Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales (19 page)

"Becka?"

The girl's first reaction was fear as she looked for the person who had called her by name. She squinted up at Donovan standing there in his battered suit.

"Becka, I don't have much time, but I know someone who can help you.” He pointed to Easy, his wings once again securely concealed beneath his torn clothing. “I'm sorry for everything you've suffered,” said Donovan, “and I'm so sorry about Ally."

At the mention of her mother's name, Becka climbed to her feet and stepped protectively in front of the unconscious young man.

"What do you know about my mother?” she demanded. “Who are you?"

"I'm Donovan Hunter,” he said, his tone gentle; almost inaudible.

The young woman stared, tilting her head to the side.

"Oh my god.” She started toward him slowly and then, gaining speed, she reached for his outstretched hand, but he was gone. Startled, Becka looked around and saw a big man moving toward her; a spark of light flashed in her eyes from his earring. He lifted his hand and a cold sensation flowed through Becka's body—suddenly rigid, her mind went blank.

Kneeling beside her injured boyfriend, a violent shiver washed through Becka Hunter's body. She was relieved to hear the sound of approaching sirens and turned to watch for their arrival. As she lifted her hand from the young man's shoulder, she found a business card stuck to the drying blood on her palm. Perplexed, she turned it over in her hand and read the name and the message scribbled beneath it:

Ezekiel Dreamcatcher

I'm a friend of the family. I'll be in touch. ~EZ

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Black Sheep

My last breath begins

when I glimpse you, cold.

Daggered of hope

my heart weeps blood tears,

spilling my life

in wet dying rhythm.

—

"Better to have loved..."

a lie of lovers.

Loss, the blade

that rakes hearts raw

and severs tender arteries

to run dry.

—

I walk to my grave,

pallid feet in dewed grass.

My sad head I lay

against the cold pillow of the earth,

waiting for black sleep

to release me.

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"Frank, you were just beginning to remember some important things when our last session ended. Have you been thinking about them, as I suggested?"

"Yeah, Doc.” He squinted his lashless eyes at her. “You know, you look like someone..."

"Yes, Frank, you've mentioned that before, but let's focus. Why don't we begin where you left off last week,” said Rebecca. She avoided the dark eyes peering from Frank Doe's disfigured face.

"Okay, Doc. Whatever you say."

Frank smiled and paused; his gaze softened with nostalgia.

"What I remember is keeping my buck knife sharp as a straight-edged razor. Just like my daddy taught me. Besides, it made taking mementos quick and clean. Like the last one in Baltimore—a firm chop across the bone, ‘Thwack!’ Popped it in a baggy, and I was on my way. Is this okay, Doc?"

"Yes, Frank,” she said, a strained calm in her voice. “Please go on."

"Well, don't get me wrong, it sounds bad, but that doesn't mean I didn't care. As a matter of fact, I thought she was the
one
. Her sleek black hair, the almond eyes—she treated me like a prince ... well, that one time, anyway. But Mama didn't approve, and Mama's opinion was gold. She always knew what was best for me, so when she said that girl was a dirty foreigner, I knew what I had to do."

He looked up at Rebecca. “But don't worry, I didn't take the goodbyes to heart. I knew that Mama just wanted me to find the right girl, that's all. I missed each of my girls for a little while, but the mementos kept me company, especially late at night. Mama wasn't much comfort anymore, not in that way. I was too grown, she said. But I made do. She was suspicious, but she didn't say anything about my black bag of mementos, and I didn't say anything about the little boys that visited her room."

I tracked down Doctor Silvani in the hall this morning. He filled in some important information...

Rebecca quickened her stride to catch up with the director as he marched down the long grey corridor of the maximum security psych ward of Penn's Asylum. It was clear that his advanced years didn't slow him down.

"Doctor Silvani,” she said, keeping pace with the tall, distinguished man. “I just wanted to thank you."

"What's that, Doctor?"

"I said, I want to thank you. I know you've taken a chance by hiring me, and I'm truly grateful."

"You're young, but it's seldom—well, actually never—that a doctor graduating near the top of her class at UPenn would seek us out. But frankly, if you weren't qualified you wouldn't be here."

"Thank you, Doctor,” she said.

"And I've heard about the progress you've made with Frank Doe. I've been here since the day he was admitted, and he hadn't spoken a word until you arrived. That seems testament enough that I made the right decision."

The young doctor blushed at the compliment. “Well, my mother inspired my work. Her painful struggle with severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is why I became a doctor. I researched a lot of facilities before I applied, sir, and I was certain that this was the place I'd been looking for."

"Uh-huh, I see.” The director marched on, shooting out his left arm for a quick watch check. Rebecca kept pace.

"Is there something else, Doctor?” asked the director, glancing over at her, his reading glasses resting on his shiny forehead.

"Actually, yes,” she said. “Since you were here when Frank Doe was admitted, maybe you could could tell me a little about his history. Nobody seems to know anything about him, and his admission records consist of a single medical discharge file. No intake interview. No history. Just his treatment schedule and evaluations since his arrival."

Lowering his voice, the director leaned in toward Rebecca. “Well, let's just say we had some problems back then, and I'm not surprised there's paperwork missing. It's a wonder the patients didn't go missing,” he said. “Patients like Frank Doe were low priority. He was medicated and housed. That's all we could really supply at the time. Our budget was worse back then than it is now."

"Is there anything you remember that might help me?” asked Rebecca. “We have a session today, and I think we're close to a breakthrough.” Long-legged, Rebecca matched strides with the director as he contemplated her question; their heels echoed a cadence down the length of the grey corridor.

"Well, it's been more than twenty years,” said the director, “and as far as I know, he has no known history. He was a John Doe. If I remember correctly, they found him near a burned out van on the side of a road somewhere north of the city. Blue Bell, I think. His license was fraudulent and the scarring from his burns made him impossible to ID. Apparently, dentals turned up nothing.

"Ultimately, he came to us because of violent outbursts, but he arrived mostly non-responsive,” said the director. “We suspected that he couldn't speak because of his injuries, but the transferring physician assured us that it wasn't physical."

"He's made excellent progress in communication,” said Rebecca. “And he's even participating in general activities."

"Yes, apparently the meds are working. Seems you're a wizard in the area of psychopharmacology, as well as therapeutic technique. As a matter of fact, Mister Doe is scheduled to be moved to another facility. Your work has proven that he no longer requires high level security, and I can't justify the cost of continuing to house him here."

"What?” said Rebecca, a frantic pitch in her voice. “His progress has been good, but there's so much more to do.” She tightened her jaw, struggling to remain calm.

"I know, his progress is a double-edged sword, but you'll have a few weeks with him before the paperwork goes through. And trust me, we'll keep you busy when he's gone. Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Just one more question,” she said.

The director exhaled with an impatient sigh. “Yes?"

"Why do they call him ‘Frank?’”

The director paused, as if deciding whether to reply. “Well, all I can say is, because of his injuries, he looked like quite a ... monster when he arrived, and amongst the staff, it was a bad joke that stuck."

With a nod, the director turned off into an open conference room, greeted his waiting colleagues, and closed the door behind him.

"And how did your father feel about your ‘activities,’ Frank?” asked the doctor.

"I don't know,” he said. After a pause, “He died when I was a kid."

"What happened to him?"

Frank looked down at his hands. Rebecca waited a few moments for his response.

"What happened to your father, Frank?” she asked again.

Frank's lips clamped shut and his eyes went dull.

"Frank?” Rebecca reached forward and touched his scarred hand. His shoulder twitched, but his stare remained unfocused.

Crossing the room, she opened a tall cabinet and removed the plastic covering from a clay sphere resting on a square of plywood. Chewing on her lip, she slipped a small glass vial from the pocket of her white jacket and emptied the clear liquid into a spray bottle filled with water. Giving the clay a thorough spritz, she squared her shoulders in preparation for the next phase of her plan for Frank.

She sat the clay in front of him, lifting his right hand onto the slick surface.

"How's that feel, Frank? You did some beautiful work with the clay last week. Would you like to continue?"

She lifted his other hand to the clay, and his fingers began to squeeze in small, slow movements. As Frank continued to knead with his fingertips, the dullness in his eyes cleared. He focused his attention on the clay form in front of him.

Patiently, the doctor waited and observed. This was Frank's normal pattern at the mention of his father. As if nothing unusual had happened, he started to speak again.

"When I was thirty, we got the news about the inheritance. My daddy left us well cared for when he died years before, but this news was unexpected. Seemed a relative passed away, and I was next in line to inherit a Pennsylvania estate that had been in my daddy's family for generations. I didn't even know my daddy had any family, and a rich one at that.

"The papers from the lawyers said that most of the wealth from the estate had been siphoned off for taxes, but a large family mansion and some land still remained in a rural suburb just outside of Philadelphia-Blue Bell, Pennsylvania.

"We got the news just after I said goodbye to my almond-eyed Keiko in an abandoned warehouse near the Baltimore harbor. It was definitely time to move on. When Mama said we should head north to Philadelphia, I ditched our old Chevy Nova. It was on its last leg anyway. So I doused it with gasoline and made sure it burned real good to erase any evidence of my fling with Keiko. Best to make a clean break and not leave painful memories behind that other people might misunderstand.

"We cashed the inheritance check and hopped the Greyhound bus north to Philadelphia."

Frank paused to fashion a crude nose in the center of the forming face. He smoothed the clay with care, tilting his head to inspect the placement. Rebecca added a spritz from the water bottle and left it where Frank could reach it himself. Without looking at her, he continued.

"From years of practice we traveled light, but it had gotten harder for Mama to move to new places. Her dizzy spells were getting worse, but we had to go. If we stayed in one place too long, the past had a way of creeping up on us. I didn't mind moving—I loved the adventure of it.

"I had never been to Philadelphia, and I couldn't wait to see the sights and look for my new girl. I knew Mama wasn't keen on Yankees, but maybe since my daddy's folks were from those parts I thought she might make an exception. Sure enough, we rolled into the summer heat of the City of Brotherly Love, and like fate, it wasn't long before I found my girl.

"Not far from the bus terminal, I left Mama in the taxi's A/C, parked outside of the convenience store on Arch Street. She needed some aspirin for a headache, and heat or no heat I was hankering for a cup of strong black coffee. My new girl was right there at the counter. She was busy with the rush hour crowd, shaking her little fanny as she bustled around behind the cash register. Tall and fair skinned, she had her thick black hair twisted up in a messy knot. I resisted the urge to reach across the counter and pull it loose. I just wanted to watch it fall down around her shoulders, but I had learned that it wasn't good to be too forward, at least not right away. So I waited my turn to pay for my coffee and Mama's bottle of aspirin.

"When I got up to the counter, I smiled and said, ‘Good mornin',’ but the girl just turned away without a word. Now, I'd heard that Yankees could be rude, but I would have at least expected a simple ‘Good morning’ in return.

"I continued to smile as the girl took my money.
Vicki Lystner
, it said on her name tag. As she turned to the register for my change, I admired the curve of her breasts in the clingy white T-shirt. Without even a glance at me, she put the change in my palm. I saw my opening—you know,
carpe diem
and all that—so I grabbed her hand and flashed her my biggest smile. I squeezed hard so she couldn't pull away, until finally she looked up at me with her beautiful blue eyes all wide—no doubt surprised by my friendliness.

"Hunching up her shoulders, she tried to get loose but I held on tight. With my best southern manners, I said, ‘Good mornin', Miss.’ Then I nodded, giving her the hint that it was her turn to reply. She was so touched that tears welled in her eyes, and she replied in the softest little voice ‘Good morning.’ With one last squeeze, feeling her delicate bones crushing together in my grip, I said, ‘Thank you, Miss.'