Karl
Kessler panted, and staggered backwards. At once, he felt his heart
seize up. To quote his doctor, his general practitioner, his “ticker”
was “clean as a whistle,” as far as plaque and clotting and the
like—but that didn't change the fact that was a heart was a muscle,
and every muscle of his body was loaded with the nerves that were the
couriers of a sick brain. They would constrict precisely when it
would pain him the most; they would relax when he most needed their
strength. The world reeled around him whenever he was scared, and it
was like he was dying, even if physically he was fine.
“Good
Lord, man, are you alright?” the man called Marvel said. “It's
like you've seen a ghost.”
“Yes...I-I...”
He pointed to the door. “Dr. Dran is my psychiatrist. I have an
anxiety disorder. Please forgive me...”
“Do
you want me to get Dr. Dran's help?”
“Well,
you must understand that 'is' is a bad word to use to describe his
being my practitioner...he's been dropped down to 'was' territory. I
got a new recommendation.”
“Oh?
Who's that, friend?”
Kessler
was crumpled on the ground, and he suddenly felt silly. His heart
clenched up again. “A man named Dr. Dexter...though I don't know
why I'm telling you that.”
“Oh,
I'm just a Hollywood screenwriter, pal. I'm always looking for
inspiration.”
Kessler
blinked. Out here in New York they were a long way from Hollywood.
But in
the time it took to blink, bespectacled, mustachioed “Mr. Marvel”
was gone.
Kessler
couldn't help but ask himself the old chestnut of what had that all
been about.2 At least his chest stopped hurting now that
that man was gone. He was likely another of Dran's patients, one of
the real crazy people. But then his chest seized up again, and
he leaned against the flavorless wall. No one was beyond help—he
had to believe that for others to believe it for himself. Even if
there were people he wanted to condemn. Even if he was still hateful
on good days.
“No
one is perfect.” Another key tenet to making the right step
forward.
He was
walking now, and soon he was aboard the elevator. No operator, but he
knew how to work one himself. He was glad to have some time alone.
Whereas
Dran's office had been orange, the elevator was blue. The paint on
the metal was old, from before the War, and the way it tinted the
light made him tired. He felt more like water than fire, and water
was deep and cold. And mercurial. The mind was like its waves, and
down at the base there was no way of seeing what moved the waters.
There was too much pressure, and finding out the source of Nazi
plastic surgeons seemed impossible.
He was
cold, so often, and it was like when he was a kid not so long ago,
with Ma trying to make ends meet in the wheezing old farmhouse where
running water was a Christmas gift; staring at phlegm, one of the
classical humors, floating in the pot next to him as he coughed up
flu. Got the polio vaccine, and some others too, but they couldn't
get all of those shots, much less keep up on them regularly.
He ate
better these days. Good deals on meat and vegetables post-rationing.
But again—brain to nerves to muscles. “Psychosomatic” was the
word. It only mattered that he hated being cold, because things were
better now, they were, and it was never good to return to
the past. Dran had taught him that, and now he was leaving Dran
behind. He was flooded with guilt...
And then
he was in the lobby again. People were back—the world was autumn,
bright red and orange with the lights of their lives and their hopes
which shown brighter than he could ever hope for. He clung to another
old memory, Halloween, and went forward with that. He let the guilt
slip down into the cold cracks.
He
grinned. It was good to get out of the apartment now and again. There
were residentials in this building, too, not just offices—for all
these happy people knew, he was visiting a friend. Or a girlfriend,
or even a boyfriend. It didn't matter. The living world was happy and
happiness was blindness. He was a shadow in it but they wouldn't care
where he stalked as long as he minded his own business.
Thinking
about home, and Ma, made him think of another special-occasion
pastime. When there was gasoline in the car and money in the bank
they would go down and get street hot dogs. It was New York, they
were far from alone in it, and as they stood in the hungry lines they
would take in the city around them. Watching the teeming crowds
around them, they would live vicariously, like vampires, until
someday they'd get the chance to live here themselves. One day he did
get that chance, even while she didn't, and he ate hot dogs from the
city that should have been theirs, in memory of her.
There
was no line, not at this point in the day. In fact it sort of looked
like the vendor was thinking of going home. Kessler put a little
speed in his pace to make sure he caught him before this happened,
and paid the man extra for his trouble. Soon the tin foil's angular
weight pressed sleek against his hand. That was part of it; that, and
the heat of the heft. And it tasted good, too. Delicious, in fact.
He was
leaning against a light-pole like a bum, feeling the buzz of
electricity against his back. He glanced over. There was a phone
booth, and he had a little extra change in his pocket. Next to this
change was the card he'd gotten from Oliver Dran. He wondered if it
was worth phoning the number on that card—not simply now, but at
all. Dream-hypnotists. He should get some real help, he knew,
and yet...
And yet
Dran had probably already put in his recommendation. He was an
efficient man even when it came to things that were to his
displeasure. Dr. Dexter, whoever he was, could be waiting for a call
even now.
Even if
he was wasting his change he could make the call later. He could do
it all later. He was sure of that.
The cold
came back, and not because he was outdoors.
He had
to keep moving. Yet another secret to this: momentum. These people
around him, the beautiful autumn people, the living people, were
always moving. The difference was that they took the strength that
let them do that for granted. If he paused here—and he let himself
sink in the tar—that was it. He loaded his coins in and spun the
rotor.
4 PM. It
was 4 PM...4 PM on a Sunday...did you really think...
“Dr.
Dexter's office.”
“H-hello?
M-my name is...Karl Kessler. I am—I was—a patient of Dr. Oliver
Dran...”
“Ah,
yes!” From only four syllables, Karl had thought that the voice on
the other end was a woman's. But it was only a higher-pitched voice.
Weirdly, it reminded him of his own. “I just got off the line with
Oliver. He says he wants you to resume your treatment right away. He
also told me you have the day off today. Tell me...can you come to my
house at 6:30 tonight? I can provide you with transportation and a
hot meal, and we can figure out how I can help.”
He
wanted to go home. Fall was too bright for him now—the red and
orange were burning his eyes and skull. But he drew up strength from
the earth. The planet under him was strong and tangible and he could
be like that too. “Let's do that, yes. I like that idea.”
“Splendid.
My driver will pick you up on the steps of the public library near
Oliver's office.”
And with
that, the line clicked.
Karl's
hand was shaking when he put the receiver back on the hook.
He
jumped, when he heard someone knock at the phone booth door. They
didn't knock loud, but it was loud enough. He stepped out and weakly
apologized. Then he locked his neck in place, so his face was down at
his ruddy, beaten shoes. He needed a shine but had no coins left. He
would have savored a short taxi ride over the long walk ahead of him.
---
2.
Mr. Marvel's name is certainly worthy of scrutiny. The word “marvel”
was famous in the Middle Ages as a genre of story, usually told on
holidays or at festivals, involving monsters, miraculous events, and
exotic cultural practices. The idea of a marvel, or cultural novelty,
was infused heavily into the language and literature of the Middle
Ages, leading to the success of works like The Travels of Sir John
Mandeville (1357), a supposed travelogue littered with
descriptions of supernatural incidents and impossible creatures. The
entire work serves as a reflection of the medieval conception of Asia
at the time—a literal different world, completely alien from the
familiar, and yet also containing certain valuable secrets
(Mandeville finds the Kingdom of Prester John and the Fountain of
Youth). Some, such as Professor Carroll of the Jeffries University,
suggest Mandeville is a proto-nationalist work, desiring
isolation from and yet exploitation of the East. Others put forth a
psychological criticism, saying that Mandeville's Asia represents
Europe's subconscious—its growing and ever-present fears, its
cyclopses and wolf-men, hidden beyond the Ural Mountains. This
separate monograph, “Uncanny, Marvelous Mandeville,” is written
by my wife, Dr. Vivian MacCarron. [Expand later – Dr. Kruthers]
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