Bruce Dries, Jr.
"My mother's favorite meal as a child was eggs scrambled with calf’s brains." Dr. Polmus paused to dab a napkin at the corner of his mouth. "Of course, curiosity overtook her one day and she asked my grandmother what kind of meat it was. She could never bring herself to eat it again after that."
"Stimulus generalization," Bengston mumbled, staring as the doctor speared another cube of meat on a thin fork and set it in the silver fondue pot. The hot oil erupted around the fork with a crackling hiss.
"Precisely!" Polmus beamed at his guest. Bengston looked back sullenly at the doctor's pale watery eyes, lower lids drooping and swollen, which were nearly lost under his ferociously upswept eyebrows. Polmus' face was broad, with heavy jowls hanging beneath a thickly combed patch of silver hair. His nose and mouth, too small for his head, were quickly lost to the reflected glitter beneath the black brows, the flame beneath the pot mirrored in the limp eyes. Polmus sat back and smoothed the front of his maroon smoking jacket, then absently tapped his chin. "She loved the taste, but society's mores had been drilled into her so completely that even at her young age certain... ideas had become habitually repellant." He seemed pleased with his analysis, and pursed his lips as he looked over the selection of sauces on the table, finally choosing the horseradish dip.
Bengston watched his lips close over the fork, Polmus' eyes closing in rapture as he savored the meaty delicacy. His gaze drifted from the doctor's chewing to the dim ceiling and walls of the room, its dark paneling fading to cold blackness in the corners. The large stone hearth behind him was an empty pit. Above it hung a heavily gilded frame, but the picture was a shapeless mass of ocher and blue, only dimly revealed by the lone sputtering flame in the center of the table. His body felt covered by a blanket of numb coolness, with his head resting heavily on top. He swallowed dryly as he thought of the fresh carcass (and it was a carcass, it had to be!) lying before him on the table.
Polmus smacked his lips in satisfaction and opened his eyes, catching the other's blank look. "Oh Bengston, you've got to try this. Here," He lifted the fork out of the oil. "Hm, you like the more exotic sauces, don't you? We'll try this with a bit of mild teriyaki."
He held the fork out, but Bengston clamped his lips together and began to tremble, staring at the glistening bit of meat. "Come on now, Bengston," Polmus said reasonably. "We've finally been able to spend some nice quality time together. I'm willing to forget about the two-hour tantrum you threw while I was making this meal, and I did let you watch the entire preparation. But now it's time for the next step." He held out the fork again, but Bengston only stared and grunted, a bubble popping between his lips.
Polmus frowned. "Now look here, Bengston, as a graduate student you cannot claim to misunderstand how a learned aversion can be unlearned. Did you forget that it was you who came to me asking for help? `I have this fear of sharp objects, Dr. Polmus. Oh help me, Dr. Polmus.' Well, I'm trying to help you, with that and more!" Polmus leaned forward intently, as if making a critical point during one of his lectures. "Think of all those fears that the tiny-brained creatures of this world carry with them, making them cringe from every shadow and peep in the night. I can take those fears away from you! Humanity's paralysis, removed forever!" He wiped his lips shakily, then his eyes narrowed. "Will I have to force you?" Irritated, he dropped the fork back on his plate and roughly wiped at Bengston's chin where a bit of juice had dropped. He sat back angrily and scowled at the fondue pot, then sighed and picked up the brandy snifter, swirling it once under his nose before gently sipping. He pondered over the dark liquid for a moment, then waved a hand in dismissal.
"Well, it's a shame," he said casually. "You're missing quite a sensation." He picked up the fork and continued talking while he chewed. "I'd really hoped that flooding your psyche with excessive stimulation would produce a cascade of anxiety relief, especially since I've prevented you from physically responding to your fears. I wanted you to reach the plateau of desensitization that I have attained." He speared another cube and eyed his guest critically. "But I doubt that I could really force you. Even in your semi-immobile state, your obvious queasiness indicates that some involuntary reflexes might still be activated. And I do hate making a mess."
Bengston let his head drop to the right to look at Polmus. Miniature twin flames winked back at him, and Bengston heard himself giggle. "Yes... yes, Dr. Polmus," he said thickly. "You are the neat one." He began to laugh, tears filling his eyes as the ice tinkled briefly in the water pitcher.
Polmus smiled broadly and nearly shouted, "Good man, Bengston, that's the spirit!" He reached forward and tucked a red velvet pillow under Bengston's head, forcing his chin down to his chest. Bengston's laughs died, but his breathing stayed heavy and quick. Polmus rose and picked up the carving knife.
"Now watch me!" he warned, then hesitated over the flesh lying on the table. "Maybe a little from the ribs, eh?" he said as the knife sliced into the carcass (only a carcass!) and took off a long thin strip. "I used to love sitting down to a plate of barbecued ribs when I was younger," Polmus said as he cut the strip into bite-size chunks. "Used to be pretty sloppy, I was told. No more, eh? Hah!" The large silver tray in the center of the table was deep in fresh blood, but not a drop had stained the white tablecloth.
Bengston gave a ragged gasp. Something dry churned deep inside him, but only a choked whine spilled from his lips. He had tried to look away, tried to close his eyes, but they had been locked in helpless fascination on the blade as it moved over the carcass (only a carcass!). Now he stared at the fresh hole in the flesh where a rib had briefly gleamed before drowning in the bright red flow.
Polmus reached over and flipped Bengston's mouth shut with a snap. Bengston winced and quieted, tasting blood. The oil began to crackle again, and Polmus leaned forward until his eyes were inches from Bengston's.
"You must maintain control, Bengston." Polmus spoke with a quiet force, as a concerned physician might to an uncooperative patient. "You asked if I could help rid you of this phobia, and I can, but you must maintain control. You can see the knife, you see it cut the flesh, and you have to understand that there is no pain, and no reason at all for fear."
Bengston feebly nodded, choking back a sob as he tried to swallow. He suddenly coughed, spraying blood and saliva into Polmus' face and over the tablecloth towards the doctor's plate.
Polmus leaped back, his chair clattering to the floor. His face twisted with rage as the crimson drops soaked into the bone-white tablecloth. Snatching up the carving knife, he jabbed it towards Bengston's face, its point stopping to rest on his right cheek.
"Do you want me to hurt you?" he roared. "I can make you hurt!" Polmus' hand was shaking, and the tip of the knife drew a prick of blood. Terror poured through Bengston, and he began to sob uncontrollably. Polmus was instantly contrite, putting down the knife and grabbing a napkin.
"Oh Bengston, I'm sorry." He dabbed at the other's eyes and cheek, then gently patted his head. "There, there, it's all right, I didn't mean it. I never wanted to cause you any pain. Shh, shush, it's all right." He pulled away the pillow and stroked Bengston's hair for several minutes until the tears stopped, and his guest's breathing had quieted.
"There now. You feel better?" Polmus pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and casually wiped his face, then straightened up and adjusted his jacket, surveying the spattered table. "Oops!" He reached quickly and pulled the fork out of the oil, glumly looking at the burnt remains.
"Well, that seems to be enough of this." He lifted the pot off the flame and briskly carried it out of the room.
Bengston sniffled and lay still, listening as pans began to clang in the other room. He wondered how much longer he could endure this, watching the doctor nibble on bits from the carcass (just a carcass!) as if sampling cheese. He groaned, telling himself that it couldn't be possible, could not possibly be . . .
"What's that?" asked Polmus, bustling into the room with his arms full. He was in good cheer as he set down a bowl and a pan near the open flame. "Talking to yourself, eh? A bit of self-therapy is good at times." He rolled several eggs out of the bowl, then expertly cracked them back into it. Adding a dab of cream, he whipped them briskly together, then set the bowl down with a flourish.
"There, that's about ready." He walked to the end of the table and out of Bengston's sight, then came the clink of glass upon metal for the second time that evening. Bengston gasped at the sound, then again as Polmus' head loomed upside down over his.
"I told you I would never hurt you Bengston, and I meant it." Bengston briefly glimpsed the hypodermic needle as the doctor swiftly anesthetized the top of his head. The lines of the ceiling began to soften and merge as the hairlike footsteps of a thousand spiders crawled down the sides of his face. His sight blurred, and a howl of unvented panic rose inside his skull. His tongue felt bloated and gummy, slowly throbbing with a life of its own, and now something was tugging on the skin above his eyebrows.
Polmus was moving behind him, he noted absently, chattering about something or other. A screaming whine filled his ears, changing quickly to an echoing roar as he caught the smell of burning hair. He wondered if he was finally going into shock. Then a black stringy bowl was wetly set into the tray next to his eyes and Polmus moved into view again, his words snapping back into clarity.
"Well, Bengston, you're still with us I see," he chuckled. Setting the pan on the flame, he added a chunk of butter and waited until it sizzled, then poured in the eggs. He stirred the mixture with a fork and sprinkled a bit of cheese on top, all the while humming a tune. Bengston thought he recognized it, a nursery rhyme? In a haze he drifted back with the tune, lost children's voices adding distant echoes to the song. He smiled inwardly as a forgotten memory floated near the surface, faces and smiles calling to him as if from down a long tunnel. Then a bright flash brought him back and he was looking into Polmus' face, twin fires writhing in the sockets under the dark twisting smoke of his eyebrows.
Polmus grinned broadly in triumph. "Now then, time to rid you of your fears once and for all." (Carcass! Only a carcass!) He picked up a large wooden spoon and moved back out of sight behind Bengston.
"Oh, not again with the wailing! Would you stop? This is the one part of you that doesn't even need any anesthetic. There, that's better."
Polmus moved back to the pan and quickly stirred the spoon into the eggs. The sizzle echoed hollowly in the now quiet room. He lowered the flame to a simmer, then glanced at the carcass lying on the table. "Mother really should have known better," he mused, gently swirling the spoon. "I always was mad about brains."
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