not an uncommon symptom for a man with your condition. I once had a female patient tell me my watch was as big as a carriage wheel. Could you hold this watch in your hand?’
‘It’s a perfectly normal-sized watch,’ B.J. lied. Really he had never seen a watch so huge. It was a pumpkin of silver and glass, and the doctor’s hand trembled under its weight. ‘I know that horses are bigger than penises. I was abstracting. Maybe these horses are the closest thing to a penis these women can get.’
‘ I don’t want a penis as big as a horse. Do you want a penis as big as a horse? Is this why you think Belle Starr wants a penis as big as a horse?’
‘She doesn’t,’ said B.J. ‘She just wants a penis, and a horse is the closest she can come.’
Dr Carr put away his watch. ‘A pen is closer to a penis than a horse,’ he said. ‘The root word is even the same. A knife is a lot closer. Do you think Belle Starr has no access to a pen or a knife?’
B.J. sat back on his heels and stared into space for a few minutes. ‘I guess it was crazy,’ he concluded. ‘Now that I think about it more. You’re right, of course. It’s ludicrous.’ He shook his head cheerfully. ‘That’s why you’re on that side of the desk and I’m on this one.’
‘You’re just overexcited.’ Dr Carr’s voice was soothing. ‘Your progress has been excellent. You mustn’t expect the treatment to be a straight road. Bound to be some twists. Let me finish the fire here. I want you to go back to your room and lie down for a little while. Will you do that, B.J.?’
‘All right,’ said B.J. He stood and brushed off the bits of bark and dirt that clung to his clothes. There was a dark ink smear on Dr Carr’s notebook where the pen tip had run when he stopped writing. B.J. could see it clearly from where he stood. ‘You’ve spoiled your page,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
Dr Carr looked down. ‘Well, I’ll be,’ he said. His voice carried a message of surprise and pleasure. ‘It looks just like two frogs coupling, doesn’t it? See, here’s the male . . .’
‘It looks like a puddle,’ said B.J. ‘Like a rain puddle.’ He looked at the blot again. ‘Only smaller,’ he added and then shut the office door carefully behind him and moved through the dark hallways to the male part of the asylum.
He had to pass through the female section on his way - not directly through, of course, but through the corridor around it. Someone was howling inside. The introduction of a new patient always threw the ward into chaos. He stood at the door and listened for a moment. The howling was guttural; it was the woman from Germany. She was in love with him; B.J. knew this, much as his natural modesty coaxed him to demur. She watched him all the way through breakfast, trying to mesmerize him with her eyes. Snake eyes. Sometimes he could hardly eat. And sometimes she invited him to her room, where she claimed to have two dead fleas dressed as a bride and a groom, laid out in an old jewelry box. She had made their clothes herself, she said, and caught the fleas herself as well. Killing a flea without crushing its body was not an easy thing to do. She had finally starved them in a stoppered medicine bottle, a project which had taken a surprising number of months. And the tiny veil had taken hours to attach. Almost a year of work was represented. B.J. would have liked to see these fleas. If only it hadn’t been wedding clothes. If she had dressed the fleas for the opera, perhaps. Or in ceremonial Indian dress.
The floorboards in the corridor tipped suddenly upward, forcing B.J. to walk uphill or wait until they tipped back. It was either part of his condition, landscape distortion, or it was another earthquake. Both were too common to alarm him. He waited for the floor to flatten.
A woman in black, a woman he had never seen before, curled out of the doorway, soundlessly, like smoke. Diastema of the
‘It’s a perfectly normal-sized watch,’ B.J. lied. Really he had never seen a watch so huge. It was a pumpkin of silver and glass, and the doctor’s hand trembled under its weight. ‘I know that horses are bigger than penises. I was abstracting. Maybe these horses are the closest thing to a penis these women can get.’
‘ I don’t want a penis as big as a horse. Do you want a penis as big as a horse? Is this why you think Belle Starr wants a penis as big as a horse?’
‘She doesn’t,’ said B.J. ‘She just wants a penis, and a horse is the closest she can come.’
Dr Carr put away his watch. ‘A pen is closer to a penis than a horse,’ he said. ‘The root word is even the same. A knife is a lot closer. Do you think Belle Starr has no access to a pen or a knife?’
B.J. sat back on his heels and stared into space for a few minutes. ‘I guess it was crazy,’ he concluded. ‘Now that I think about it more. You’re right, of course. It’s ludicrous.’ He shook his head cheerfully. ‘That’s why you’re on that side of the desk and I’m on this one.’
‘You’re just overexcited.’ Dr Carr’s voice was soothing. ‘Your progress has been excellent. You mustn’t expect the treatment to be a straight road. Bound to be some twists. Let me finish the fire here. I want you to go back to your room and lie down for a little while. Will you do that, B.J.?’
‘All right,’ said B.J. He stood and brushed off the bits of bark and dirt that clung to his clothes. There was a dark ink smear on Dr Carr’s notebook where the pen tip had run when he stopped writing. B.J. could see it clearly from where he stood. ‘You’ve spoiled your page,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
Dr Carr looked down. ‘Well, I’ll be,’ he said. His voice carried a message of surprise and pleasure. ‘It looks just like two frogs coupling, doesn’t it? See, here’s the male . . .’
‘It looks like a puddle,’ said B.J. ‘Like a rain puddle.’ He looked at the blot again. ‘Only smaller,’ he added and then shut the office door carefully behind him and moved through the dark hallways to the male part of the asylum.
He had to pass through the female section on his way - not directly through, of course, but through the corridor around it. Someone was howling inside. The introduction of a new patient always threw the ward into chaos. He stood at the door and listened for a moment. The howling was guttural; it was the woman from Germany. She was in love with him; B.J. knew this, much as his natural modesty coaxed him to demur. She watched him all the way through breakfast, trying to mesmerize him with her eyes. Snake eyes. Sometimes he could hardly eat. And sometimes she invited him to her room, where she claimed to have two dead fleas dressed as a bride and a groom, laid out in an old jewelry box. She had made their clothes herself, she said, and caught the fleas herself as well. Killing a flea without crushing its body was not an easy thing to do. She had finally starved them in a stoppered medicine bottle, a project which had taken a surprising number of months. And the tiny veil had taken hours to attach. Almost a year of work was represented. B.J. would have liked to see these fleas. If only it hadn’t been wedding clothes. If she had dressed the fleas for the opera, perhaps. Or in ceremonial Indian dress.
The floorboards in the corridor tipped suddenly upward, forcing B.J. to walk uphill or wait until they tipped back. It was either part of his condition, landscape distortion, or it was another earthquake. Both were too common to alarm him. He waited for the floor to flatten.
A woman in black, a woman he had never seen before, curled out of the doorway, soundlessly, like smoke. Diastema of the
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