The Shells Of Chanticleer (12 page)

I wandered past the case, transfixed.

“Although in some respects, this is not a fair representation of what goes on here. We have many more success stories, but for some reason we don’t have a process to remember those. I wish we did,” he said, gazing off into the air.

“Is there someone here named Katelyn?” I asked, remembering the story in the library.

“Yes, down here. She had the longest hair ever, so she has to be at the end,” he explained, leading me down the hall.

There stood a girl with at least three feet of hair, sticking straight out to the side, except for one clump that stuck straight up. She was standing straight, her arm outstretched, her white sweater rolled up and her yellowed stick arm exposed, as if she was about to get a shot. A needle lay on the floor.

“She really was uncontrollable when it came to getting her vaccines. We wanted to help her calm down about anything medical, but she was such a drama queen. So much screaming.”

“She’d never make it in the ICU.”

“What’s that you say?”

“Oh, never mind.” I didn’t want to explain.

I looked studiously at all the shells of Chanticleer, the now haunting and vivid reminder that if I failed I would add my visage there. I shuddered. There was plenty of empty space built into the museum. There seemed to be room for me.

Gazing intently into a case, Bing said, “There is kind of a terrible beauty to them, don’t you think?”

I agreed with the terrible part.

Next Bing said he would show me how it was done. We left the wing through another large set of double doors. He led me down a cinderblock hallway to what he called the tank room. We walked into a control room with computer monitors lined up in a row, seating four or five technicians. The entire room faced a large glass wall. On the other side of the glass was a two-story room in which sat a large, clear water tank.

“It’s ten feet high,” Bing explained. “Once everyone agrees you are not ever going to move forward, it all happens at night, when you are asleep. You are given a little something to knock you out. The team comes and takes you from your bed. It is done very quietly. You’re driven here and brought onto the catwalk, right up there. Do you see it?” Bing pointed to an open walkway abutting the edge of the giant tank.

“The technicians have the computers logged on and ready to go. The team lowers you into the tank, and you float easily. Once submerged, the computer scans your body and digitally takes your measurements and creates a 3D replica. It’s all calculated electronically and they are able to create very lifelike figures. It’s quite painless, really. The shells are cast from molds made from these measurements in the prep room down the hall. The only problem is the hair. It floats in the water so it gets measured that way. But then Crispin decided we would just go with it anyway. He said it was unearthly, and he liked that.”

“Wait, who is Crispin?”

“You don’t know Crispin Sinclair? He only runs this place. He’s extremely artistic, everything here is his vision. Maybe you’ve seen him around; he’s hard to miss. He’s got quite the dramatic flair.”

“Does he have white hair and a ponytail?”

“Why yes, he does. And he walks with a cane. Just as an affect, he doesn’t need help walking.”

“I’ve seen him,” I said. “He stared at me.”

“He would,” Bing said. “I bet he’d love a shell of you. You have such pretty hair.” Bing set his eyes on my dark mane.

“A shell of me?”
No way,
I thought.
I will never, ever let this happen to me,
I vowed.

“Well, yes, it’s always a possibility. We never know how anyone will fare here.”

“Is the water cold?”

“No,” Bing explained. “It’s warm like bath water. You don’t even know you’ve been measured for your shell. You wake up in the morning with your hair and clothes all dry.”

“And then what happens?”

“You tip back home, resigned to your shell of a life, too afraid to step out of your comfort zone. It is not a small thing to fail in Chanticleer. We try and be very sure when we bring someone here that they have the right stuff, but not everyone wants it the same way, you know what I mean?”

I nodded. Then I tried to imagine a shell of me, my hair floating inside the cases. It was a heinous vision, yet I was grateful to Bing for his thorough tour. I would really try to keep our visit a secret. “Thank you Bing, I am glad I know.”

“I am glad you know too,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

We walked back through the display wing and out the door. I averted my eyes from the stiff, motionless shells as I walked by them. Now I knew why Violet and Zooey shuddered when they brought up the shells.

“Wow,” I said, when we were safely on the path. “I had no idea. I don’t really get it. I think those shell people are scary. Aren’t I supposed to be getting over my fears, not developing new ones?”

“Yes, I admit, it might seem ironic,” Bing said. “But you get a lot of chances here. Use that fear to push yourself forward. These really are the worst of them and it’s helpful for us staff, who need to motivate you, to never forget that each one of those shells are our failures too. I won’t let you end up in there, chickie, I promise you.”

“I don’t want to,” I said. “Why do they do it?”

“Think of the whole process as a different sort of crowd control. Just a way to help the traffic flow in and out of Chanticleer. Off with the old to make room for the new. I tell you this, Macy, I wish we had a museum for the best ones who come through here to remember them after they have left. Wouldn’t that be great?”

I didn’t think so. “It’s all too weird for me.”

Bing wanted more assurance that I wouldn’t get him in trouble. “This will have to be our secret Macy. Everyone eventually finds out about the shells, but they don’t know how we do it or that we take you from your bed and put you in the water. No one can know what we did today.”

“I won’t tell anyone. I am on your side.”

Soon we were back in town and Bing rushed to complete his forgotten errand.

“I will see you soon, in my official capacity, of course,” he said as we parted.

On my way to my room to pick up my messenger bag, I saw Poppy walking in circles around the town square, three thick books balanced on her head.

“Hey Macy, what are you up to today?”

I had to start keeping Bing’s secret right away. “Nothing too interesting. How about you?”

Poppy let the books slip off her head and they crashed on the pavement. “I’m so glad you came by. My head hurts. Can you eat lunch? Christmas tree café or dining hall? Which one?”

“Café sounds good.” Thankfully, Poppy did most of the talking as we ate so I wasn’t tempted to spill my secret.

Dangerously behind on my readings, I walked to the library that afternoon, and found a hidden table in a corner so I could be alone and think. After what I saw, I thought I’d have a hard time concentrating on my readings, but in the daytime with people all around me it was easy to get distracted. It was not so bad; I could handle it, for sure.

Nighttime, however, was a different story. Those yellowed faces and stiff limbs haunted me. For the next few nights I slept fitfully, images of water and computer monitors and fusty museum cases wafting through my mind. Once I dreamt I was floating in the tank, the warm water covering me. My hair was snagged on a hook, keeping me submerged, and I couldn’t catch my breath. On the other side of the tank I could see Crispin Sinclair, laughing darkly through the glass as he watched me flail. Then, snickering, he walked over to the wall switch, turned off the lights and left, cruelly locking the door behind him, leaving me alone in the tank to drown. In a panic, I woke up gasping for air.

I began to wonder what the powers that be in Chanticleer knew about me, and how they knew it. Was it a coincidence that the shell people looked dead, when I was so afraid that I was going to die from that infection at any time? Those nurses had dunked me in that bath tub to cool me down, making my hair float up around my head, just like the shell peoples’ hair, making me wonder if I was creating my own nightmare. If I was, shouldn’t this be the point at which I woke up screaming, relieved that it was all only a dream? But I didn’t wake up from Chanticleer. It was all too real.

Each night before I turned my lights out I dragged my white chair in front of the door, jamming it under the lockless knob, just to make it harder for anyone to enter without making a commotion. I hadn’t failed at anything yet, but I knew that they had access to my room after dark. And it wasn’t just anyone. It was men, strong men. I imagined that creeper Crispin standing over my bed, watching me sleep.

Alone in my own room after lights out, I jumped at any noise out in the hall. Occasionally I would hear a door slam or heavy footsteps. Once, I carefully opened the door to see if anyone was coming, but the corridor was empty. I heard giggles coming from behind a closed door so I figured no one was being taken away that night, at least.

Although I did not regret the knowledge I possessed, it altered my perspective. I felt that there was a wickedness and a perverseness in Chanticleer. And the wellspring from which it all flowed, Crispin Sinclair, had looked me right in the eye and smiled. No chance of flying under the radar with him after that. Despite Miss Clarice’s insistence, I began to doubt the benevolence of the place, and those who ran it.

I felt that in coming to Chanticleer I had unwittingly wandered into the equivalent of a beautifully spun web. I could struggle and protest but I was essentially trapped there until they let me go. I did not want to become a shell of Chanticleer, stiff and stuffed, just like the dead game my dad had dotted around our house. Was Balthazar laughing at my predicament, thinking, “Now you know how I feel?” I shuddered.

I lost sleep, a lot of it, actually, over the next days. At bedtime I stayed alert as long as I could. If I accidentally woke up in the middle of the night I had a hard time falling back to sleep. I was too energized by my fear to sink back into any kind of restful slumber.

I started my mornings too tired. I couldn’t eat as much as I wanted either. The only time I could catch up on my sleep without fear was in the middle of the day, with people around and my windows thrown open, the sun shining in, and witnesses nearby. I’d sleep happily then, under the fur blanket, for two to three hours at a time. Like a baby needing her afternoon nap, too cranky to get through the day without one. By four o’clock I’d be refreshed and ready to eat dinner and resume some normalcy. But at nighttime, the cycle started all over again. My readings piled up in my mailbox and towered in a stack on my dresser.

Zooey questioned me. “What is wrong with you? Why do you keep taking these naps?”

I covered up. “Just trouble adjusting.” I tried to convince myself I would start sleeping regularly again in a few more days. No big deal, really. Losing a little sleep was a small price to pay for the information. Chanticleer was definitely the type of place where you needed to stay two steps ahead of the powers that be, I decided. Bing had given me that advantage; he was a great friend.

A few days after our secret trip to the museum, and in the midst of my sleep deprivation period, there was a note on my breakfast tray to see Ms. Clarice after lunch. My next coursework appointment was that day. I braced myself, mentally giving myself a pep talk, knowing how important it was not to fail. When I got to her office there was a boy with her.

“Hello,” he held out his hand. “My name is Paolo.”

I shook his hand and looked at Miss Clarice.

“Is he replacing Bing?”

“No, Bing will be here in a minute. Paolo and you will do coursework together today.” Miss Clarice opened her drawer and put on her glasses. She motioned me to sit down in a plain chair pulled up next to Paolo, who was sitting in the big velvet chair.

Paolo had light golden hair, cut conservatively. He wasn’t very tall, probably as tall as me. He had an upturned nose and fidgeted in his chair a lot. We were both quiet as Miss Clarice read the files and made some notations. When she finished she explained. “Usually we set up the coursework individually, as everyone is unique and has personal lessons to learn that can’t really be shared. However, today the two of you share a common fear that is not complicated. This is one field of coursework where it is beneficial to have company, and it will be nice for you two to be together.”

Bing blew through the door with a huge smile on his face.

“Aha, my next victims!” he teased. Miss Clarice motioned to Bing and he came around to her side of the desk. She pointed to the papers inside the file, and waited while Bing read the notations. He nodded to her in agreement and then smiled at both of us.

“Time’s up,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

As Bing corralled us out the door, Miss Clarice added one more bit of advice:

“It’s easier to want to stay in a safe spot, but there is no adventure in that. Good luck to both of you today.”

We headed out from the coursework office and through the center of town.

“Hurry up, we have a bit of a walk ahead of us,” Bing bossed.

We headed straight out of town, thankfully in the opposite direction of the shell museum. We talked lightly. Paolo was nice but openly nervous about what the day would bring. Bing kept calling him “nervous Nellie” and it was a relief to not have all the attention on me. I wasn’t scared about the challenge anymore. I was now scared to fail. The stakes were high. I swore to myself that never, ever, would I let myself get to the point where I would risk getting dipped in that tank. It was all so ghastly.

Paolo said that he knew what he had to work on; it was the thing that scared him the most, and he knew he hadn’t even addressed it yet, but he knew it was coming, and he was afraid he was going to die. He kept saying, “Oh my gosh I am going to die,” and, “Oh no, I do not want to die today,” and, “Please do not let me die, I will do anything.”

Finally Bing lost his patience.

“Enough, Paolo!” he snapped. “Jeez. No one dies here, that’s for your world. You know that, so just shut up.”