Backteria and Other Improbable Tales (17 page)

“On top of that, you’re a loser at your job. You let that moron boss of yours kick you around like a ball. You scrape to him and let him treat you like a piece of dog shit.
Dog shit
, Davie! Don’t bother to deny! You know it’s true! You’re a loser in every department of life and you
know
it!”

Millman felt as though paralysis had gripped him, body and mind.

“
Can you deny a single word I’ve spoken?
” his father’s voice challenged.

Millman sobbed. “Pop,” he murmured pleadingly.

“Don’t Pop me, you goddamn loser!” his father’s voice lashed back. “I’m ashamed to call you my son! Thank God I’m dead and don’t have to see you getting kicked around day after day!”

Millman cried out, agonized. “Pop,
don’t
!”

Dr. Palmer rose from his chair and walked to the window. He had never done that before and Millman watched him uneasily, dabbing at his reddened eyes with a tear-clotted handkerchief. The therapist stood with his back to Millman, looking out at the street.

After a while, he returned to his chair and sat down with a tired grunt. He gazed at Millman silently. What kind of gaze was it? Millman wondered. Compassionate?

Or fed up?

“I don’t do this ordinarily,” Dr. Palmer began. “You know my method: to let you find the answers yourself. However—”

He exhaled heavily and clasped his hands beneath his chin. “I feel as though I simply can’t allow this to proceed the way it’s going,” he continued. “I have to say something to you. I have to say—” he winced “
—enough
, David.”

Millman stared at the therapist.

“I do not believe—any more than I believe it was a secret government project or an isolated inventor—that your father is communicating with you from beyond the grave. I believe, as I have from the start, that your subconscious mind has, somehow, found a way to speak to you
audibly
. Trying to establish some kind of resolution to your mental problems.”

“But it’s
his voice
,” Millman insisted.

“David,” Dr. Palmer’s voice was firm now. “You believed it was the voice of Secret Agent 25409-J. You then believed, albeit briefly, that it was the voice of some inventor. Can’t you see that this subconscious voice of yours
can make itself sound like anyone it chooses?
”

David felt helpless. He knew he couldn’t bear any more of the abuse his father’s voice had heaped on him. At the same time, he felt sick about the possibility of losing touch with his father.

“What should I do?” he asked in a feeble voice.

“
Confront it
,” Dr. Palmer urged. “Stop just listening and suffering and
talk back
. Start
retaliating
. Demand answers; explanations. Speak
up
for yourself. It’s
your
subconscious, David. Hear it out but don’t permit it to harass you mercilessly.
Take control
.”

Millman felt exhausted. “If only I could sleep,” he murmured.

“That I can give you something for,” the therapist said.

He couldn’t confront the voice that night. He did as Dr. Palmer prescribed and took two capsules, sleeping deeply and without remembrance. If the telephone rang in his head, he didn’t hear it.

It relaxed him enough to enjoy a good night’s rest. At work the following day, he even found Mr. Fitch endurable. Once, he almost spoke back to him but managed to repress the impulse. There was no point in losing his job on top of everything else.

During the evening, Millman thought about Elaine and the boys.

Had the voice—whoever it belonged to—spoken the truth?
Was
Elaine a bitch who’d poisoned the minds of his sons against him? Was that why their behavior, when they saw him, was so remote? He’d told himself it was because they got together so infrequently; that he was virtually a stranger to them.

What if it was more than that?

It
was
true that the divorce settlement had left him very little. Still, it had been
his
choice. He didn’t have to give her so much.

Thinking of it all made Millman tense and edgy, ready to confront the voice.

At three a.m., when the ringing in his head began, he grabbed the unseen handset and yanked it to his head. “I’m here,” he said.

“
Are
you, Davie?” his father’s voice responded scornfully.

“You can cut it out now,” Millman answered.

“Cut what out, little boy?” his father’s voice inquired mockingly.

Millman braced himself. It took all the will he had to resist that voice which had intimidated him throughout his childhood and adolescence.

“You’re not my father,” he said.

Silence.

Then his father’s voice said, “I’m not?”

“No, you’re not,” Millman said, trying to keep his voice strong.

“Who
am
I then?” his father’s voice asked. “The King of Siam?”

Millman shuddered with uncertain anger. “
I don’t know
,” he admitted. “I only know you’re not my father.”

“You’re a stupid boy,” his father’s voice responded. “You’ve always been a stupid boy.”

“I defy you!” Millman cut him off. “
You’re not my father
!”

“Who
am
I then?” the voice demanded.

“Me!” cried Millman. “My subconscious mind!”

“Your
subconscious mind
?” The voice broke into sudden laughter; totally insane, the laughter of a maniac.

“Stop it,” Millman said.

The laughing continued, uncontrolled, deranged. Millman visualized a face behind it—white and twisted, staring, wild-eyed.

“
Stop
it,” he ordered.

The laughter rose in pitch and volume. It began to echo in his head.

He had to mentally slam down the handset three times before the laughter cut off.

His hands almost vibrating they shook so badly, he washed down a pair of capsules.

When the telephone began to ring inside his head again, he tried to ignore it, waiting tensely for the drug to lower him into a heavy, deafened sleep.

The tiny, black-haired woman opened the door to her apartment and looked at Millman questioningly. She didn’t look as old as he knew her to be.

“I spoke to you on the telephone this afternoon,” he said. “I’m Myra Millman’s son.”

“Ah, yes.” Mrs. Danning’s false teeth showed in a smile as she stepped back to admit him.

There was a smell of burning incense in the dimly lit living room. Millman noticed crosses and religious paintings on the walls while he moved to the chair the tiny woman pointed at. He sat down, hoping that he wasn’t making a mistake. Momentarily, he imagined Dr. Palmer’s reaction to this. The idea made his throat feel dry.

Mrs. Danning perched on a chair across from him and asked him to repeat his story.

Millman told her everything from its beginning to the manic laughter. Mrs. Danning nodded when he spoke about the laughter. “That may well provide the clue,” she declared. He wondered what she meant by that.

He watched in anxious silence as she closed her eyes and began to draw in deep, laboring breaths, both hands on her lap, palms facing upward.

Several minutes later, her features hardened with a look of disdain. “So,” she said. “Now you see a psychic.” Mrs. Danning bared her teeth so much that Millman saw her pale gums. “You just won’t listen, will you?” she said. “You have to keep investigating.
Asshole
!”

Millman twitched on his chair, eyes fixed on the psychic. She had begun to rock back and forth, a humming in her throat. “Oh, yes,” she said after a while. “Oh, yes.” She repeated the words so many times that Millman lost count of them.

After ten minutes, she opened her eyes and looked at Millman. He began to speak but she raised her right hand to prevent it. He waited as she picked up a glass of water from the table beside her chair and gulped down every drop of it. She sighed.

“I think we have it now,” she said.

“For God’s sake, David!” Dr. Palmer cried. Millman had never heard such disapproval in the therapist’s voice.

“I wasn’t going to come back,” he said defensively. “Wasn’t going to tell you. But I thought you might be sympathetic.”

“To what this woman told you?” Dr. Palmer asked, appalled. “That you’re being possessed by some—some—?” He gestured angrily.

“
Earthbound spirit
,” Millman said, willfully. “A disincarnate soul held prisoner by the magnetism of the living, doing everything he can to—”

“David, David.” Dr. Palmer looked exasperated and despairing at the same time. “We’re losing ground. Every time we get together, we seem to fall back a little more.”

“
The spirit is not at peace
.” Millman’s voice was stubbornly insistent. “It wants to experience life again. So it invades my mind—”

“David —!” the therapist cut him off. “
Please
!”

Millman pushed up from his chair. “Oh, what’s the use?” he muttered.

“Sit down,” Dr. Palmer told him. Millman stood before the chair, unable to decide.

“Please sit down,” the therapist requested quietly.

Millman didn’t move at first. Then he sat back down, a look of sullen accusation on his face. “I don’t think you appreciate—” he began.

“I appreciate that you are going through one hell of an ordeal,” Dr. Palmer broke in.

“But you don’t believe a word I’ve said.”

“David, use your head,” the therapist replied. “
Did you really think I would?
”

Millman blew out tired breath.

“I suppose not,” he conceded.

He had never in his life felt so divided in his mind—so torn between desire and dread.

On the one hand, he wanted the telephone to ring in his head so he could resolve this madness.

On the other hand, he was terror-stricken by what might happen if he answered it.

Easy enough for Palmer to repeat his conviction that it was his subconscious mind.

What if he was wrong?

Millman was thinking that for what might well have been the hundredth time when the telephone began to ring in his head.

He drew in a long, slow, chest-expanding breath of air, then let it out until his lungs felt empty. All right, he told himself.

The time had come.

He saw the handset in his mind. Saw his left hand pick it up. Almost felt the earpiece press against his head. “
Yes
,” he said aloud.

“This is your father,” the voice replied.

Millman answered, “No.”

“What did you say?” The image of his father’s face appeared in Millman’s mind: thin-lipped, critical.

“
You’re not my father
,” he said.

“Who am I then?”

“
I don’t know
,” Millman answered desolately. “I just know you’re not my father.” Amazingly, he
did
know it now.

“You’re right,” the man’s voice told him.

Millman started.
Was this the beginning of some new ploy
? he wondered. “Who
are
you then?” he demanded.

“This is a secret government project and I’m Agent 25409-J—” the man’s voice started.

“Stop it,” Millman said through clenched teeth. “Don’t start that again. I won’t have it.”

“I’m an inventor,” said the voice. “I’ve created a device that—”

“
Stop
it,” Millman cut him off.

“Right,” the man’s voice said. “This is your father.”

“
Stop
it, damn it!” Millman cried.

“Correct,” the man’s voice said. “I’m an earthbound spirit possessing you.”

“God damn it, that’s enough!” Millman shouted. He felt his heartbeat pound.

“
Right
,” the man’s voice said. “This is Krol. I’m speaking to you from the planet Mars.”

“I’m hanging up,” Millman said.

He imagined doing it.

“You can’t hang up,” the voice informed him. “It’s too late for that.”

Millman stiffened. “Yes, I can,” he said. He tried again to put the handset down.

“I’m
telling
you,” the voice said coldly. “You can’t
do
it anymore.”

Millman made a frightened sound and tried again.

“You
should
be frightened,” said the voice.

“I’m going to kill you now.”

Millman’s body spasmed with a shudder. He slammed the handset down on its invisible cradle.

“I’m going to kill you now,” the voice repeated.

“Get away from me,” said Millman.

“Not so.” The man’s voice was one of cruel amusement. “You’re mine now, little porker. Don’t you know who this really is?”

“
Get away from me
,” Millman’s voice was trembling now.

“All right, I’ll tell you who I am,” the man’s voice said. “I have many names. One of them is Prince of Liars. Isn’t that a gas?”

Millman shook his head, teeth gritted hard. Again and again, he slammed down the unseen handset.

“You’re wasting time, little porker,” said the man’s voice. “I’m in charge now. Want to hear some other names? Lord of Vermin. Prince of Sinners. Serpent. Goat. Old Nick. Old
Davy
! Isn’t
that
a gas?!”

“Get away from me!” cried Millman. “I won’t listen to you anymore!”

“Yes you will!” the voice cried back. “You’re mine now and I’m going to kill you!” The maniacal laughter began again.

Millman reached for the vial of capsules.

“That won’t do you any good,” the man’s voice told him gleefully. “You can’t escape me now.”

Millman didn’t try to answer. Shaking uncontrollably, he picked the cap off, shaking two capsules onto his palm.

“
Two?
” the man’s voice asked. “Not half enough, old man. You’ll never get away from me. You’re mine, I’m going to kill you dead.”

The laughter started in again, booming in some cavern in his mind.

Millman washed a pair of capsules down his throat, water spilling across his chin.

“Not half enough!” the man’s voice cried, exultantly. He continued laughing with demented joy.

Millman pressed another capsule in his mouth, another, washed them down.

“
Not half enough
!” the man’s voice yelled at him. “
You’ve let me in too long
!”