Miss Entropia and the Adam Bomb Read online

  Miss Entropia and the Adam Bomb

  Also by George Rabasa

  The Wonder Singer

  The Cleansing

  Floating Kingdom

  Glass Houses, Stories

  Miss Entropia and the Adam Bomb

  GEORGE RABASA

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Unbridled Books

  Copyright © 2011 George Rabasa

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rabasa, George.

  Miss Entropia and the Adam bomb / by George Rabasa.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-60953-035-8

  1. Mentally ill—Fiction. 2. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PS3568.A213M57 2011

  813’.54—dc22

  2010040583

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Book Design by Claire Vaccaro

  First Printing

  For Juanita

  Miss Entropia and the Adam Bomb

  INSTITUTE LOISEAUX

  REALIZING THE WHOLE CHILD

  Woodington, MN 55414

  520-645-9875

  [email protected]

  From the office of

  RICHARD GUNDERSON, MD

  It has been a dozen years since I last saw Adam Webb. He was then under my care while enrolled in the counseling/college-prep program at Institute Loiseaux, where I am now Director of Counseling Services. Adam entered the Institute at age 13 and in the following four years earned his high school diploma with exemplary grades. He also made remarkable progress in his social readjustment from a moderate personality dysfunction. In the years since Adam left our Institute to rejoin his family and, we hoped, to continue his studies at a first-rank college, I have thought of him often and, in fact, counted his stay here as one of the more persuasive case profiles in the history of this institute.

  So it was with great interest that I received from the police department of Two Harbors, Minnesota, which was investigating the circumstances of Adam Webb’s untimely death, an e-mail with an attached file containing the document that follows. I couldn’t wait to examine Adam’s account, which serves as a definitive patient follow-up.

  I read Adam’s words with a mixture of scientific interest, frank amusement, and, yes, horror at the unfortunate unfolding of events. After all, this was one of our most creative, intelligent, reflective clients, and his narrative engages even the most casual reader with its vivid storytelling, sharp psychological analysis, and emotional insights.

  In truth, I am no literary critic, so I forwarded the document to my colleague Dr. Bart Roberts of our English department, who was one of Adam’s teachers during his senior year. I am happy to report that my taste has been validated. Dr. Roberts agrees with me regarding the literary merits of Adam’s effort. He has suggested some minor editing and the division of the narrative into chapters and principal sections, but otherwise, Adam’s words are left to speak in their full candor. It is particularly sad that this emerging talent will not flower to its potential.

  While it’s not my intention to dispute details of the following account, I do wish to correct some exaggerations in Adam’s boasts of “gaming” the system at Institute Loiseaux. Clients do not have the opportunity to barter or sell medications to each other. Prescriptions are closely monitored, and the abuse of psychotropics and painkillers is virtually unheard-of.

  Adam’s description of the “confessional therapy” developed by our dear founder, Dr. Clara Loiseaux, now retired, is oversimplified. In truth, the process is painstakingly methodical, with careful analysis preceding the medication and counseling protocols.

  On a personal note, it was with a mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction that I saw myself portrayed as a character, albeit a minor one, in Adam’s story. I am proud to see that I had a strong influence in Adam’s therapeutic process through his years here, but I do take issue with his creative characterization of me. I could have deleted or amended some of his more fanciful conceits regarding my person, but I have let them stand in the interest of maintaining the purity and integrity of his memoir. Suffice it to say, with no fear of being contradicted by others here at the institute, that I am not generally known as “Auntie Gunilla.” And I rarely wear a cardigan sweater.

  One last caveat: while there may be the temptation to enjoy this story for its prurient thrills, or out of curiosity based on the fleeting notoriety of its author, I hope that the following narrative will elicit compassion for the central figures and give us all time to pause and ponder the fine line that divides balance and harmony from the tipping point into dysfunction.

  Richard Gunderson, MD

  Institute Loiseaux

  Woodington, Minnesota

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Emerging whalelike out of the winter gloom, the white van with Happy Harley at the wheel finally came to a crunching stop on our gravel driveway. I remained seated on the front-door stoop, my blue suitcase between my knees, not letting on that I was aware of the sicko shuttle coming to get me, acting as if I hadn’t been waiting and waiting, hadn’t heard Harley beeping the horn and cheerfully calling my name out the window.

  I had no idea what had delayed Loiseaux’s van. Usually they reacted quickly to a call, always anticipating challenges with the pickup. Clients were all difficult to a degree; some of us, on occasion, downright alarming. From behind me, the flicker of curtains being parted and blind slats lifted indicated that my family impatiently wondered when I would again be removed from their midst. We’d all been waiting.

  By the time I emerged onto the porch my well-traveled suitcase had been placed by the front door by either my brother, Ted, or my father, Albert, I clop-clopped to it in my father’s shoes, squatted unsteadily, and unsnapped the latches. Everything was there—a worn copy of Das Kapital, my collected papers through the ninth grade, a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, and various meds. The only clothes inside were my pajamas. “What a nice gesture! Thanks a zillion.” I shouted, in case Cousin Iris was around to appreciate the irony; she was the one who had first introduced me to the sweet sensations of nude slumber.

  I searched in the pockets of my father’s blue blazer that I was wearing and felt the envelope containing the two-page letter from my parents, a kind of report on this latest home leave, which I was supposed to hand to the attendants. I could read it if I wanted to.

  The air had grown chilly as I waited, the darkening shadows of a November afternoon, the day after Thanksgiving, blocking out the tentative sunshine of earlier in the day. One by one the windows of neighboring houses lit up. After a while the only dark house on the street was my family’s, with all the lights off so as not to give me any ideas about being welcomed back. As if I would willingly return to their stares and smirks. I have my dignity. I imagined them scurrying about in the dark, Father occasionally dialing Loiseaux and asking in a whisper what was keeping the shuttle. Because frankly, there was some urgency here: the client (never “patient”) is not to be trusted within spitting range of certain family members. The problem is not just rudeness, though there is certainly enough of that. The fear is that the client in question might resort to violence. That has not happened before, but there are unresolved anger issues that could, if allowed to boil over, erupt into something of a physical nature. Whoa, there, people! Somebody might think the worst about me, that I might be a potentially fratricidal maniac, interfamilial fornicator, self-made orphan.

  I knew all this without ripping open
Father’s envelope or reading the additional letter my mother had pinned to my shirt for the eyes of Dr. Clara. The truth is, the family was scared of me. Every little nutty act, every eccentricity, every non sequitur in the course of family chitchat was seen as a harbinger of mayhem. If I squashed down the yams during Thanksgiving dinner, who was to say I wouldn’t pummel Brother Tedious on top of his melon head with something blunt and heavy? If I walked around the house naked with an erection, I was deemed capable of doing something carnal to Cousin Iris. Yesterday I flicked my Bic lighter over and over throughout the day while sitting in the den, holding the phone to my ear, pretending to be in deep conversation, all the time going flick flick, until everybody breathed a sigh of relief when the butane ran out. I could go on flicking until my thumb fell off and not generate more than a spark.

  I tried to tell everyone, from Dr. Clara to Mother and Father, that I was not in any way dangerous to others. I played with the lighter until it ran out of gas and saw Father sneaking glances at me. I locked into his gaze. “Don’t worry, Dad, I’m not going to set anything on fire.”

  I had to laugh at the scared look he shot me. Like it had not crossed his mind that I was a pyro, but now that I mentioned it, well, that certainly gave them all something to think about. The truth is that I can’t deny something if I’m not directly asked. Are you homicidal, my child? No, sir. The world suffers from a lack of communication. Instead of asking me outright, Dr. Clara tries to look into my head through a variety of lenses and mirrors. Dreams, inkblots, free association, automatic writing, regressive hypnosis, and better than all, her own invention—the Confessional.

  Dr. Clara, Chief Mistress of the Head Game, does her work in the dark. The patients gather in the parlor with the lights off and the room pitch-black. The slightest sound is magnified. The rustle of our clothes as we shift in our chairs, the bated breath, the whimper, the sigh, all grow into a larger dimension. We take turns confessing, as to a judge, to crimes we have or have not committed. That is the rule: we can admit to something we have actually done, or we can admit to an imagined transgression. What fun.

  Harley got out to load my suitcase in back of the van. He is a big fellow, a true Viking Son of Norway, a former WWF Smackdown star with long, flowing curls and a sculpted physique, known in the ring as the Happy Scandihoovian. After he retired from sweat and sadism, he was hired for his firm ways and cool head, and even now that he is off steroids, it’s best not to get on his bad side. He has been known to subdue a rowdy passenger with the vise grip of his thumb and forefinger on a shoulder deltoid muscle, all the while smiling and murmuring endearments. Now, now, my precious, settle down and enjoy the ride, or tonight Dr. Clara will withhold milk and cookies. Unprovoked, he is a gentle giant.

  “There you are, you little troublefucker.”

  “And a happy Thanksgiving to you,” I muttered.

  He went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “Aren’t you glad to see your old buddy Harley? I drove here quick as I could, on account that your family thinks you’re on the verge of doing something really wacko. Are you going wacko on us again?” Harley came around the front of the van and slid the door open for me. I resisted going in because I didn’t like the backseat being locked from the outside, the passengers strapped in, and a steel-mesh grill caging them in back.

  “Let me ride in front?”

  “I can’t take any chances.”

  “Hey, this is your buddy, Adam.”

  “I was told you were going through an episode.”

  “Who you going to believe, HH? Me or that bizarre family of mine?”

  “Good point. I’ll believe your family. They’re the ones paying the bills.”

  “Well, I’m not sitting in back of your booby wagon.”

  “You going to make me work for my pay? On a holiday, yet? I was hoping we’d have a friendly ride back to the ’Tute.”

  “There’s nothing friendly about getting straitjacketed in back.” I realized my voice was rising into its distinctive quavery trill, so I took a moment to breathe. No point in sounding shrill when you’re trying to get upgraded from dangerous cargo to companionable passenger.

  “Relax. I’ll play music, take the scenic route, listen to your ramblings.”

  “How about I ride shotgun and stay quiet?” I did the zipping-of-the-lips thing and smiled my best ingratiating smile. Watch out for psychos smiling. We’ve got the disarming, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly grin down to a fine art. How else do you think serial killers get their victims to stumble into ditches, check into horrible motels, stroll down dark alleys? I grinned until Happy Harley caved.

  “Okay. But not a peep out of you for the whole trip.”

  Oh, but I wanted to peep. It took every bit of resolve not to wheedle, whine, whimper, and weep. As we rolled down Hyacinth Street, where I’d lived off and on since birth, I felt a prick of sadness that only got sharper as we turned down the meandering road, its skeletal elms lit by the yellow glow of faux-historical streetlamps. You can’t go home again, and again, and again, without on a given night leaving forever. I was blasted right out of my fantasies by the knowledge that this was potentially the final parting. A death of sorts.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but I was about to make the leap from quirky childhood to fully unleashed adolescence. Out on our porch stoop, waiting for the van, I’d felt the breeze of liberation for the first time in the two months I’d been home. They were coming to take me away, and I was exceedingly glad. Yes, good-bye, Mom, good-bye, Dad, good-bye, Iris, good-bye, Ted, I’m off to Institute Loiseaux. Better known as a home for the cleverly complicated. It’s not a place for everybody. The entrance requirements are rigorous. It takes more than being challenged in the conventional ways, reality-warped, emotionally stunted, mentally fevered, attention-deficient. You gotta be cute to get into Loiseaux. No bobbing heads here, no fatties, droolers, spitters, or snifflers. No predators, delinquents, bullies, tweakers, juicers, or tokers allowed, no matter how delightfully odd.

  It does help if you’re an affluent exotic, a mass of psychic knots, a tangle of phobias and compulsions backed by a trust fund. Then even the suicidal and the homicidal are welcome. Hippies and goons, poets and anorexics, twitchers, Touretters, and the vaguely traumatized are all hugged close to Dr. Clara Loiseaux’s pillowy bosom, feeling the warm embrace of the maternal healer, inhaling her distinctive scent of rose petals and licorice.

  The first step is the journey in the ’Tute’s van, with Happy Harley transporting problem children back from family leave to our true home on the shore of Lake Lucinda, a destination for snowy egrets, geese, mallards, hawks, and loons of various stripes. Except that with winter upon us, I had six months of white tundra to look forward to, the silence of the night broken only by the wind stirring the snowdrifts and the lake’s black ice cracking sharp like gunshots into the depths of sleep. Loiseaux is a calm place in winter. New guests are seldom admitted during this dark season; the prospects of six hours of bright sunlight and a night that stretches from 5:00d P.M. to 8:00 A.M. can bring on the kind of melancholia that dries the spirit and rusts the heart.

  I rolled down the window, and the whir of tires on the pavement brought back the sound of my trike when I was six, yes, a three-wheeler because I was not blessed with even a minimal sense of balance. After trying training wheels on a regular bike, all geared up with knee and elbow pads and a helmet to protect me in my frequent tumbles, I was given an overgrown child’s contraption with balloon tires and heavy-duty hand brakes. No matter. Rocinante, as Mother named my conveyance, flew like the wind, responding to my frantic pedaling on the uphills, then back, feet out, legs splayed like wings, caroming on the downgrades. Swaddled in heavy corduroy pants and a sweatshirt, I could feel the wind blowing on my face and hear the hum of rubber on asphalt singing in my head. In the years since, I’ve never been able to recapture that sweet momentum, the sensation of rushing so fast that a slight bump on the road would lift me and Rocinante off the ground into a frictionless sur
face of pure air.

  Chapter Two

  On that Thanksgiving Day of ’01 our house smelled like sweat. Not the musky fragrance of recently exuded aerobic perspiration but the stale, bottom-of-the-clothes-basket kind. It was not the clean sweat that glistened on my father’s brow when he was thinking hard or the pearly mustache beading above my mother’s upper lip when she puttered in her garden. Certainly not the sweet dancer’s moisture that darkened Cousin Iris’s leotard along her tight midriff and under her breasts when she did bar work. That day’s smell was more like the sweat from my brother Ted’s glands, a musty redolence incorporating Giorgio aftershave and hot tar from his road-repair job.

  Following my nose, I traced the odor to the kitchen where a fifteen-pound turkey had been in the oven since dawn. I was not going to eat any of it. This presented a problem because food is a contentious thing for my family. The way the day was shaping up, I expected I’d be sent packing once again. This time I was supposed to be home for good, but at thirteen I continued to feel like a visitor.

  In the last few years I had undergone periodic banishment via the ’Tute van. This had harsh consequences, considering that I was born to be here among these fine people, ordained by the fates, I’m sure. I don’t know that there was anything unusual about my birth; I haven’t seen tapes or interviewed witnesses. In any case, my presence at home had been an off-and-on thing. The exact circumstances of my comings and goings were muddled.

  Nobody has ever asked my opinion regarding the Webb household. It contains two official parents, one biological brother, and one honorary cousin. But my inclinations toward vegetarianism, Marx, the goddess Kali, alternative fashion, and psychotropic meds were much in conflict with the unambiguous preferences of the family.