The Egg Code Page 13

  “Oh, I always do this.” She cocked her eye, checking the bullets. Putting the gun away, she gave Olden a quick peck and loosened his sheet, pulling on the free end. The sheet made a white mound at his feet. “Hold that pose,” she said, then opened the door and skipped outside. Olden brought the sheet with him as he followed her onto the step and watched her go. Her short legs pounded up the hill and over the ridge. She walks like a peasant, he thought. A wide stance. Load-bearing legs. Smiling, he left the step and paraded naked around the muddy drive, holding the sheet over his head, letting the wind take it, a surrender to something.

  VI

  Go Girl

  Portfolio

  S. Blessing (4/17/74)—Session #1—Mar 3, ’82

  Attending Psych.—Drs. Wink, Taylor

  Colors Selected—White, goldenrod, pink, apple green, apricot (flesh)

  A man’s head. It is hollow. The skull swells to nearly twice its regular size. A caption reads “Daddy likes the funny floor.” A crude phallus sticks inside the figure’s throat. The phallus is apple green, and the base cradles two unusually well-drawn fists. The face itself is distorted; the right eye is three and a half inches wider than the left. Inside the brain cavity, a secondary line forms an interior chamber, containing a replica of the patient’s bedroom. A young girl hovers above the bed; her arms are spread wide and her mouth forms a large O—either a screaming or a yawning motif. White swirls scatter across her body, stretching out toward the far end of the chamber. They collect near the top of the dome, where another caption reads “They can’t get out!”

  Scarlet was asked to draw a typical scene at home with her family. When asked why her father’s eyes “looked so funny,” she responded, “Because . . . sometimes Daddy . . . he sees things big here, and not big here” (pointing first at her right side and then at her left). This skewed perspective is characteristic of tetrahydrocannabinol—thus the observation that “Daddy likes the funny floor.” More troubling is the image of the phallus, which the patient herself could not identify. Deep traumas brought about by the unexpected sight of a parent’s genitals are common in children of the preadolescent stage. The patient associates this mysterious appendage with aggression, authority and, in cases of neglect, a kind of latent violence. This is shown by the placement of the phallus inside the throat—an instrument of both aggression and parental authority—and by the metamorphosis of testicles into fists. Toward the upper quadrant, the patient struggles against an unseen force. When questioned about this force, Scarlet was surprisingly candid. “I want to go up . . . but it’s all zoomy . . . and the floor tips . . . and my shoulders go wham wham . . .” This is a longing for escape, a desire to penetrate the limitations imposed by her father’s chronic abuse of marijuana and other substances. The white swirls are spectral elements, extensions of the patient’s emotional frustration. These same swirls are also seen pouring out of the father’s mouth, a sign of parental dogmatism or (possibly) semen.

  Session #4—Mar 20, ’82

  Attending Psych.—Drs. Wink, Murphy

  Colors Selected—Gray, robin’s egg, turquoise, brown, orchid

  The word SMELL divides the drawing in half. In one corner, a gray cooking range hovers at a steep angle. A woman wearing a tall chef’s hat attends to the meal. Looming over the stove, she places one hand on each of the two front heating coils. Wisps of smoke and flame rise between her fingers. Near this image, various tentacle-like objects hang and sway from a disembodied nose, coiling in brown loops that extend in twisted sausage patterns. The other section shows a bottle of cleaning ammonia aimed at a giant TV screen, unpropelled by any human hand as it emits a wide, misty cone. A small figure curls inside the screen, hands tucked under one cheek. The figure’s long hair stands in a straight bunch, dancing away from the side of her head. The ends taper into a swirled peak; an enormous cigarette bends to light itself on a loose strand.

  Acting on the instruction “Show us what you feel like when Daddy makes the smoky face,” Scarlet has chosen to depict her father as a mindless, oppressive force. In this context, the word “SMELL” serves as a metaphor for sensual autonomy. “I like the smell when you put your hand up to your mouth and breathe,” she says, demonstrating this technique by pressing her nose against her palm. “And then you go, ‘Oh, I can smell my skin, and the bone inside, and they smell like brown cookies, but before they’re hot.’ ” The act of smelling becomes an act of self-assertion, of passing from infancy to full womanhood. That femininity is embodied in the form of the female cook. Unable to feel the heat of the stove, she demonstrates a poor sense of social orientation. Drug imagery abounds as well. Nearby, a giant nose emits a disgusting growth of fleshy vines. These vines, which appear at first to be strands of mucus, are in fact intestines, bits of stomach tissue heaved out in a rage of cocaine paranoia. “Gore! . . .” the artist stammers, clearly distraught at the sight of her own creation. Elsewhere, she assumes a more introspective approach. The TV screen is an example of wish projection, a desire for a more normal social order, as typified by the spray-on cleanser. Comfort eludes the patient, even in dreams. With his illicit cigarette, Mr. Blessing feeds upon his daughter’s essence, consuming her youth and blowing it out in clouds of narcotic gas. That this drama should be played out within the context of television only emphasizes the patient’s feelings of derangement and psychosis.

  Session #6—Mar 29, ’82

  Attending Psych.—Drs. Wink, Blondon

  Colors Selected—Red, yellow, orange, brown, violet

  A mouth gapes. The teeth are arranged on a lower jaw; they are huge and oddly spaced. The overall color impression here is hot, summery, the red and brown brilliance of cherry candies and fresh scabs. A yellow steak knife cuts a lascivious tongue in half. Inside each section, we can see an intricate compartment, quite like the fuselage of an airplane, though sliced down the middle to reveal the seats and the layer of steel-bolted insulation under the passengers’ feet. A little boy skips down the main aisle, carrying a bundle of big balloons. Most of the balloons bang against the roof of the compartment, though one reaches around and trails up the side of the page. A tiny girl smiles up at the balloon. A heap of paperback books lies at her feet. Lastly, an old woman sits near the back of the fuselage. A pair of reading glasses hangs from her neck. Inside the lenses, we can see the reflection of her smiling face, her twisted mouth made huge by the curve of the glass. Her lips sag and fold around an empty space. The conceptual continuity of this drawing is remarkable, given the fact that the artist is only seven years old.

  Not only Scarlet’s most successfully executed drawing, it is also the most upbeat in character. This change of mood is perhaps due to a new acquaintance with the teachings of Derek Skye, whose book My Daddy’s Different: A Little Person’s Perspective was recommended to help the patient cope with her father’s addiction. She seems to have benefited greatly from the added assistance—witness the smile on her protagonist’s face, the happy iconography, even the very nature of her color choices— warm shades, hot-red derivatives. The image of the divided tongue continues an earlier obsession with human anatomy, an anatomy rendered unreal by its hollow, chamber-like design. Inside, we see a cross-section of humanity, spanning all age groups, types and fashions. The young boy—a peer, presumably—takes most of our attention. The balloons are tokens of social affirmation—friendship, communion, love. Society is represented by the old woman in the fuselage—toothless now, her smile rendered benign. When we asked Scarlet to identify the woman, she only replied, “At the drug store, you go in . . . there’s pills! And the old lady says ‘How much?’ ” It seems likely that this person— whoever she is—is really just a stand-in for another, more significant figure in the patient’s life. Often when we enter a new phase of development, we feel the need to deny the image of what we once were— a kind of emotional shedding-of-the-skin. Having shared the contempt others once felt toward her father’s addiction, Scarlet can now face the future as a whole, strong being, unenc
umbered by fear, ready to love herself and others. We will have to let Mr. Skye know of his success.

  Session #7—Apr 2, ’82

  Attending Psych.—Drs. Wink, Brock

  *Skye Visiting

  Colors Selected—Goldenrod

  A thick slash makes an uneven diagonal from the upper lefthand corner to the middle of the page before streaming off into a fine line of faint color.

  This drawing, much less developed than the patient’s previous work, reflects a distracted state of mind, caused perhaps by the presence of our illustrious guest. In the future, we will limit such visits to only those patients less prone to recidivism. In the case of young Miss Blessing, we fear we are right back to where we started.

  The Plot Thickens Somewhat

  1998

  The box sat on the kitchen counter in Derek’s apartment, ready to go. Outside, he’d found a fresh dog turd and carried it upstairs in a paper bag. Lining the box with colored tissue paper, he opened the bag and emptied its contents. Like a pampered noble, the turd sat upon its crimson perch as it endured the closing of the lid. He weighed the package in his hands. Light. A nice present. Moving to the sink, he washed his hands in hot, soapy water, dried them, then reached for a roll of electrical tape, which he wrapped twice around the box. Black and shiny, the package resembled a homemade bomb.

  He did not want to do this. The gesture seemed so puerile, so gratuitous. But it was, perhaps, the only message that Donna would understand.

  The doorbell rang. Surprised, he hid the box behind the refrigerator and hurried down the steps. The observation window—an octagon, vaguely nautical—showed only the road and the woods on the other side. He opened the door and looked down. “Yes?”

  The girl on the step dropped her heavy backpack and fell forward. Derek caught her by the arms, his eyes fixed stoically on the horizon.

  “Mr. Skye!” The girl’s voice broke. “Just the sight of you . . . I’m sorry.” She fanned herself with her hand. “I almost had a heart attack.”

  Leaning across the porch, Derek looked both ways, checking for open doors, shocked neighbors, the inevitable look of disapproval. Recovering a bit, he said, “I’m not sure that we’ve . . . you’re from one unit down?”

  “Oh, no. God, no! I don’t live here. I don’t live anywhere near here.” She stepped away from the entrance and gestured toward the road. “This is crazy, out in the middle of nowhere . . . Derek Skye! I had no idea.”

  “Yeah, well.” He shrugged, wedging his hands under his arms. “You got me.”

  “Oh! I’m Scarlet.”

  She was a groupie—that much was certain. Reggie Bergman must’ve leaked the address. Still, she seemed like a nice kid. He nodded sagely, a full bow from the waist.

  “Hello, Scarlet.”

  “Scarlet Blessing. I know, it’s a hooker name, but I swear to God I’m not . . .” She brought her hand to her lips. “Oh, shit, that was a stupid thing to say.”

  “Right,” he said, studying her now. There was a smell about her—cigarettes and perspiration. Her clothes were a mess, and she wasn’t wearing a bra under her T-shirt. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “No, but that’s not why I’m here at all.” Her words came out in a rush. “When I heard you were here, I had to come over right away . . . I had to, you know . . . well, you probably don’t know. I just . . . can I have a glass of water?”

  Running out of steam, she bent over and took a deep breath. Derek fanned the door a few times, then held it open with his foot.

  “Why don’t you just, um . . . just come on up.”

  “Oh, wow. This is so sweet.”

  He led the way up the stairs to the second floor. He moved slowly, hearing her footsteps, wanting to hear each one. It made no sense, this paranoia. Still, he knew his followers. They were all nuts.

  “I’m sort of in the middle of a project right now,” he said, tired, halfway there. Ten more steps.

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “But if you”—step four—“just need”—focus on—“a drink of water”— your secret strength.

  “Oh yeah, totally, I won’t take up any of your time. I just had to talk to you about, well, I mean, it’s kind of weird but . . . I’ll tell you when we get upstairs.”

  “Fabulous.”

  “Wow. You wear socks. That’s so cool.”

  “Careful, the stairs are steep.”

  “Do you ever come out here at night and just, like, check out the stairs?”

  “No, not really.”

  Once inside, he filled a plastic breakfast tumbler with water from the kitchen sink, then walked across the room and gave it to her. She wrapped her lips around the rim and drank it down. “Somehow I thought, Derek Skye, he must live in a giant house, with horses out back and a built-in swimming pool, you know, but then I read somewhere about how you gave like half of your royalties away to charities and stuff, so I thought, Wow, that’s kind of cool.”

  “Where’d you read that?” he asked, hearing a lie.

  “November ’96, Midwest Perspectives. The chick who interviewed you, was she a bitch? ’Cause she kept asking you all of these really rude questions, like, ‘Oh, isn’t it true that you hire people to go out into the audience and say things like “Yeah, I took Derek Skye’s class and all these great things happened to me” when in fact it’s total bullshit—’ oh!” Another quick stop. Endless apologies. He hoped she didn’t get that from him. “I didn’t mean to come barging in here like this.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I thought you were like, ‘Oh, God, get her out of here.’ ”

  “Of course not.” He glanced over her shoulder and checked the hallway. It made him nervous, leaving the door open like that. Now the onslaught. Floods of madness. He retreated to the living room and she followed, unable to resist.

  “It’s so nice to hear you say that, ’cause the reason I ask—” She stopped and hit her head, hating herself. “Shit, I’m totally going into a negative feedback loop.”

  “Relax.” His hand hovered an inch above her shoulder.

  “I’m just a little nervous to be talking to you like this.”

  “Well, don’t be.” Irritation flickered across his cheek. “That’s absurd.”

  “Okay. Let me do this.” She grabbed the back of a chair, her courage rising, filling her chest. “Okay. Um. Samurai warriors—no!” Her hands flashed up to erase the words. “Oh, shit, that’s a dumb way to start.”

  Derek made a fishy expression, not getting it. “Samurai . . . ?”

  She nodded, vibing with him now. “Well, you know with the samurai warriors, there’s always the old master, and he usually lives in a remote village, or not even in the village but way off in the mountains where you have to climb to get to his fort, and the young warriors all make a pilgrimage, and only a select few are . . . are . . .”

  “Selected?”

  She stopped and stared at him. “That’s incredible. How did you do that?”

  Derek pointed at nothing, the space next to him. “When . . . ?”

  “With the word. I was about to say something, and you were able to . . .”

  “Predict?”

  She shook her head. “No . . .”

  He wavered on his feet. No longer trusting his words, he resorted to babble. “But . . . the samurai . . .”

  “I want to be your assistant.”

  “. . . the warriors . . .”

  “I’ll do anything. Buy groceries. Make photocopies. Do you have a dog? I’ll take care of the dog. I read a book about going to vet school once. I know how to give a rabies shot.”

  He wet his lips, coming out of it. “Oh! I get it. Samurai warriors. Old master, young master. Now I see.” He sighed, pleased with himself, then rubbed his forehead, confused again.

  “I’ll work for free.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need your help.”

  “I don’t know what I can do.”

  “You can do anythi
ng!”

  “That’s . . . that’s wrong . . .”

  Scarlet returned to the chair and curled her arm around the seat back. “Remember when you told me I should start keeping a dream journal?”

  Derek stared; everything the girl said grabbed him by the throat. “Yes,” he said. Stunned, he listened to the dream, the scattered way she described it.

  “It’s like I’m really doing it. It’s like I’m really flying. Isn’t that fucked up?”

  Dazed, he touched the clammy top of his skull. “Some dreams can seem very real,” he said. Hearing him speak, she let go of the chair, and he felt obliged to lecture. “They are real, in a sense. If you know how to . . . if you know how to . . .” A wave of abstractions filled his throat, and he stopped talking.

  “But that’s what’s weird. This really happened.” She waited for a response, and though he didn’t really understand, he nodded anyway, for the whole thing seemed so sad and unlikely that he figured why not, what the hell, go along with the fairy tale, but when she saw his reaction—the nod, the look of approval—her manner became more confident, and at once he felt phony and hopelessly corrupt.

  She continued, “The feelings wouldn’t be so intense if it wasn’t true. At some point in my life, I had this special gift, like a temporary power, but now it’s gone, and I’ve got to get it back. You know how it is when a kid gets molested at a very young age, and he doesn’t remember it until he’s like forty or something? And in the meantime he’s just wondering why he keeps having these dreams about big hairy men with ten-foot-tall penises? It’s the same with me. I deprived myself of the power because it scared me, and now that I’m older, my body’s trying to communicate to me through my dreams. It’s trying to say, ‘Hey, look, you did this thing before and you can do it again.’ ”

  Derek waited, going over the words. Special power. Trying to communicate. This was Skye-speak. He’d ruined her. He’d killed the girl. My God . . .