Read Online Dear Digby by Carol Muske-Dukes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol Muske-Dukes
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SIS.”
I stepped out into the garish light of Reception.
“Hello, Iris?” I put out my hand blindly. My hand closed over hard plastic, a ridged set of fingers. I flinched and jumped back, but the rigid plastic fingers held my hand in a crushing grip—I felt myself being pulled forward slowly by that pressure, and I looked straight into her eyes. She looked like an egg, a darning egg filled with sawdust; she looked stitched together. The hand she gripped mine with was a flesh-colored prosthetic device: five fingers, a hand, a forearm. She was wearing a sort of baggy tunic with elbow-length sleeves, into which the false arm vanished. Her forehead was x’ed with crisscrossed stitches, scars, and her eyes stared out from under shaggy unplucked brows from two different levels: a Picasso face, a Cubist Baseball. Her skin had the texture (and in places, the color) of a strawberry; the nose was broken and rebroken, the mouth a jagged tear, a ripped tin can lid. Her hair was a machine-made, marble-cake Afro, a Supreme’s wig hat.
“Willis Digby?” she hissed through her sheared labial flap. “Willis Jane Digby?” She had pulled me so close to her that I could feel her breath on my face—it was oddly sweet, babylike, milk-breath. One of the eyes jumped and popped nearly out of its socket, gazing sideways at me.
“I am Iris Moss. Iris Luckley Moss.”
The prosthetic fingers were digging into my flesh. I couldn’t breathe or speak.
“Nerf,” I gasped.
“What?” She poked one eye very close. “What did you say?”
“Nervous, I’m a bit ner-vous about meeting you finally.” I pulled my face back from hers—we were locked in a frozen minuet—she pulling me toward her, my entire body retracting, drawing back.
At last she released my hand, which dropped to my side, bloodless. I put the other hand against the wall to steady myself. This was it—here before me was Horror, Inc. She was a real, breathing, conversing monster. A monster. I saw my corpse laid out on the shag carpet at my feet, huge claw marks across my face.
“Minnie,” I called hoarsely, realizing even as I called that it was barely a croak and that Minnie, engrossed in the phones, was cheerfully sightless. “Minnie—” I tried again, but what issued from my throat was that sound we all make, midnightmare, somewhere between a growl and a silent scream.
From the folds of her tunic, beneath which I could see a tropical shirt with interlocking banjos and palm trees and “Laupahoehoe, Hawaii” in wavy script, she brought forth (with a pinch of the prosthetic fingers) a pair of extra-large-size elastic-band women’s underpants. They were patterned with large blue roses.
“See these?”
“Uhhhh-yeah. Those are … ah … underpants.”
“Yes, underpants.” The pop-eyes swiveled about the room and found a half-lit corner.
“Sit down over there. Sit,” she repeated, and pushed me into the wings with the false arm.
I dropped down on the couch like a P.O.W., cringing and grinning hysterically.
She sat down, pushed her face close again.
“Willis Digby … these are my underpants here, a pair of my underpants. And do you know what they’re stained with?” She shook the underpants up and down.
“Eeeep.”
“Eeeep?”
“No. No. Agh … seminal fluid?”
“That’s right! That’s correct, Willis Digby! These underpants, my private things, are stained with seminal fluid. Now. Do you know what this is?”
“Heeerp-o-dermic needle?”
“Yes. This is a hypodermic needle. Do you know what a needle like this is used for?”
I gasped.
“What?”
“Uh—a syringe? To introduce medication intravenously? For pain or sleep?” I tried to look stern, medical. Maybe if I reminded her of a nurse she’d become docile, passive. What was that huge needle for? I shuddered.
She nodded cautiously. “Yes. Sleep medication. Basil Schrantz did it. He introduced sleep medication into me every night and then used me for his unspeakable,
I stepped out into the garish light of Reception.
“Hello, Iris?” I put out my hand blindly. My hand closed over hard plastic, a ridged set of fingers. I flinched and jumped back, but the rigid plastic fingers held my hand in a crushing grip—I felt myself being pulled forward slowly by that pressure, and I looked straight into her eyes. She looked like an egg, a darning egg filled with sawdust; she looked stitched together. The hand she gripped mine with was a flesh-colored prosthetic device: five fingers, a hand, a forearm. She was wearing a sort of baggy tunic with elbow-length sleeves, into which the false arm vanished. Her forehead was x’ed with crisscrossed stitches, scars, and her eyes stared out from under shaggy unplucked brows from two different levels: a Picasso face, a Cubist Baseball. Her skin had the texture (and in places, the color) of a strawberry; the nose was broken and rebroken, the mouth a jagged tear, a ripped tin can lid. Her hair was a machine-made, marble-cake Afro, a Supreme’s wig hat.
“Willis Digby?” she hissed through her sheared labial flap. “Willis Jane Digby?” She had pulled me so close to her that I could feel her breath on my face—it was oddly sweet, babylike, milk-breath. One of the eyes jumped and popped nearly out of its socket, gazing sideways at me.
“I am Iris Moss. Iris Luckley Moss.”
The prosthetic fingers were digging into my flesh. I couldn’t breathe or speak.
“Nerf,” I gasped.
“What?” She poked one eye very close. “What did you say?”
“Nervous, I’m a bit ner-vous about meeting you finally.” I pulled my face back from hers—we were locked in a frozen minuet—she pulling me toward her, my entire body retracting, drawing back.
At last she released my hand, which dropped to my side, bloodless. I put the other hand against the wall to steady myself. This was it—here before me was Horror, Inc. She was a real, breathing, conversing monster. A monster. I saw my corpse laid out on the shag carpet at my feet, huge claw marks across my face.
“Minnie,” I called hoarsely, realizing even as I called that it was barely a croak and that Minnie, engrossed in the phones, was cheerfully sightless. “Minnie—” I tried again, but what issued from my throat was that sound we all make, midnightmare, somewhere between a growl and a silent scream.
From the folds of her tunic, beneath which I could see a tropical shirt with interlocking banjos and palm trees and “Laupahoehoe, Hawaii” in wavy script, she brought forth (with a pinch of the prosthetic fingers) a pair of extra-large-size elastic-band women’s underpants. They were patterned with large blue roses.
“See these?”
“Uhhhh-yeah. Those are … ah … underpants.”
“Yes, underpants.” The pop-eyes swiveled about the room and found a half-lit corner.
“Sit down over there. Sit,” she repeated, and pushed me into the wings with the false arm.
I dropped down on the couch like a P.O.W., cringing and grinning hysterically.
She sat down, pushed her face close again.
“Willis Digby … these are my underpants here, a pair of my underpants. And do you know what they’re stained with?” She shook the underpants up and down.
“Eeeep.”
“Eeeep?”
“No. No. Agh … seminal fluid?”
“That’s right! That’s correct, Willis Digby! These underpants, my private things, are stained with seminal fluid. Now. Do you know what this is?”
“Heeerp-o-dermic needle?”
“Yes. This is a hypodermic needle. Do you know what a needle like this is used for?”
I gasped.
“What?”
“Uh—a syringe? To introduce medication intravenously? For pain or sleep?” I tried to look stern, medical. Maybe if I reminded her of a nurse she’d become docile, passive. What was that huge needle for? I shuddered.
She nodded cautiously. “Yes. Sleep medication. Basil Schrantz did it. He introduced sleep medication into me every night and then used me for his unspeakable,
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