White Rabbit Chapter 34

34.

Fifteen…on the Downeaster.

Delores woke up at an Amtrak station just inside of Maine. She wasn’t lucid for the other stops: Woburn, Haverhill, Durham, Exeter, Dover, though she could hear them called. This was Wells. Portland was two stops away yet, not very far at all. The train glided to a smooth halt and the blurs of trees, buildings, people, and lights slowly began to form actual shapes and objects. She had been awake but unable to move for a little while from the paralysis of the seizure. Her head was against the window and everyone that passed who cared to look her way assumed she was only sleeping. An older man thought of sitting by her and talking to her but he passed. She reminded him of someone. Her pheromones made him go bananas. She wiped the drool from her face and lifted her head like a gopher from a hole. Her neck ached. The man who knew she was having a seizure who had been sitting across the aisle from her left a newspaper on his empty seat. He departed in Dover. Delores picked it up and skimmed through the articles thinking maybe she would read that Alex De Wolfe was involved in some horrible accident last night excusing his abrupt departure. No such luck. The words were in and out of focus but then held to form and her eyes reconfigured the symbols. Her mind rebooted.

Her eyeballs spotted an article on Claude Van Wert. A popular news anchor from one of the networks had interviewed two of his rape victims a few days ago. They gave new insight into Claude and his werewolfism. Apparently, unlike Alex, or a any true werewolf, he never turned completely from man to wolf. Rather, he was a sort of Larry Talbot werewolf. The article made it seem like the rape victims were Twilight crazed young women who in their heightened sense of shock, fright, or panic, or a little of all three, imagined their attacker to be a supernatural beast. They were advised by women’s groups, law enforcement officials, friends and family, to drop the werewolf description of Van Wert for fear that no one would believe they were raped in the first place. If you are saying you were raped by a werewolf, logically, people are less apt to believe you were raped than had you said you were raped by some scruffy guy. Same logic as in alien abductions and rapes. But it hardly mattered to them at this point, Van Wert was dead, there would be no trial. What did they care if it made sense to anyone? Each of the rape victims had distinct bite marks on their backs and one was pregnant. She was quoted saying that “the world will see I am being honest when I have “a litter of (expletive) puppies.” By “(expletive)” it meant “fucking.” Newspapers don’t say fucking. Delores couldn’t understand why the woman wouldn’t have an abortion. Then she rubbed her stomach thinking…shit!

            The article went on to say that Claude Van Wert was receiving some kind of genetic therapy from the deceased Dr. Borger, whose death was never challenged to be a homicide until it was so in the article. One of the deputies who stood in line to have a peak at the mutilated remains of Dr. Borger was an anonymous “highly credible” source sighted in the article as “The Informant.” The deputy stated that video surveillance shows Claude Van Wert going into the office that Sunday afternoon and leaving shortly thereafter “in apparent and obvious panic.” The deputy also said that Claude “didn’t walk naturally, had a thick unnatural gray beard and hair and stopped to urinate on the bumper of a gold Toyota Corolla.” The deputy stated that he was asked to leave by the CIA…yada…yada…yada…CIA and FBI ruled the death accidental. Family told there was an explosion. Why was the homicide covered up? That’s the 64,000 dollar question. No one who knew Dr. Borger knew him to be injecting random people with animal sperm, or any sperm, for that matter. No one would have believed he was that interesting or lucky. Neighbors said he was quiet as a tit mouse and a senile Rabbi something-or-other said he was a good Jewish boy. No comment from those who would know, of course. Related story from The National Examiner mentioned. Government rounding up werewolves and freaks. Held in a military prison in West Virginia. End of story.

            Delores read the article over and over again. Then she stuffed it in her bag as the train slowed again and the automated voice of some robot woman said, “Next stop, Portland, Maine.”

            Delores put her thoughts on hold and her mother and father pretended to be happy to see her. Or maybe they were but like any buzz it wouldn’t last and in the hangover they would be asking themselves why was it that they had a child and why was it that their child had to grow to be a teenage girl. They smiled like drunks as she stepped off the train. Her mother smiled all the time, mostly fake Avon lady smiles, or as though from involuntary face spasms. Her face mutated with or without humor and sometimes in situations not condusive for such a pleasurable reaction. But it was unusual for her father to smile at all. Delores nicknamed him, Great Stoneface, borrowing the nickname from New Hampshire’s famous Old Man of the Mountain, who wouldn’t miss it being that its face collapsed in May of 2003. Delores looked around as though Alex De Wolfe would be following her invisibly. They walked past an old grimy man with a trucker’s hat that read, Love’em and Leave’em, in puffy yellow letters and Delores started bawling before she even made it to the car. She was a zombie when they went to cut down their Xmas tree and didn’t say much. She was surprised they hadn’t done it yet being that it was only two days before Christmas. They decorated the tree together and she showed slight indications of feelings, Christmas mirth, probably from the inhalation of pine, but not much. It was as though she had a virus that attacked good feelings when they dared to appear. Her mother worried that she was on drugs but her father offered the excuse that she was maturing and was happy that other than a few modest breakdowns she was quiet and steady.

            “Aren’t you afraid something has happened to her?” her mother asked him. Delores listened to them as she sat on the top step of the stairs. They were sitting by the fire listening to old music. Bing Crosby.  

            “Why does something always have to be wrong?” he argued. “Maybe she is dealing with growing up. She seems more mature to me.”

            “She cries wildly, randomly, for no apparent reason and you say she is more mature! There is something wrong, Paul.”

            “Send her back to the shrink. I don’t know I am a banker not a psychologist.”

            “Today she cried when I asked her if she wanted a peanut butter sandwich. It isn’t normal! I think she may be on drugs.”

            “Drugs? Maybe there is a boy...” her father mentioned.

            “I’m sure of it.  And maybe drugs.”

            “Damnit, Jan. She isn’t on drugs!”

            “Denial is more than a river in Egypt! Deny! Deny! Deny! That’s all you do!”

            “No,” her father replied calmly, “I just don’t accuse someone of something based off no facts or evidence.”

            “Her mood is evidence! You would have to be blind not to see it!”

            “She is a teenage girl, Jan. Do you remember being a teenager?”

            “What’s that supposed to mean? Another snide remark about my age?”

            “You know what I meant.”

            “No, I don’t!”

            “Well, go upstairs and tell her we want to drug test her then. Have her pee in a cup and send it to the best lab in the country that will give you the results that will satisfy you. Then have her committed. Send her to the juvenile detention place in Colorado. Do whatever you like. But leave me out of it.”

            “Of course! That’s the problem. You’re always wanting to be left out of it! Did you do anything about the thing?” By “thing” she meant “dildo.” Catholics don’t say dildo. “She dealt drugs at school to buy it.”

            “She sold her Adderall, Jan. The junk you give her!”

“Don’t minimize!”

“Don’t blow things terribly out of proportion.”

“Well, did you say anything about the thing to her?”

“Seemed more like a female issue,” her father replied uncomfortably. “If she were a boy, I would have my responsibilities. As it is, you have yours.”

            “What are you saying?! You mean because she is a girl I am responsible for her upbringing? Unbelievable!”

            “You are responsible for the discussion of…things.”

            “Things?” her mother was getting worked up.

            Delores didn’t want to listen to anymore. She walked to her room and quietly closed the door leaving the light off. A monkey nightlight was plugged into the wall. She had taken it out long ago but her mother reinstated it while she was gone. Her stuffed animals were back on the bed even though she had put them in a garbage bag when she was thirteen. Her room was a time capsule. Even her bedding reverted back to when she was ten. Pink sheets and pillow cases. And a pink quilt with happy snowmen, reindeer, and snowflakes all over the place. The snowflakes were all the same and the snowmen and reindeer repeated in hopeless patterns. Delores sat at her window and looked outside into the lonely cold darkness. It wasn’t snowing but snow blanketed the ground, typical of a Maine December where snow comes and stays with the feel of an occupation. By February it will be old news. She looked out her window on Christmas Eve. She thought of the Santa Claus in Barney’s her and Whitney had seen a few weeks ago. They were goofing around and waited to sit on his lap trying to keep straight faces. Delores told Whitney to bounce on his lap and Whitney told Delores to stop being a perv. They each got on. Whitney first. Santa acted as though he was impervious to their appeal as though they were still children but they were not. They were somewhere between children and adults in those rotting years. Whitney laughed and Delores snapped a photo.

            “What would you like for Christmas young lady?” Santa asked playing it cool. Whitney whispered in his ear. Delores smiled but all she said that she wanted was an IPhone. Hers was stolen. Santa smiled and said he would see what he could do. Delores walked past her en route for her turn on his lap. “Whadya ask him for?” she asked Whitney quickly. Whitney only smiled pretending to be on the naughty list. She sashayed along and waited for Delores behind a long line of children. Mothers shook their heads at the two teenage girls and a few assistants who were dressed like corny elves (one being six feet tall), gave the girls disparaging looks. Delores wanted to make Whitney blush so she bounced up and down in Santa’s lap like an excited little kid. Surely, he felt every thump. Whitney was practically rolling on the floor. When Santa asked her what she wanted she looked at him bizarrely. She hadn’t thought of it. But then it occurred to her. “Real love,” she whispered wistfully.  Santa smiled and shook his head.

            “Join the club.” he said. Mrs. Claus left him for a car salesman.

            Delores smiled thinking of the memory. She smiled deviously and told Whitney as they walked away that she asked to be fucked and Whitney nearly choked on her own saliva. Whitney admitted to asking for an IPhone and Delores punched her in the arm for chickening out. The scene replayed on the back of her eyelids as she lied in bed. She couldn’t hear her parents arguing anymore. She threw a remote control at the monkey nightlight but missed and the batteries fell out of the back and rolled across the room on her wood floor. The monkey smiled at her. She lied there on top of little reindeer, jolly snowmen and conformist snowflakes and breathed in and out. Tomorrow morning was Christmas and Catholic Church. She wondered about Christ. She hummed Away in the Manger. She wouldn’t argue with anyone this year about when he was actually born and about the pagan roots of Christmas, nor would she educate those who say Xmas is the effort of agnostics or Jews to take Christ out of Christmas of the truth, in Greek. Pointless. Let them have this, she decided. She would be the conformist snowflake. She opened her legs a little and waited for the invisible man to come but knowing he wouldn’t, she crossed them bitterly. Then she opened them for her hand but she wasn’t in the mood to pleasure herself. Her bed was surrounded by teddy bears and stuffed forest animals including a league of unicorns. She once passionately believed in the magic of unicorns and the religion of Toy Story. When she was young and fearful of night monsters she arranged defenses of stuffed animals around her bed with the planning and cunning of Napoleon.    

            Sleep.