Austin.
And suddenly I am content to be here.
Wisps of snow become wisps of steam. The conversation becomes louder, more bawdy. Running water. The light is a weird haze of sepia.
He stands naked before the showerhead, running his hands through the beads of water collecting on his buzzed rust-colored hair, past the smooth lines of his rounded jaw. Rivulets of warm water stream down his sturdy, sloping dark-freckled shoulders, past the divine curvatures of his hips, and around and between his thick thighs. Everything about him is smooth. Touchable. He breathes out deeply and the muscles of his wide chest and abdomen relax and tighten, a fine mist of hot water rushing from his thicker lips. Despite his build, he remains a few inches beneath my standing height. His smaller feet, the one delicate part of him besides his lightly tanned skin, shift to a narrower stance, and I chuckle. He looks up, past me. Those clear blue eyes, like the deep end of a swimming pool, don't care if I'm watching.
He smiles. It was a joke, and he laughs. Funny.
I feel a tightness in my chest. I shouldn’t be here. Yet no one sees me. I can't tell if he can. He cracks another joke and my distracted mind cannot tell me what it is. But his hearty laugh alone says it was good. He turns away from the shower and picks up a long metal tube in faded army green to prove his point. A rocket launcher. I am nervous, despite his smile. Then he aims it at the open window above his head and pulls the trigger.
The live rocket screams out the window and into the rainy night. I am laughing hysterically. As are the others.
I follow him again past the parsonage of my hometown. It is summer, and he is welcome here. We face each other in daylight and I feel his affectionate embrace.
Our field trip is boring, he says. The forests around us are thick with evergreens. The pinkish hues of sunset, or sunrise, light the sky. We are children, yet look our present ages. And I follow him, into the green.
The cave we find is sandstone, hollow, empty. Unbelonging amidst the trees. Crude, spotted drawings mark the walls. He tells me secrets, yet I am unafraid. I feel safe.
A flash of white, artificial. The photo shoot is all a buzz of activity, and here I am observing. Austin lies on the floor with several other men from his army unit, lying naked in a row. The newspapers and cardboard that cover them are grimy and used. A mockery. The camera flashes.
I hate this picture. I hate this place.
Austin stares at me blankly.
My eyes open to darkness. I turn on the light, read my notes until dawn.
********
The sheets lie in a crumpled ball on the bed, the blankets a lumpy mess atop the scattered embroidered pillows of multicolored sizes. The desk is cleared and haphazardly angled away from the wall, revealing nothing more than a bright tawny square of the room’s original tone of paint. Its dozen drawers are open and gaping in their emptiness. The nightstand is the same way. The room I once had reverence for has become an elaborate obstacle, a black hole dressed up in colored lace, marble tile and smooth cherrywood furniture.
The phone is the only fixture that has not been moved. It sits on the nightstand, an elegant fixture of pearl and onyx befitting of the temptation it poses. I resist the urge to call him again. I can’t look clingy. Not to him.
My arms continue pulling feebly at an oversized Oriental rug when my shoes lose their grip on the marble tiling with a shrill squeak. My fingers slip from the itchy carpet and I feel my skull slam against the smooth, cold floor. The pain is instantaneous and I cry out as it fires through the back of my neck and arcs from my elbow. A second later the stinging numbness of falling on my funnybone shakes through my fingertips. My blood starts to boil as I clutch my limp arm to my chest.
I cannot find the card. The Hanged Man.
I yell a curse in rage and frustration, throwing a punch with my good arm at the rug hard enough to feel the pain race through my knuckles despite its cushioning.
It’s not in this room. It was moved… or taken.
Her office is easier to find when I’m angry.
“Where is it.” It’s not a question; it’s a demand.
Crowley looks up from the paperwork on her desk, adjusts her glasses. “What?”
“The card, The Hanged Man!” I shout, my aggravation taking control. “Why did you take it back?”
“I wasn’t aware I had a return policy. I don’t take back my gifts, Harland. And I’m not the one trying to ship you out of here.” Her demeanor is professional enough to make me feel like a child having a temper tantrum. Suddenly I feel mortified.
“I… I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I need to go.”
“Not with a temper like that, you don’t. Take a seat, let’s talk.”
I stand at the door and consider walking out. No. It would look weird. Too late now.
“What’s going on, Harland?”
Sitting down doesn’t make me feel better like I thought it would.
“I want another Tarot reading,” I explain hastily. “But I need it to be accurate. And it can’t be, if your deck is missing a card.”
"…you'd rather consult the opinions of three cards than those of a person," she says flatly.
"I think they’d be less judgmental than people.”
"Quinzel will eat you alive if she sees you like this."
"I'm sure she's dealt with worse.”
“You understand how this looks, right? Storming into my office because you need a card? You’re acting like Dent.”
“This is not a dependency, goddammit!” I growl before I realize the folly of my outburst.
“And now you’re in denial. What, did you flip your room upside down looking for it?”
I shake my head, look out the window.
“My God, Harland. If I had known these pieces of laminated paper would have such an effect on you I’d never have shown you them in the first place.”
She sits back in her chair, incredulous. I need to explain myself. Rationally. My emotions are getting the best of me. She thinks I’m a lunatic.
“I couldn't get to sleep last night,” I say abruptly before I convince myself to say what I was going to tell her anyway. “What Isley said… what Dent accused me of… they’re right.”
My shoulders feel heavy. The pain in my head is a dull throb. Outside, above the mansion's spires, the sun is hidden by thick covers of clouds; the room varies between light and shadow as the wind pulls them across the horizon. It looks peaceful.
“They’re both right. I am a coward. I am a ‘fucking librarian,’” I spit out the phrase with loathing. “I am so many things I can’t stand… and if it’s in plain sight like this… where complete strangers can take that, use that against me… what good am I?”
She is silent. I don’t look up.
“There was this dream… someone I really care about was in it. They, um…” I trail off, my voice cracks. “They mean a lot to me. I don’t want to lose that person because of these things I don’t want to be.”
She studies me thoughtfully, knuckles to her lips. I am unpleasantly reminded of Jeremiah and instantly regret having confided in her.
“It takes strength to come here, to this place. Especially when you're alone. I don't know why you believe these things about yourself," she says, "but whoever this person is, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she says earnestly.
I nod and exhale quickly. At least she sounds sincere.
“When you gave me that reading, it described me," I tell her as I slowly regain my self-control. "I just want something that could help this dream make sense."
Crowley leans back in her chair.
“I don’t believe in these cards,” I go on. “I believe that whatever force is at work that speaks to my life and my own understanding needs to be considered--and listened to.”
I lick my lips and think over my words.
"I need to know if it’s possible to perform a reading for someone else. Someone not drawing the cards.”
She is still concerned.
"Having a representative object specific to the person can give the reading a focal point for someone separate from the Querent," she offers reluctantly.
“The person who draws the cards.”
“Right,” she clarifies.
"Will this do?" I ask her.
I absently dig in my pocket for my wallet, my fingers thumbing through the credit cards and past the picture until they reach a thin pocket within the billfold. The two flat pieces of steel are warm and familiar from being dragged out so many times. They clink together on their chain when I set them on Crowley's desk, engravings face-up.
COOPER
AUSTIN T
140820080
AB+
She snatches the dogtags from the table as if they were illegal drugs.
"How did you get these in here?!”
"I'm not going to turn them in," I warn her.
"I don't care if you brought in a machine gun with sentimental value, Harland, I could lose my job over this! You brought in contraband to a facility that houses the most dangerous inmates in this city, and for all I know you’re trying to break them out!"
"You're overreacting," I sigh.
"Harland," she says firmly, "the last person who brought them in worked the A wing. Solitary confinement. The tags were his brother's, a Vietnam vet. One day he doesn't report in. Fifteen minute window between check-ins. They found his body outside one of the cells. "
"... it's two pieces of dull scrap metal on a chain," I shake my head in disbelief.
"It was enough for the inmate who escaped to carve a smile into his cheeks and hang him from a steam pipe with the chain and some loose wiring. Even had time to write a note in blood on the wall that said 'CHIN UP. CHEER UP.'"
I try to swallow the acrid taste in my throat but it won't go away.
"I wouldn't have shown you this if it wasn't important," I insist.
"Your trust in me is inspiring, considering I signed all your clearance documents!" She clenches her fists, exhaling sharply. "OK, let’s say that you’re not dependent, that this reading you want so badly is a one-shot deal. Making this deck of cards the determinant of your own well-being, of your actions--"
"I'm not," I say too curtly. "And I resent your insinuations about my mental health."
"Quinzel is not going to care about insinuations, she is going to make accusations! She will do everything she can to make you look unstable. If you can't handle my own judgments, how do you expect to handle hers?"
She doesn’t understand.
“Give them back,” I murmur.
“Answer my question.”
“Give them back,” I say quietly to her. “Or I will take them back.”
She tosses the dogtags across her desk at me, fuming.
I absently run my thumb and index finger across the grooves and indentations on the tags. Thinking of him is a salve to my mind.
"I will handle her judgments because I will finish my thesis."
“Stop feeding me that line of bullshit and tell me why you’re here!” she demands. “You say you’re trying to dissociate yourself from this asylum and yet you call yourself an Arkham instead of just changing your name. You hate this place, and yet you’re here because you choose to be. This project will define your academic career… and I think you’ve always allowed it to define you. How do you hope to escape that by being here?”
I look up, meeting her eyes squarely.
“Because when I leave here, this place will be nothing more than words in a book. And there will be no question that I am stronger than this place. That I am not a coward or a pushover. That I am something more than weakness.”
Crowley nods. “I think that the only person who believes you’re a weakness is you. The rest just try to convince you that you’re right.”
She stands up from her desk to select a narrow book from her shelf, on the bottom row towards the back. “You’re being honest with me, though. I guess that’s a start.”
The cover of the book she places in my hands is in good shape but dusty, hardbound, and utilitarian, a volume kept but rarely used. The plain print on the front and spine is subtle, academic and unpresumptuous. "Tarot as Psychology: Divination, Symbology, and Readings as Mental Constructs." Her name is on the cover, above 'Property of Gotham University.'
"It's all here. I devoted a chapter to each card."
“Wait... you authored this?"
"My master's thesis.”
I stifle a chuckle. "You said you didn't care much for the Tarot."
"Funny what years of study can do to a subject," she mutters. "You know what? If you're so convinced that these cards have some spiritual value and this isn't a fixation, then you don't need The Hanged Man for an accurate reading. It's not here. So it's not supposed to be here."
Her point is surprisingly valid. The dream is still suspended in my mind, as vivid as it was when I woke up.
"What do you expect to get from this, anyway?" Crowley asks me.
I stare at the leg of her chair, my chin resting on my wrist, head down.
"I don't want to be afraid anymore," I concede.
"I can't guarantee a positive reading," she cautions. "A negative one won't grant you peace of mind."
"It's the best step towards acceptance I can get," I tell her.
"The best step towards acceptance you can get is self-acceptance, Harland."
"Then respect the ways I choose to find it."
Crowley removes the deck from her desk drawer and separates a thin stack of cards--the Major Arcana--from the remainder of the deck. "Jeremiah does have one thing right about you," she says, holding the unshuffled cards in her hand. "Stubborn as hell."
I smile with a smirk. "I prefer the word 'tenacious.'"
"You say 'tomato'..."
Two quick knocks at her office door interrupt her quip. The dogtags are barely in my pocket before a head of platinum blonde hair and a Queens accent are through the open door and make my stomach plummet.
"Thought I'd find ya here," Dr. Quinzel says shortly. The sight of someone like her in a lab coat is still bizarre to me. "Pep talk's over, kid. Let's go."
She pauses when her aquamarine eyes settle on the Tarot deck in Crowley's hands and she scoffs. "Or am I interruptin' somethin'?"
"I was explaining to Harland--"
"Explain all ya want, but unless you're handin' him 'Get Outta Jail Free' cards, he's the one who's got some explainin' ta do. Ya know what the charge is for vandalizin' a historic landmark?"
The room. Shit.
"I'll clean it up," I offer. "I misplaced my notes."
"Ya mean the ones in plain sight by the desk in there?" she challenges. "Or were you lookin' for this?"
She holds a familiar card between her thumb and forefinger.
The Hanged Man. Only she's holding it upside-down. The figure in the picture is right-side up, suspended midair in a pose that would look like dancing were it not for the rope tied to his foot.
"You broke into my room!!" I rage, standing up from my chair.
"Your room?" Quinzel mocks. "The room ya trashed is the property of Arkham Asylum. Since your little incidents with Dent and Isley, I figured a search of your room was in orda. Your privacy comes second ta this asylum's security. And when I'm done with evaluatin' ya, ya'd better hope your room isn't here."
I struggle to control the seething anger burning in my temples. She's trying to push me. Get an excuse to send me packing.
"But if ya need ta rely on fortune tellin' and gypsy magic ta calm down, by all means, go right ahead. I'll take notes, since my knowledge on the subject is so... limited." Quinzel eyes Crowley, expecting some kind of validation.
She got silence.
I glower at her smug sneer and shove the rising lump in my throat down to my stomach. When I speak, I try not to grit my teeth.
"I don't need a reading," I growl.
She'll pay for this.
Quinzel smiles sweetly and flicks the card in my direction. My fingertips fumble to catch the card before my reflexes clutch it against my chest, a gesture Quinzel finds amusing.
"Did Crowley get around to tellin' ya how much Dent loved those cards?" she said as an aside, turning to leave. "He built houses out of 'em. Since she was better at rec room parties than psychotherapy, your pop made her PR rep and hired me on as Chief Psychiatrist. Shows how far a doctorate can get ya."
She half-turned to Crowley, who gave her a withering stare. "Grab the deck," Quinzel nods to me. "Bring it with ya."
She wants the cards for ammunition.
"Justine, I'll take a cigarette if you have one," I ask Crowley. She seems surprised at first, but obliges and rummages in her blazer for her pack.
"Hey. This mansion's a no-smokin' zone and if he--" Quinzel warns.
"Relax," Crowley says, "He'll smoke it outside like I do." She hands me the pack and a lighter with a supportive nod. "You need them more than me. But don't think I left that many for you."
Crowley casually slides her thesis from the table so it's by her side. "I'll hang onto this," she tells me. Quinzel doesn't seem to notice the book's subject.
"After you, Harry." Quinzel butts in and gestures to the door.
"Have a nice day, Harleen," said Crowley, in a tone that was a very fine line between professional and perturbed. She sits in her chair and gets back to work before she stops typing and simply stares at the words on her computer screen with a frown, holding a hand to her head.
"This way," Quinzel orders. "And try ta keep up." Her brisk walk takes us along the wide hall and down two flights of carved lacquer-laden staircases until we round the corner back to the main foyer and its intricately styled frescos. Angels make a marked presence in the structures of this place. They watch me with hooded faces and vacant eyes as I pass, omnipresent in the columns that support the curved ceilings, the hidden plasters within small alcoves, and in their hands and wings that rise up to meet each heavy banister. Each time I walk through these halls I notice something new about its architecture. I try to focus on the abstract paintings of stern prophets that adorn the walls, mere glimpses to take my mind away from the nervous tremors that rattle through my hands and forearms. I dig my fingernails into my palms, trying to get the pain to distract me before I open my balled fists when I think the gesture looks too obvious.
"You're pretty quiet, kid," Quinzel says without looking behind her, her voice echoing throughout the foyer. "Too many peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches gotcha mouth stuck?"
"Asylum takeout, actually. Mom forgot to pack me a week-long sack lunch."
She laughs with a guffaw, turns around. Her eyes drift to my shaking arms and I stop abruptly in the middle of the hallway.
"Look at ya. Might as well putta bag over ya head. I left the axe at home, kid, so stop treatin' everythin' like the end of tha world and it might do ya some good."
"You go home?" I quip. "I figured you live here."
The comment gives her pause before a slow smile crosses her face.
"Pretty bold talk, there. Let's take ya on the tour. We'll work out rent details and bathroom insurance on tha way."
She's bubblier than normal. I keep up with the wisecracks.
"It's a good place to play house and garden," I joke, stepping out of the way of a crew of burly orderlies hustling past us. "The neighbors make you feel so at home." I walk beside her now.
"Your pops thinks so. He's the one who doesn't go home. The rest of us, well, we have these things called lives."
"His work is his life."
"Not my life," Quinzel retorts. "I've got other things ta do. People ta see. Don't you?"
"Yeah," I tell her. "Some more important than others."
"Friends?"
"Something like that."
She doesn't bother to pursue my comment. We find ourselves at a set of heavy oak double-doors carved with ancient Greco-Roman Olympians: discus, spear-throwers and wrestlers cover the polished surface, the details present right down to the concentrated, driven expressions on their faces. Quinzel doesn't bother to let me gawk before she pushes the doors open to another world.
We are at the corner of a maroon running track that overlooks a basketball court on the bottom floor. The walls still retain the textured off-white complexity of their art-deco carvings but it is the only footing the classical mansion holds in this space. Beneath us, a staff game of three-on-three is winding down, a few older men and a couple middle-aged women in gym shorts and sweatbands tossing potshots at the hoop. Doctors, perhaps. One of the men groans when a woman sinks a freethrow from half-court, causing half the group to celebrate until a soft alarm begins to sound on their floor and they start to leave. As the woman grabs the ball and they exit the court, I watch in awe as the floor begins to retract behind them, revealing waves of aquamarine and drawing out small clumps of swimmers in colored spandex from the room's wings, who wait patiently at the pool's edge for the hardwood floor to clear. Across the track is a sleek hybrid of flat-panel glass and steel: a fully-equipped exercise room filled with occupied elliptical machines, treadmills, weight training devices, barbells, dumbells, and rowing machines.
Of everyone in the room, I am the only one surprised by what I see.
"Put in a gym, a few squash courts, some tennis on the side and a cushy wellness program and ya forget you're doin' yoga class in a glorified loony bin," Quinzel comments as we continue down the track against the direction of the occasional runner who darts past us. I notice a couple of the male runners look back to ogle Quinzel's figure.
"Keep starin', sugar, and I'll make this track a high-dive for ya!" she shouts over her shoulder. The runner, embarrassed, doesn't look back. It's like she has eyes in the back of her head.
"Everythin' is smiles and sunshine," she goes on, "At least that's what the state board thinks."
"This place has all that stuff?"
"Kid, there are a hundred and sixty-three rooms bein' used here, and those are the ones that aren't walled off."
"Wouldn't it be more efficient to use a more modern facility? Like the rest of the asylum?"
"Oh yeah, it'd just be more expensive. The board thinks tha mansion here makes expansion easia," she affirms. "I say they just had rooms they couldn't make people work in if they paid 'em to. This place gives me the creeps."
"So why work here?"
"Paycheck, what else?" she scoffs. "You should see the bank I make from this."
I snort at the slang. I can't tell if she's using it in jest. We exit through a plain door on the southwest side of the track and wind our way down an antiquated wrought-iron spiral staircase to the pool level.
"Sounds like you love your job," I say sardonically.
"Better than lettin' amateurs pretend they can do my job," she fires back. "All ya got is them ta yell atcha. If I want that kinda psychotherapy, I'll watcha talk show."
"I'm not pretending anything. My thesis--"
"Your thesis, huh? What is it, 'I Piss People Off'? 'Nobody Likes Me'? Yeah, ya'd make a great docta. Bedside manna and all."
I fall silent.
"Is it even real?" she asks.
I stop walking. "What?"
"What you're workin' on. Or are ya just here to play mind games?"
"I don't have to prove myself to you, Doctor."
"Egotism has a place here, kid. It's either in a padded cell or at the end of a shank."
"Or at a desk job making serious bank," I retort.
Quinzel whips around so fast she nearly bumps into me. Her low voice is loud enough that I can hear her above the distorted echoes of the pool crowd.
"See those guys playin' water polo?" she nods towards a cluster of four well-built men near the deep end where we're standing. "Feel like gettin' cavity-searched in front of an audience? Bet you'd like that, wouldn't ya? Prison'd be a perfect fit for ya. Might finda nice boyfriend there."
My fingernails hurt this time when they dig into my palms.
"Doesn't feel so good at the other end of tha knife, does it?" she taunts.
She strides past me through another set of swinging doors and the rich architecture of the mansion returns within the hallway beyond. I follow only because I have to.
"Dent. Isley," she said the names like a command. "I wanna know what you're using on 'em for this mystery meat paper of yours."
We leave the hallway and step into a empty kitchen, a large and dimly lit area of long, flat tables, linoleum and polished stainless steel. Across the room between two refrigerators are the only utensils visible: a rack of gleaming carving knives.
"Why isn't this place busy? Isn't it almost lunch hour?" I ask, checking my watch.
"There was a gas leak a couple days before ya got here. And if your paper's on kitchens, ya came to the wrong place. So quit tryin' to change the subject."
Talking about my work is a welcome distraction.
"My focus is on the social catalyst that made these inmates adopt a criminal persona. Dent displays multiple personality disorder--"
"Dissociative identity disorda," she corrects. "Not MPD. It's a latent condition; it coulda been sitting there in his head all his life."
"--but the trigger was a name. 'Rachel Dawes.'"
"Psychological trauma triggered the split. He loses the girl; he goes crazy. It's a sad story. Too bad I've heard it all before."
She chuckles to herself.
"It's a shame. Not too many guys like that anymore that go crazy if the girl up and dies on 'em."
"I suppose not," I say skeptically. "But there weren't too many guys like Harvey Dent. All his life he stood head and shoulders above the crowd, and he wanted to keep it that way--not out of arrogance, but out of duty."
"His need ta project himself as Captain-goddamn-America was his obsession," Quinzel mocks. "People didn't expect too much out of him; he bit off more than he could chew, he choked, and Two-Face started breathin'. It's all in his head. And ya make it sound like a choice."
We pass the refrigerators. She exits the kitchen and with a rush of wind, we find ourselves outside in a small square courtyard. I hastily pick a cigarette from Crowley's pack, flick the wheel of the lighter a few times, and take a deep drag. The clouds have taken over the sky, turning it a pallid shade of gray. A monolithic statue of an archangel, wings spread wide and hand extended, towers above us. I can't tell if the expression on its face is serenity or pity.
"Two-Face was the choice he felt was necessary," I go on, my thoughts interrupted by the sudden change in surroundings. "Disfigurement did not create Two-Face. Had he escaped unscarred, he would have taken the exact same actions. He'd still go to jail, but as a hero--because he would have had the same face society had learned to trust."
"What are you sayin', that he'd get away with it because he was pretty?"
"Precisely."
"You're not even half right with that guesswork. Isley's a looker and look where she is."
"Let me explain. You agreed Isley is attractive. So was Harvey Dent. People find it easier to trust good-looking people because of their attractiveness. Likewise, it makes sense society would want to rationalize their actions in a sympathetic light. For a while, Isley and Dent had one thing in common as deviants: they went after negatively-percieved people. Isley, abusers; Dent, the mob. Both were idolized in the media, despite their crimes. And I'd bet if you checked the newspapers, you'd find there's a picture of them with every article to reinforce their image."
"Definitely an Arkham paper. Sounds crazy ta me. Why commit the crimes, then?"
"Harvey Dent had a highly focused, well-hidden dependency to exceed society's standards on his own, as a singularity," I elaborate. "His love for Rachel Dawes complicated that dependency into a duality. And when both sides of this duality were compromised, he took both failures personally and subconsciously developed an internal duality to compensate. Now, he sees himself as working outside of society to protect it from the same chaos that plagues him. He hurts to heal. Now, Two-Face exists to punish anyone--and Harvey Dent is no exception. His psychological condition was influenced by his social condition, pre-existing or not. Dent loses his greatest source of stability and becomes unstable. Isley gets mistreated all her life by men, so she sets out to kill them using the one thing that's never betrayed her: botany."
I take another drag of my cigarette.
"Her files say her dad was physically abusive to both her and her mother. Generalized retaliation is one of the most common reactions to abuse of any kind. But she turned her sexuality into a weapon so she could hurt men like her father hurt her. To Isley, it's taking control; it prevents the abuse from ever happening again. Yet she denies whatever chance she has to have what she wants most: a good and faithful husband who respects her. She believes this person does not exist."
"You're complicatin' things. Dent had obsessive perfectionism and Isley had pathological misandry," Quinzel simplifies. "A permanent hatred of men and anythin' connected to 'em."
I eye her curiously as I take another drag.
"What, ya surprised I know a couple ten-dolla words?" Quinzel looks offended, for once. "Pfft. I get the 'dumb blonde' thing all the time. Some desk jobs have perks, kid, maybe when ya get one you'll understand."
I ignore her jab in an exhale of minty smoke.
"Isley gets her heart stomped on and Dent gets burned, what of it? You're treatin' these things like they have a rational basis."
"My theory is that they were made that way by the way they experienced love," I insist.
Quinzel laughs, like what I said is funny. She removes her elliptical glasses and polishes the lenses, stifling giggles all the while.
"Kid, love should make ya crazy," she shakes her head. "Especially when ya don't get loved back."
I scoff, look away, smoke some more. "You're speaking from experience?"
Her smile fades from her eyes but not her lips when she puts on her glasses.
"My office is this way."
My cigarette is less than halfway ashed. I take a couple quick puffs then stomp out the butt, letting the buzz of the nicotine weigh down my legs and feet while the light-headedness touches my brain. The rest of the walk is an awkward silence that lasts from the courtyard, through a curved hallway and to a door inlaid with pearl and golden-stained glass, giving it the appearance of a gilded gate. Beside it is a polished brass plaque that reads "DR. HARLEEN QUINZEL, Ph.D., CHIEF PSYCHIATRIST." When she removes her keys from her pocket to unlock the door, I notice a gaudy keychain in the shape of a motorcycle next to her ID card with some engraving on the side.
OUR FAVORITE DOCTOR
"HARLEY"
U KNOW U WANT A RIDE
"Nice bike." I don't care if she hears my derisive sigh.
Quinzel raises her eyebrows, looks down at the keychain, and her lips form a wry half-grin. I can't tell if she's proud of it.
"A gift from the boys at work," she says dryly. "I'm sure they'd love ta see me in leather."
We step inside to a room that could have been the mansion's former dining hall, its tall vaulted ceiling continuing the artistic theme of the statue in the courtyard. Celestial forms from Judeo-Christian literature mingled across the baby-blue heavens, the off-white clouds and the angels' many wings creating the same mesmerizing but chaotic effect as the Bosch frescos in the foyer.
The room's vibrant velour carpet, an elegant shade of crimson that compliments the pinkish-hued marble walls supporting the ceiling, is divided by frosted glass partitions that designate the psychiatric team's individual offices, with Quinzel's spacious mahogany desk in the center. Everything within the room is organized immaculately, right down to the pencils being differentiated from the pens in Quinzel's decorative utensil-carrier, next to her dust-free flatscreen computer. Like Crowley's much smaller workspace, there are many bookshelves that line the walls, only the books they contain have loftier titles and are fewer in number. I spot a multi-volume collection between two stern-looking gargoyle bookends whose author stands out in bold lettering: "CRANE: On Fears and Fearing."
Quinzel selects the lone file folder from her desk and directs me to a chair, not the cushioned ones with ottomans by her desk, but a tall wooden one missing its right armrest. It stands next to what looks like a computer printer on a heavy-looking ivory sidetable.
"Where's the rest of your staff?" I ask her warily, the muted echo of my voice reverberating to the ceiling.
She ignores my question and starts to fasten a velcro strap to my upper arm. Startled, I jerk back. She glares at me coldly.
"Standard proceedya," she explains; I wince as she cuffs it to my bicep and tightens it sharply, similar to a blood pressure monitor. "I record the evaluation, and if you're lyin' ta me, well," she smirks. "Ya'd better hope home is where you're goin'. Now put ya fingas in the hand monita or I'll have security mess up your manicure."
I notice the two nodes connected by wires to the printer loaded with graph paper, and my unease comes back in droves.
A polygraph. The one used for my preliminary interviews at the GCPD was far more antiquated than this machine.
I feel sick. Helpless as she sticks the rubber suction cups to my temples. No excuse I can give her can get me out of this. I shakily slide my middle and index fingers of my left hand into the sensor and she casually flicks on the machine. The needle springs to life, trailing a warbled but steady line of wet black ink. She removes a handheld tape recorder from her lab coat and clicks it on.
"Evaluation for Arkham, Hieronymus, conducted by Dr. Harleen Quinzel, Chief Psychiatrist, Arkham Asylum. We'll start witha test question," she says, easing into a nearby plush chair and sliding her glasses up to the bridge of her nose. She opens the file folder.
"Are you a coward?"
The needle of the polygraph starts to tremble violently.
"You're being subjective," I accuse her.
"Subject is uncooperative," she says bluntly into the microphone. "Last time I'm askin' this. Answer the question."
I take a deep breath, try to look her in the eyes, but can't.
"Yes," I say quietly.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" she asks. "I didn't hear ya."
"I said 'YES'!" I shout, the harsh cry rumbling throughout the tall ceiling. One quick spike mars the graph paper. "I said 'yes,'" I repeat carefully. I clutch my thigh with my free right hand, take another deep breath. The needle slows to a sluggish crawl, like the movements of a snake.
"Ok, then. With that out of the way, is your name Hieronymus Percival Arkham?"
"Yeah."
"'Yes' or 'No,' not 'yeah,' will designate an affirmative answer, Mr. Arkham. Same question."
"Yes."
"You are twenty-two years old, son of Jeremiah Arkham and adopted by Arthur and Janette Ellis?"
"Yes."
"Please state the occupation of your adoptive parents for the record."
"Teachers. Dad's in art, Mom's in literature."
"Names, please. Save the family titles for home, junior. Professors?"
I am seething. This travesty has gone on far enough.
She looks up from her file folder. "If ya think the silent treatment's gonna work, I've got all day. I deal with kooks for a livin', kid, I've got the patience of a glacier."
I thump my head against the back of the uncomfortable chair. "Janette is an adjunct professor of English at Metropolis University and a specialist in Victorian Literature. Arthur is an art instructor at East Metropolis High."
"But you live in Gotham, at the University. No doctorates... yet you're chasin' one?"
"Yes. In sociology."
"Ya talk to your parents much?"
"About what?"
"Whaddya think, kid. About bein' a nancy."
"Don't call me that."
"What, ya'd rather I use the technical term?" She raises her eyebrows. "Don't think you're in a position ta argue."
"They don't know."
"Know what? Be specific."
"They don't know that I like guys," I spit out.
"Ya never told 'em?"
"They're involved people, they have a lot going on."
"So ya just drop it?"
"The timing's never right... I can't just sit down and talk about it."
"Because they won't listen."
"Because they're busy. Besides, I don't want to burden them with my problems."
The needle scribbles a burst of black waves.
"Careful, kid," she warns. "Save the lies for mommy and daddy."
I scowl at her with loathing. "I think they don't care about my problems."
"Because they never ask? Or because you don't?"
"Because they wouldn't be able to help," I assert. "They don't understand what it's like to be this way. Everything 'normal' is thrown out the window when I try to meet someone worthwhile. There are expectations to be met and I don't meet them. I can't get what I want most and I think--"
I catch myself.
"You think what?" she presses.
Quinzel leans forward in her chair, throwing a quick glance at the polygraph before locking eyes with me.
"You think, what."
The needle twitches.
"I think it's because I don't look a certain way."
She erupts into a twittering laugh, her hand lightly touching her sternum.
"Is that pride I hear?" she mocks. "Or is it egotism? I can't tell."
Her summer's-day eyes glimmer with a click of her tongue. "You're lookin' down too often for anyone to notice your looks, nancy-boy. Haven't seen ya that much, either, but it's always easy ta pick out someone who doesn't smile."
Her focus returns to her notepad.
"So how do you solve your problems, Mr. Arkham?"
"By myself."
A neat black line on the graph paper runs its course.
"No friends?"
No point in lying.
"None that would listen. My name makes friends a..." I search for the right word. "Luxury." Not the right word.
"Mr. Arkham, this is a psychological evaluation, notta pity-party. Save the sob stories for Crowley or have the stones ta deal with your insecurities on your own. I'm not your shrink."
I'm gripping the armrest of my chair so hard I can feel the wood crack as its edges bury themselves into my palm.
"What the fuck is your problem?" I mutter.
Quinzel tilts her head curiously and holds the tape recorder closer to me. 'Say it louder,' she mouths.
I release my withheld breath in a vicious rush.
"Perhaps those feelings of inferiority are due to your sexual tendencies?" she continues seamlessly.
Now it's my turn to chuckle.
"Somethin' funny?" she says sharply. "I wasn't tellin' a joke."
"Tendencies. Right."
"Since when did you begin to see 'em as more than that?"
"Twelve. Maybe thirteen."
"You implied during Isley's interview your sexual experiences were minimal."
"They are."
"Because you want 'em ta be?"
"Because I want them to be with one person. The right person. I don't need more than one... I don't work that way."
"How are you certain that person is a man?"
"My sexual identity doesn't need to be discussed with you."
"It will be, if you don't want your pet project ta start from scratch. Forgot ta mention the Asylum can confiscate whatever you've written here, pendin' criminal investigation on any charges we choose ta file."
Strangely, her words are edifying. A few personal boundaries can be sacrificed if it helps me escape this. I tell myself that once I leave here, I won't have to see her again, anyway.
"Describe the moment you knew."
Ten years have not aged this memory. It returns like an old dream, hazy in spots yet exacting in others.
"I was on a field trip with my sixth grade talented and gifted class," I begin. The dull bus ride flashes through my head. A forest passes quickly by the windows. I sit in front, by the driver. "We stayed in a motel room, me and four other boys. One of them got in the shower and the others decided it would be funny to embarass him by forcing down the door. I go along with the group more out of acceptance than curiosity."
I can see the white door in a haze of flourescent light.
"But when the door opens, he's left the shower and he's standing there, wet and naked, and I look at him and he's beautiful in every detail. Every curve of his muscles, the soft lines of his face. And his eyes. Those brown eyes with speckled green. There's no embarassment in his eyes." I pause, realizing I'm going into too much detail. "I look at him and I want his body for my own."
"Your own... to envy? Or to love?"
"I don't know," I answer.
The polygraph's needle has been still for some time now. I wonder if she's turned it off until the needle fidgets fitfully.
"Is that the only reason you prefer men?" she inquires. "To adore what you can't have?"
"There are personality traits, too--"
"Such as?"
"Strong. Confident. Driven. Assertive. Fun. Sly. Light-hearted--"
"All traits you lack."
I stop.
"A woman could easily have all of those qualities," she goes on. "Your attraction to men is entirely superficial. You're drawn to men you want to be."
Take a deep breath.
"Not when I have someone who loves me as I am."
"Your boyfriend?" Quinzel raises an eyebrow. "Well, the needle's not movin'. Let's hope you're not delusional."
I remind myself she wants me out of here. Push away the desire to crush her throat.
"Describe your first sexual experience."
"No," I say emphatically. "That's too far."
She gives me a sideways smile. "I'm the one who decides what's too far, Mr. Arkham."
"You're no better than Isley."
"She did it for kicks. I'm doing it ta figure you out. Now talk."
"You're getting ahead of yourself. You need to know what led up to it. How we met."
"Nice try there, kid. If you're going to be tricky, at least be more direct."
She clicks her pen. "Now tell me what he's like."
I smirk.
"A bit on the short side. Reddish-brown hair. Built, with deep blue eyes. Smooth features--"
"I asked what he's like, not what he looks like," she says without a glance up from her notepad. "For being all about how fake good looks are, you seem mighty partial to 'em. Ever think he judges you by the same standards?"
I nod slowly. "Every day."
"Whaddya do about it? Brush your teeth? Lift things? Get your nails painted?"
"It's not that simple. There's a personality that goes along with being naturally attractive."
"Like him?"
"He faces the biggest challenges like they're everyday tasks. No one intimidates him. He's not afraid... he's the one who smiles and everyone smiles with him. He knows himself."
"Ever think about pursuing someone more your type? A librarian, maybe?"
I stop, look her dead in the eyes. She wants anger. I'll give her anger.
"I'm sure lack of beauty has always been a problem for you, Harley. You must get tired beating down the stampede of horny men that are after you. But you're professional about it, from what I've seen."
"In twenty years, kid, I'll still have those guys afta me. I don't want 'em. But it sounds like you do. And when you're old and they're old you'll see how ugly they really are. Funny, I thought you were a one-man-show."
"Looks command respect."
"Looks command an army of guys who just want in your pants. All I've gotten are creeps."
"You never have to sacrifice what you find attractive. You never have to settle."
She removes her glasses, sets them on the side table. "Yes, I do," she says forcefully. "I wanna guy who makes me feel alive," she continues. "Every day. No matter what. And I'm gonna do whatever it takes ta get that. Anything less is cheating myself."
She utters a chirping laugh. "And ta think, I almost fell for your monogamy bullshit."
"You should check the lie detector, then," I tell her.
She does so, and her bitter smile fades as she scans the lines.
"I have never had a man like Austin. And I never will again. I'm certain of it. And the thought that I would give him up for anything else in the world is the day I don't want to live life anymore."
Quinzel studies me intently for a moment, then sets down the graph paper and returns to her notepad.
"How did you two meet, a dating website?"
"Yes, actually."
She snorts. "Usually those kinda people have something wrong with them, ya know?"
"Whatever was wrong with us, we didn't seem to mind. We talked a few times, exchanged phone numbers, and agreed to meet in the campus greenhouse over lunch a few weeks later," I tell her, smiling at the memory. "By the time we met, we were talking over the phone six hours a day and discussing living together. We felt like we were right for each other. I saved his messages to me that told me how he felt, and re-read them every day. At the greenhouse, he was the one who noticed me first... I was so nervous I could barely hold onto my schoolbag. Then he walks out of there with the biggest smile, immaculately dressed, and gives me a giant hug I never want to end. He fit so well in my arms. We had told so much about ourselves by then it was as if we had known each other for years. I had tried so hard to look my best, and there he was, so perfect, I didn't know what to do or say. We get in his car and drive around for a bit, and when he tries to hold my hand I shake it instead."
I get a stifled chuckle from Quinzel, and I allow myself to relax in my chair for the first time since the interview started.
"We go to my dorm room at his insistence and he notices a painting I had been working on, a sailboat crossing a stormy sea. I tell him about my artwork and he says the painting reminds him of his family; they hadn't been so great to him but he didn't want to say any more about it. Said he had entered the military to avoid them. I had left the paints out in my haste to meet him, and he picks up a brush and begins adding something to the painting. I am apprehensive at first until he puts down the brush and shows me what he's added. A second sailboat. 'Now neither of us will have to be alone,' he tells me. I start crying, I'm so happy... and at first he isn't sure what to do, but he reaches out and holds me close, tilts my head down to his and kisses me."
"My first time with him was three nights later. He said no one had ever made him feel this way before. That he could forget his family and his problems whenever he was with me, because I listened to him. He felt real, instead of angry at the world. He felt like I saw him for who he is. We made love, and he brings a camera into bed and snaps a picture. Says it will be just the two of us, on vacation for life. He asks me where I want to go. I tell him, 'someplace where we can dream.'"
I pause, my joy ebbing as the memory continues.
"I viewed him as a walking fantasy after that. He was everything I ever wanted. Maybe I became too dependent upon him. He did say I was too quiet. I don't know. A week later we were playing poker and I cleared him out quickly. He didn't take the loss too well and he started listing all of my faults. He was angry and called me a coward, for letting my name control how I behaved. We talked it over, I asked if this affected us, as a couple. He said no, stayed the night. In the morning, I tried to hold his hand. He shrugged it off. I told him I loved him. He said, 'I only say those words when I mean them.' Then he left without saying goodbye."
"You only knew him for a week?"
"We talked online for three months before that--"
"You knew him a week. And ya think he's the one for you?"
"I know how I feel."
"You're infatuated."
"You don't know the whole story."
"Then finish it."
I lick my lips and continue.
"For months, I tried to get ahold of him, find out what I did wrong, and all I got was an answering machine. I didn't hear from him until six months later. He said he was sorry. He told me he loved me, and wanted me as his boyfriend. He was going through some rough business with his family--"
"You don't know his family, either. Ya know what he does for a living?"
"Army. He's a sniper, that's all he could say."
"Outside the army."
"He was going to med school. Plastic surgery. He said he always wanted to be a doctor."
"What about his friends?"
"I never met his friends, he was a transfer student going for his doctorate."
"Hobbies?"
"We went for walks mostly, driving around Metropolis--"
"Kid, for all ya know, he doesn't love ya at all!"
I feel like I've been punched.
"No. No, it's not like that. We were together before--"
"If he walked in here right now, would he even say he knows ya?"
"He wants me back, why wouldn't he?"
"And you're expectin' everythin' to be hunky-dory once ya leave here! Kid, who told ya life gets better? 'Cause they're a terrible liar!"
"He makes my life better!"
"I'm sure you're his world."
"JUST GIVE ME THE GODDAMN EVALUATION!!" I scream.
Quinzel eyes me for a moment before holding the tape recorder closer to her lips.
"Subject displays acute social anxiety and episodic outbursts of emotional instability, varyin' between depressive and aggressive behavia. His insecurities are fueled by sexual repression, frustration, and a negative body image."
She clicks off the tape recorder. "Your pops, Jeremiah. He likes me because I can make snap judgments on people and act accordin'ly. Somethin' he's not so good at, and I can see why. Runs in the family. Ya don't belong here, kid, ya belong in therapy."
Another click of the tape recorder and the recording resumes.
"Test question," she says. "Do ya hate me?"
"...yes."
"Good. Now we're gettin' somewhere."
All the rage, all the humiliation and doubt and uncertainty comes back to me in a rush, and I must leave this chair. This room.
"All your life you've been adored!" I accuse her. "I'm guessing you won the most beautiful baby contest hands down. Got your way growing up because you were too cute to say 'no' to. When you started to see the way guys looked at you and how girls wanted to be you, you rode that admiration all the way to the top. Like Isley, with more restraint. Look but don't touch. The perfect tease. The world is an open blouse to you. Maybe that's how you got that doctorate you're so proud of. Or this job. You don't know how to work for anything because it was all handed to you. And people never appreciate things they don't work hard to get. You have everyone in your back pocket, everything you need to play the field, but you don't. Which tells me that you're looking for something you've never found. And if my instincts are right, we're trying to get the same thing."
"I will do whatever it takes to get him back!!" I shout, sharp sobs punctuating the words I try to speak. My chest shudders as I try to beat back the stinging warmth that engulfs my eyes and nose. "Please. Let me stay. All I want is to get him back. I can do that if I can show him that I'm stronger than all this. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. I had nothing... and he gave me everything. I can't lose the one person that thought I was worth something."
I slump my shoulders, utterly ashamed by my loss of composure. "I'm sorry," I say uselessly. "I hope you meet the one person who makes you feel giddy in everything you do. Then you'll know what this is like."
I look up at Quinzel, who has her head in her hands. She quickly bats her eyelashes and reassumes her rigid formality. "Maybe I already have," she says softly.
"I found him in a place I never expected," she adds. "I had ta wait so long for our first date... our first real date. I had already waited all my life, so what was anotha few months or so?" she sniffs quietly. "I was willin' to wait as long as I had to. We met at the Dysinger Arms, this little dive hotel. I'm waiting there, thinkin' he won't show, when someone comes up behind me and pushes something sharp against my throat. I can't move, I think it's a knife, and the guy asks me if I'm scared. And I tell him, 'I'm here for somebody special, and if you think you can stop me, you're in for a world of pain like ya won't believe.' And then he lets go of me and I see it's him, my man, and it's a rose he had against my throat. Just a rose. And he caresses it against my face and says, 'Show me.'"
"I'm still a little scared but he gets me a drink and tells me he basically owns the place. And--" she giggles. "He says it's funny how 'The Dysinger Arms' sounds a lot like 'He Dies In Her Arms.' And I laugh. He's so good at makin' me laugh. That's how I know he's right for me. Not one word about my rack or my ass. He just wanted to make me laugh. And that was everythin' I needed."
"What if you're wrong and he's not right for you? What then?" I ask.
"I'm not wrong," she says firmly.
"Neither am I."
"I don't think he understands how hard I fight for him," I concede.
"Perhaps he doesn't want to. Let me tell you something, kid." She puts her glasses back on. "Looks determine how many are after you. Charm determines how badly they want you. Cleverness determines what lengths they will go to have you. And mystery is what makes them stay. Ya may not have a full house, but ya might have a straight somewhere in there. On second thought, maybe not, in your case."
I laugh, genuinely. She smiles. "A sense of humor trumps all of 'em," she says.
"Maybe that's what love is. Ignoring the faults. Seeing the fun in things," I offer.
"I know my man must see somethin' wrong in me. Sometimes he does things... things that scare me. Things I don't know if I can do. I just don't think it bothers him."
Quinzel looks away for a moment, then picks up the Tarot deck on the floor by her chair.
"Crowley says you know your way around these. Give me a reading," she demands, slapping the deck in my hands.
I'm caught off-guard. "What?"
"OK, fine. What do I do, just draw a card?" she slides a card from the top of the deck. When she sees the card, her face pales before she blushes.
"Well? What is it?" I ask her. She flips the card around to face me.
VI - THE LOVERS.
"What do I do?" She looks up at me with doubt. "I.. I don't know what to do."
“Go for it," I tell her. "You never know where love might take you.”
