, “The Lord has strange ways of fighting evil.”

The customer waited. The barman drew them another beer and poured a jigger for himself.

“Next time I see Grimme it’s a week, ten days after. It’s like tonight, nobody here. He comes in for a fifth of sourmash. He’s walking funny, kind of bowlegged. I thought at first trying to clown, he’d do that. But every step he kind of grunted, like you would if I stuck a knife in you, but every step. And the look on his face I never saw the like before. I tell you, it scared me. I went for the whiskey and outside there was screaming.”

As he talked his gaze went to the floor and wall and somehow through it, his eyes were round and bulging. “I said ‘What in God’s name is that?’ and Grimme said, ‘It’s David, he’s out in the van, he’s hurtin’. And I said ‘Better get him to the doctor,’ and he said they just came from there, full of painkiller but it wasn’t enough, and he
took in his whiskey and left, walking that way and grunting every step, and drove off. Last time I saw him.”

His eyes withdrew from elsewhere, back into the room, and became more normal. “He never paid for the whiskey. I don’t think he meant to stiff me, the one thing he never did. He just didn’t think of it at the time. Couldn’t,” he added.

“What was wrong with him?”

“I don’t know. The doc didn’t know.”

“That would be Dr. McCabe?”

“McCabe? I don’t know any Dr. McCabe around here. It was Doctor Thetford over the Allersville Corners.”

“Ah. And how are they now, Grimme and David?”

“Dead is how they are.”

“Dead?… You didn’t say that.”

“I didn’t?”

“Not until now.” The customer got off his stool and put money on the bar and picked up his car keys. He said, his voice quite as gentle as it had been all along, “Man wasn’t yellow and he wasn’t kinky. It was something far worse.” Not caring at all what this might mean to the bartender, he walked out and got into his car.

He drove until he found a telephone booth—the vanishing kind with a door that would shut. First he called Information and got a number; then he dialed it.

“Dr. Thetford? Hello … I want to ease your mind about something. You recently had two fatalities, brothers.… No, I will not tell you my name. Bear with me, please. You attended these two and you probably performed the autopsy, right? Good. I hoped you had. And you couldn’t diagnose, correct? You probably certified peritonitis, with good reason.… No, I will
not
tell you my name! And I am not calling to question your competence. Far from it. My purpose is only to ease your mind, which presupposes that you are good at your job and you really care about a medical anomaly. Do we understand each other? Not yet? Then hear me out.… Good.”

Rather less urgently, he went on: “An analogy is a disease called granuloma inguinale, which, I don’t have to tell you, can destroy the whole sexual apparatus with ulcerations and necrosis, and penetrate
the body to and all through the peritoneum.… Yes, I know you considered that and I know you rejected it, and I know why.… Right. Just too damn fast. I’m sure you looked for characteristic bacterial and viral evidence as well, and didn’t find any.

“… Yes, of course, Doctor—you’re right and I’m sorry, going on about all the things it isn’t without saying what it is.

“Actually, it’s a hormone poison, resulting from a biochemical mutation in—in the carrier. It’s synergistic, wildly accelerating—as you saw. One effect is something you couldn’t possibly know—it affects the tactile neurons in such a way that morphine and its derivatives have an inverted effect—in much the same way that amphetamines have a calmative effect on children. In other words, the morphine aggravated and intensified their pain.… I know, I know; I’m sorry. I made a real effort to get to you and tell you this in time to spare them some of that agony, but—as you say it’s just too damn fast.

“… Vectors? Ah. That’s something you do not have to worry about. I mean it, doctor—it is totally unlikely you will ever see another case.

“… Where did it come from? I can tell you that. The two brothers assaulted and raped a woman—very probably the only woman on earth to have this mutated hormone poison.… Yes, I
can
be sure. I have spent most of the last six years researching this thing. There have been only two other cases of it—yes, just as fast, just as lethal. Both occurred before she was aware of it. She—she is a woman of great sensitivity and a profound sense of responsibility. One was a man she cared very little about, hardly knew. The other was someone she cared very much indeed about. The cost to her when she discovered what had happened was—well, you can imagine.

“She is a gentle and compassionate person with a profound sense of ethical responsibility. Please believe me when I tell you that at the time of the assault she would have done anything in their power to protect those—those men from the effects of that … contact. When her husband—yes, she has a husband, I’ll come to that—when he became infuriated at the indignities they were putting on her, and begged her to give in and let them get what they deserved, she was
horrified—actually hated him for a while for having given in to such a murderous suggestion. It was only when they vandalized some things that were especially precious to her husband—priceless—that she too experienced the same deadly fury and let them go ahead. The reaction has been terrible for her—first to see her husband seeking vengeance, when she was convinced he could rise above that—and in a moment find that she herself could be swept away by that same thing.… But I’m sorry, Dr. Thetford—I’ve come far afield from medical concerns. I meant only to reassure you that you are not looking at some mysterious new plague. You can be sure that every possible precaution is being taken against its recurrence.… I admit that total precautions against the likes of those two may not be possible, but there is little chance of it happening again. And that sir, is all I’m going to say, so good—

“What? Unfair?… I suppose you’re right at that—to tell you so much and so little all at once. And I do owe it to you to explain what my concern is in all this. Please—give me a moment to get my thoughts together.

“… Very well. I was commissioned by that lady to make some discreet inquiries about what happened to those two, and if possible to get to their doctor in time to inform him—you—about the inverted effect of morphine. There would be no way to save their lives, but they might have been spared the agony. Further, she found that not knowing for sure if they were indeed victims was unbearable. This news is going to be hard for her to take, but she will survive that somehow; she’s done it before. Hardest of all for her—and her husband—will be to come to terms with the fact that, under pressure, they both found themselves capable of murderous vengefulness. She always believed, and by her example he came to believe, that vengeance is unthinkable. And he failed her. And she failed herself.” Without a trace of humor, he laughed. “ ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ I can’t interpret that, doctor, or vouch for it. All I can derive from this—episode—is that vengeance
is
. And that’s all I intend to say to you—what?

“… One more question … Ah—the husband. Yes, you have the right to ask about that. I’ll say it this way: There was a wedding
seven years ago. It was three years before there was a marriage, you follow? Three years of the most intensive research and the most meticulous experimentation. And you can accept as fact that she is the only woman in the world who can cause this affliction—and he is the only man who is immune.

“Dr. Thetford, goodnight.”

He hung up and stood for a long while with his forehead against the cool glass of the booth. At length, he shuddered, pulled himself together, went out and drove away in his little hatchback.

Don’t churn a bunch of seasonings and flavorings into your hamburgers. Just knead the meat well and form them on the cutting board. As they firm up you can get the knack of throwing them down flat with a gratifying
slap
. Make them just a little wider than your onion rolls. Now they won’t fall apart when you turn them under the broiler. The results are astonishing. But that’s not the best part.

I don’t belong here.

“Free will and predestination are the same thing,” said Alice. She was tall and had long brown hair and a high-domed forehead and blazing blue eyes, fire and ice. “By the time you leave here you’ll understand that.” She was a seminar leader. I never thought I’d go to one of those things but I did.

On each raw hamburger put four dots of Tabasco, a puddle of ketchup the size of a quarter, another one like it of steak sauce or barbecue sauce, and very lightly dust them with powdered garlic. Now stack them, one on top of the other, rotating each one enough to spread the seasonings. Take the top one and put it on the bottom. This will leave a mess on your cutting board. That’s okay. Turn the broiler on. And I still haven’t gotten to the best part.

Alice put us through a whole series of processes and exercises. I won’t describe them because you might want to go someday and a lot of them are effective only because you don’t know until later what they’re for. “I can’t give you insights,” Alice said, “You’ll have to do that by yourself.” But I will tell you about one of them. She gave us a set of cards with questions written on each, and one of mine said
“Write what is true about yourself.” And I wrote: “I don’t belong here.”

Set out your hamburgers on a broiling grille—the kind with ridges. That’s important. Slice some onions (the red ones are best; the flat ones are mildest) and some tomatoes, very thin. A sharp serrated knife is best. Get two soup bowls exactly the same size and put the onions and tomatoes into one of them. Cover the surface with Worcestershire sauce and again with soy sauce. Slide the pan with the hamburgers under the broiler. The best part is coming up.

Four days after the seminar I went to see Alice. She did personal counseling as well as seminars, so I knew her address. I could’ve phoned first but I didn’t. I knocked and she called “Who is it?” And I said “Me—from the seminar.” She opened the door. She was wearing a blue robe with a red sash. She said, “Come in.” I looked at her for a long time—seconds, I suppose, but much longer I think that I’ve ever looked at anyone without saying anything. She looked into my eyes without blinking and without shifting her gaze. Finally I said, “I’d like to make love to you.” She said, “Now?”

Split your onion rolls. English muffins are all right, but too small. Onion rolls are best. Now is the time to slice your cheese. Your choice: I like extra sharp Cheddar. Now take the empty soup bowl and set it upside down, lip-to-lip, over the one with the tomatoes and onions in it, and turn them over. (Better do this over the sink.) Now all the soy and Worcestershire sauces which have drained through will drain right back again. Pull out the broiling pan and turn the hamburgers. You’re very near to learning the best part.

She pulled on the red sash and it fell away. She shrugged out of the robe and took my hand. She was very beautiful, lean and firm. She had a large warm waterbed. She was wonderful. Afterward I wanted to know if it was always that quick and easy with her, with, well, anybody, but I didn’t dare. She sat in the middle of the bed in a lotus position and smiled, and answered anyway. “You have something
much more important than sex on your mind, but it was in the way. Now we can get to it. It’s what you wrote on that last card, isn’t it?”

If you have an oven over the broiler, put the onion rolls in for not more than two minutes. Take them out and spread each half with mayonnaise, very thin—so thin that people who don’t like mayonnaise won’t know it’s there. Now turn the broiler off, pull out the pan, lay on the cheese and slide the pan back in. The broiler will be quite hot enough to melt the cheese. Put a lettuce leaf on each half roll and then the onions and tomatoes. Peek into the broiler and if the cheese is melted, lift out the hamburgers with a spatula and assemble them onto the rolls. Aside from eating them, the best part is next.

“I wrote, ‘I don’t belong here,’ ” I said.

“I know,” she said. She really did; she remembered, and she sees scores of people, hundreds of cards. I said, “It … sort of went off like a flashbulb in the face.” She didn’t say anything, just watched me with that steady bright gaze. I said, “I didn’t mean I didn’t belong in the seminar, or in the city, I mean
here
, here in this world, in this life.” She was great at just waiting, just saying nothing. So I had to say more. “It hit me so hard that I knew it was true. Know that it is true. But …” She still waited; she wasn’t going to help, not at this point. “But if I don’t belong here, never have, never since I was born—where do I belong?”

Now comes the best part. After you’ve eaten, the broiling pan is still warm. Get a Pyrex dish—a large custard cup is just right—and a wire tea-strainer, and you pour off the fat that has sweated out of the hamburgers. You do the same thing when you broil
anything
except fish: pork, beef, lamb, venison—anything; also when you fry something in butter. That fat carries with it the flavor of all those meats and all those seasonings. Every once in awhile you warm the custard cup—the place on the top of the stove where the pilot light hides, if you have that kind of stove, is just right. All those different fats will blend, and down at the bottom (this is why you use glass),
you’ll find a dark brown layer. This is water-based—all the fat has floated away from it. Put the cup in the fridge for an hour or so, and you have absolutely magic frying fat. Put a lot in a pan and when it melts, spoon it over eggs until they’re “blinded”—a thin film over the yolks while the whites are firm. As for the dark layer—pop the whole lump out of the cup and you can scrape that dark stuff off with a table knife and drop it into gravy, soup, or stew. That cup of fat is the best part.