*Fiction — October 27, 2022
Caduceus
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Theresa softened, forgetting herself briefly before a sixteenth century portrait of an unidentified member of the royal court. Standing there, she felt mollified, held afloat. Who is this man? said the plaque to the right of the painting, which explained that the inclusion of a few symbolic objects—a coin, a scroll, a piece of jewelry on his cap—had led to no more than mere speculation about his identity. She was stirred by the importance of these objects, lit up by the painting’s strange illumination of the pale, fleshy faces; the cracked and glossy texture of its surface. The extravagance of care and attention, the rich green wool of the textiles, purposefully draped. The colors alone were enough to move her. How was it that the particular blue of the background felt like it was wounding her? Or, like it was cleaning a wound?
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a man in a wrinkled shirt slouching over a wheelchair that he pushed hazardously through a small crowd observing a portrait nearby. He drew near to the painting, too near, his head nearly eclipsing the whole image. Then he turned to the woman in the chair and said loudly, too loudly, “What do you think, Mother?” Mother said nothing.
Theresa was looking at a print of two snakes entwined around a rod when the man wheeled clumsily in front of her, wedging himself and his mother directly between Theresa and the print without acknowledging her. “Look, Mom,” he said, again too loudly. “It’s a caduceus.” He gestured toward the snakes and the rod. Who is this man? thought Theresa as she watched him, performing loudly for his little, gray mother.
“It’s a caduceus,” he repeated. Again, his face was too close. Surely a gallery attendant would come tell him to step back, to stop breathing on the art. No one came.
“See, Mother,” he said, hovering his finger over the snakes and staff. “It says here it’s a symbol of the god Mercury… and commerce. But it should probably say medicine, too. You know, you always see the caduceus used for hospitals, pharmacies. Here it just says the caduceus is a symbol of commerce.” The frail woman nodded her head and gazed blankly at the image. Theresa had stepped aside to make room, but the man still didn’t acknowledge her. He just spilled sloppily into the space made by her moving.
Oh, who is this man? thought Theresa, desperately, plaintively. Who is he, wheeling this woman around the Holbein exhibit? This man and his caduceus—stooping, gray-haired, fawning ridiculously over his ancient mother? Who is he, this man, who yesterday, in the airport security line, struck up the most humiliating conversation with a young guy carrying a guitar case—saying such mortifying things as, “What kind of axe you got in there?” and then going on to tell the young man that he never checked his guitar either, back in the day, and on and on—and with whom the young man politely, obligingly chatted until they were through security and he could grab his instrument and run off toward his gate. Who was this man, and why had she married him?
She drifted away from him and into another startling blue background. When was the last time she’d made time to look at art? The paintings asked nothing of her, were entirely indifferent to her. She was enthralled by their stillness. And then Allen came crashing back into her peripheral vision, pushing his mother up to the print of a Death Alphabet. The letters were small. The details were fine. Each letter was decorated with a scene of dancing skeletons, wresting mortals from their precarious place among the living.
“Do you want to do a stand?” said Allen.
His mother tried to turn her head to see him. Observing her, Theresa noted again the ways in which the stroke had taken a toll on Elizabeth. She was weaker, and she got dizzy at times, hence the chair. She grew tired more easily. She was on the whole quieter, a bit less of everything, but just as wicked as always. “Tough old bird,” Allen had said when they saw her again this morning for the first time since the stroke six months ago. The stroke might have taken some of the air out of her haughtiness, but disdain still wafted around her like her powdery perfume.
“A stand?” he repeated. “You can stand up and get closer to see.”
It was all too much. Allen’s new baby-talk shorthand of do a stand mixed with the grim majuscules, announcing A: you’re going to die; B: you’re going to die; and so on, twenty-four times, to the old woman, who likely needed no reminder.
Elizabeth gripped the arm rests of the chair, steadied her feet beneath her and pushed herself upright. With her hands still holding the arm rests for stability, she made tiny shuffling movements towards the print, while Allen held the chair steady behind her. Expectant but unconditional love oozed out of him. I am caring for Mother; Mother will love me.
Elizabeth stood there, effortfully, taking in the details of the deaths. Her hair was dyed that peculiar shade of auburn elderly women seem to love. Her makeup was done, nails were painted. She wore a pearl necklace and matching earrings. Her clothes hung from her slim frame like a deflated balloon. She herself was skeletal and detailed, adorned with her objects of note. How easily all things slipped into accord with one another in here. All things but Allen.
No, not Allen, who next imposed himself on a young woman trying to take in an engraving of Erasmus in peace. “Doesn’t seem like they were able to get much,” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“It doesn’t seem like they were able to get many works for the exhibit,” repeated the self-appointed expert of everything, grinning, satisfied with his assessment.
Theresa drove. Allen sat in the back with his mother. As he prattled on about Northern Renaissance painting, Theresa counted each point that he had lifted directly from the museum placards.
Theresa drove. Allen sat in the back with his mother. As he prattled on about Northern Renaissance painting, Theresa counted each point that he had lifted directly from the museum placards.
“I didn’t know you knew so much about Holbein,” said Theresa, glancing in the rearview mirror.
Elizabeth pulled a tissue from inside her sleeve and patted at the bottom of her nose, looking vacantly out the window. Old Woman with Tissue and Pearls, thought Theresa.
“Are you tired, Mom?” asked Allen.
“No,” she sighed, and kept looking out the window.
“Do you know what Eric has planned for dinner?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“People really go all out on their Halloween decorations around here,” said Theresa.
There were plastic skeletons hanging from trees and reclining in lawn chairs. An inflatable green monster perched over the roof of a bungalow. Styrofoam headstones sprouting up from the patchy lawns.
“Dreadful,” said Elizabeth.
Silence for a moment. Then Allen continued his lecture.
In the beginning Theresa had been excited to be courted by an older man. A writer, a professor, a man of culture. He liked cinema and theater. He spoke French. They talked for hours about what he knew and what she wanted to know. He was gentle. Focused on her, but not obsessive. He rarely spoke of his ex-wife, but when he did, he was respectful and unsentimental. He made Theresa dinner and closed the bathroom door when he peed. A real romantic. A rare find. A holdover from another generation. Not much of a looker, but good-looking guys weren’t her type anyway. Balls like a long, fleshy bundle of old socks, but she’d seen worse. Before Allen, she’d had a miserable run of failed relationships, the last of which ended only hours before she met Allen at a movie they’d both gone to see alone. After a brief courtship, Allen said he wasn’t getting any younger and asked her to marry him. Theresa, who was in her mid-thirties, knew she wasn’t getting any younger either and figured it prudent to accept. They moved in together, made their vows at the courthouse. Over the next year and a half, to her disappointment and horror, it slowly dawned on Theresa that she’d married an obsequious blowhard who was eligible to buy his movie tickets at the senior discount.
It was Elizabeth’s eighty-ninth birthday, and they had flown out to spend the weekend with her. Allen’s brother Eric was hosting them for dinner. As they pulled into Eric’s driveway, he came to the door to greet them. Theresa was happy to see him. Eric wasn’t serious and he didn’t take himself too seriously. Theresa liked that about him. He was handsome. An actor, who taught acting classes, who liked wine and good food, but wasn’t a snob. He wasn’t boastful. He was easy to be around. A blue background.
In the beginning Theresa had been excited to be courted by an older man. A writer, a professor, a man of culture. He liked cinema and theater. He spoke French. They talked for hours about what he knew and what she wanted to know. He was gentle. Focused on her, but not obsessive. He rarely spoke of his ex-wife, but when he did, he was respectful and unsentimental. He made Theresa dinner and closed the bathroom door when he peed. A real romantic. A rare find. A holdover from another generation. Not much of a looker, but good-looking guys weren’t her type anyway. Balls like a long, fleshy bundle of old socks, but she’d seen worse. Before Allen, she’d had a miserable run of failed relationships, the last of which ended only hours before she met Allen at a movie they’d both gone to see alone. After a brief courtship, Allen said he wasn’t getting any younger and asked her to marry him. Theresa, who was in her mid-thirties, knew she wasn’t getting any younger either and figured it prudent to accept. They moved in together, made their vows at the courthouse. Over the next year and a half, to her disappointment and horror, it slowly dawned on Theresa that she’d married an obsequious blowhard who was eligible to buy his movie tickets at the senior discount.
It was Elizabeth’s eighty-ninth birthday, and they had flown out to spend the weekend with her. Allen’s brother Eric was hosting them for dinner. As they pulled into Eric’s driveway, he came to the door to greet them. Theresa was happy to see him. Eric wasn’t serious and he didn’t take himself too seriously. Theresa liked that about him. He was handsome. An actor, who taught acting classes, who liked wine and good food, but wasn’t a snob. He wasn’t boastful. He was easy to be around. A blue background.
Elizabeth’s spirits lifted when she saw her younger son. Eric helped her out of the car and gave her a kiss on the cheek, walked her up the front steps and into the house, and then greeted Allen and Theresa with warm hugs. Eric’s girlfriend, Lori, poked out from the kitchen to say dinner was almost ready.
Elizabeth ate slowly, taking small sips of wine. Eric kept refilling glasses and adding tiny splashes to Elizabeth’s glass. She picked at her cake and left the frosting on the plate.
Elizabeth ate slowly, taking small sips of wine. Eric kept refilling glasses and adding tiny splashes to Elizabeth’s glass. She picked at her cake and left the frosting on the plate.
“When I was young we always called it ‘cabbage night,’” said Lori. “The night before Halloween.”
“We always just called it mom’s birthday,” said Eric, sitting back in his chair, running his hand through his wavy hair.
“So you boys probably never went out to throw eggs and toilet paper at people’s houses,” said Lori.
“I bet you did, though, didn’t you?” laughed Eric, grinning as he pinched her at the side of her waist.
“No,” she laughed, swatting his hand away and feigning shyness. “No. But I remember when I was a kid, I had this book about cabbage night. I think of it a lot actually, around this time of year. I don’t know what it was called or who wrote it or anything, so I’m afraid I’ll never find it.”
Lori was pretty. A little older than Theresa. Short and blonde with soft, balanced features. But there was something odd about her eyes. When she spoke she fixed her eyes really hard on a single point beyond the people she was speaking to, so she looked like she was in some kind of trance. She didn’t seem to blink. It made whatever she was talking about seem like it was a matter of great importance. Must be an acting thing, thought Theresa.
“What was it about?” asked Eric. “I bet Marcia can find it.” Then, to the rest of the table, he explained: “Marcia’s a children’s librarian.”
“Marcia, your ex-girlfriend Marcia?” asked Allen.
“We ended on good terms.”
“She still dotes on him,” said Elizabeth, proudly.
“I bet she could find it for you,” said Eric. He patted his pockets. “I left my phone upstairs. I’ll text her later to ask.”
“It was about this boy,” said Lori, eyes wide, fixed above Theresa’s head. “And all of his friends in his neighborhood—they were all afraid of this old woman who lived nearby in a creepy old house. They thought she was a witch, and you know, she’d come out and yell at them to get away from her house, and the boys all thought she was casting spells on them. She lived alone and never had any visitors, and she had a cat or two. She probably had a wart on her nose or something, I don’t remember. Anyway, on cabbage night, the neighborhood kids would all get together and throw cabbages and rocks and toilet paper at her house. But on this particular cabbage night, they decided to take it a step further. All the older, meaner boys dared the main character, who was actually pretty shy and sweet, to sneak into the old lady’s house, or maybe just ring her doorbell or something. And this boy was really scared, but he finally gathers up the courage to do it.
“So he walks up the creaky, old wooden steps and he rings her doorbell. But she doesn’t come.
“And the other boys are waiting back by the road and they egg him on. So he rings again. And she doesn’t come.
“So he looks inside through the stained glass windows by the door and he sees her there, lying on the floor. He looks back and his friends are gone. And he goes inside and sure enough, there she is, lying dead on the floor. And she wasn’t a witch at all, she was just a lonely old lady, and now she’s dead.”
Silence at the table. Then, Eric: “That sounds like a pretty gruesome children’s book, babe.”
Silence at the table. Then, Eric: “That sounds like a pretty gruesome children’s book, babe.”
Theresa sighed in agreement.
“Sounds German,” said Eric. “Like Strummelpeter, the Brothers Grimm, that kind of thing.”
“To be like Strummelpeter,” added Allen, “the little boy would have to die too. Something shocking, to teach little boys not to go into houses uninvited.”
Portrait of a Pedant with a Stain on his Shirt.
“I think it was American,” said Lori. “Or, I don’t know, maybe Canadian. Anyway, the boy didn’t die. He just felt really bad.”
“Still pretty gruesome,” said Eric.
“Grausam,” said Allen with an awful German accent.
Theresa sighed again.
“My mother says I made the whole thing up,” said Lori. “But I remember it so clearly. The story and the illustrations.”
“Were there pictures of the body?” asked Theresa.
“Yes,” she said. “You could see the old woman lying there through the stained glass window. She might have even been naked. And I remember the boy sitting alone on the porch at the end.”
“Is that how it ends?” asked Theresa.
“Yeah,” said Lori, looking down at her plate. “I think so. That’s how I remember it.”
“Dreadful,” said Elizabeth.
Theresa cleared the table. Lori excused herself and ran upstairs for something. Allen stayed at the table with Elizabeth, updating her on the progress of his latest book. Eric joined Theresa in the kitchen, and they washed the pots, loaded the dishwasher, and opened another bottle of wine.
“Dreadful,” said Elizabeth.
Theresa cleared the table. Lori excused herself and ran upstairs for something. Allen stayed at the table with Elizabeth, updating her on the progress of his latest book. Eric joined Theresa in the kitchen, and they washed the pots, loaded the dishwasher, and opened another bottle of wine.
“How was the museum?” asked Eric.
“The exhibit was great.”
“Did mom behave?”
“She seemed fine. A little tired.”
“And Allen?”
“You know Allen,” laughed Theresa. Eric smirked.
“I haven’t been to the exhibit yet. What did you like about it?”
She felt silly saying things like “illumination” and “color” and “objects,” but Eric listened attentively and kept asking questions. They were standing in the kitchen leaning back against the marble counters.
“Lori’s been upstairs for a while, do you think she’s ok?”
“I’ll go check on her,” said Eric.
Theresa joined Allen and Elizabeth in the living room. When would Allen ever stop talking?
Then Eric’s voice boomed from behind a closed door upstairs, “What the fuck?”
Then Lori screaming, the sound of the door opening, Lori running quickly down the stairs sobbing, slamming the front door behind her.
Eric stumbled down the stairs with a hand towel held to his face.
Theresa and Allen jumped to their feet.
“Oh my god, what happened?”
“She fucking bit me,” growled Eric. “Fuck.”
He pulled the towel away from his face to reveal the red stain and blood running from the tip of the nose and a spot on the cheek, right at the laugh line.
It took a moment to sink in. Elizabeth spoke first. “Oh,” she said. She looked concerned, but she couldn’t get up from the couch.
“She bit you?” said Allen.
“She fucking bit me. Can you take me to the hospital, Al?”
Allen looked at Theresa and back at his mother.
“Someone needs to stay here with Mom,” said Allen. “Theresa can drive you.”
“Sure,” said Theresa. She tried to count the glasses of wine she’d had.
“Take my car,” said Allen, handing her the keys.
There weren’t many streetlights in Eric’s neighborhood. Theresa rolled down her window to let the cool night air sober her up a bit. Eric rested his head on the window and occasionally lifted the towel to his nose, though it was no longer really bleeding.
There weren’t many streetlights in Eric’s neighborhood. Theresa rolled down her window to let the cool night air sober her up a bit. Eric rested his head on the window and occasionally lifted the towel to his nose, though it was no longer really bleeding.
“Thank you for doing this,” he said.
“Of course. No problem.”
Theresa turned on the radio, flipped through a few stations, and turned it off again.
“It looks like the bleeding has stopped,” she said.
“I still need to see a doctor,” he said defensively.
“I wasn’t saying —”
“Human bites are filthy,” he said. “Worse than animal bites. God, I hope this doesn’t fuck up my face. You probably think that sounds vain, but I’m an actor. If she fucked up my face—take a left here—if she fucked up my face—”
“I don’t think it’ll be fucked up.” It was a pitiful sight, this handsome man slouched in the passenger seat, nearly in tears over a small wound on his face. So he does take himself seriously, thought Theresa.
“Why did she bite you?” she asked.
“Ha,” he said, straightening himself up a bit. “She looked at my phone. Found some texts. Another woman.”
“The librarian?”
“No, no. Marcia’s just a good friend.”
“And she just… bit you?”
“Lunged right at me. Scarier than a pit bull.”
Eric didn’t look at all remorseful. In fact he laughed a little, telling her about it, and he turned the radio on again. Looking over at him in the dark car, his face in profile, with the dried blood on his cheek and the slight gash at the tip of his nose, his pathetic worrying over his face, his caddish attitude, Theresa felt the incongruous urge to place her hand on his thigh, to pull over and climb out of her marriage and onto her brother-in-law.
“There it is,” he said. “Right up ahead.”
Theresa pulled into the hospital parking lot and the two entered the automatic doors under the sign of a single snake wrapped around a rod.
The emergency room was nearly empty, but they still had to wait to be seen. Sitting beside Eric under the fluorescent lights of the waiting room, Theresa leafed through a magazine but couldn’t get her eyes to focus on the words. She kept looking over at the small blood stains on his jeans.
“Are you feeling ok?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he smiled. “Sorry to put you through this.”
“It’s a nice break actually.”
Theresa stayed in the waiting room while Eric got three stitches, a tetanus shot, and a lecture on the uncleanliness of human bites—the doctor seemed to be under the impression he had wanted the bite. In her head, Theresa staged a conversation between herself and Eric, maybe the conversation they’d have when he returned. In it, she would demonstrate how mischievous and interesting she was; how wasted her youthful energy and potential were on an insecure old windbag like Allen—though she wouldn’t come right out and say it.
And she’d remember to ask questions, too, because questions were something that had become extinct in her life with Allen, and questions felt so good to be asked. She’d ask him about teaching and acting. And she’d tell him she’d taken a few theater classes in high school, but that she hadn’t been very good at it. And she’d say she learned she could never be an actress or a writer or someone in a successful long-term relationship because she could never fathom the actuality of another person. But then she’d ask more questions! She would make an attempt at knowing someone, at knowing this man with his beautiful face stitched back up.
And his answers! His answers would not be rhetorical. They wouldn’t be excuses to cite ancient Greek poets or build an argument. The answers themselves would ask for nothing. I like this. I don’t like that. I’m afraid of dying alone and I’m afraid of disappearing into someone. Things like that.
There would be all the space in the world for their questions and answers. A real conversation. And they would remember parts of themselves that had been dormant for so long. And he would ask her when she’d felt most alive, and about the worst thing she’d ever done, and he wouldn’t ask her why she had no close friends or great passions or why she’d donated her unremarkable but young body to sexual charity by marrying his aging older brother. And she wouldn’t ask him if he found her attractive, but she would feel attractive in the way he would hold her so close and so carefully in his attention.
The automatic doors opened and a man in a banana costume wandered in with his hand over one eye. A friend in a deer costume ran in after him, holding his antlers in one hand.
Eric emerged from the E.R. looking slouchy and rumpled. A dark stitch hung out of his nostril. “Ready?” he said, as if Theresa would have any last-minute business to attend to in the waiting room. She waved goodbye to the deer.
The drive home was nearly silent. At first, in her mind, Theresa rehearsed the ways she could begin their conversation. What a night, she could say. Or, Does it hurt? But all the heat she’d felt pulling her towards him on their way to the hospital was gone. Eric leaned against the passenger window and stared into his phone like a teenager. He should be driving, she thought. He’s perfectly fine. They didn’t speak, except for his occasional direction. “Next right.”
The drive home was nearly silent. At first, in her mind, Theresa rehearsed the ways she could begin their conversation. What a night, she could say. Or, Does it hurt? But all the heat she’d felt pulling her towards him on their way to the hospital was gone. Eric leaned against the passenger window and stared into his phone like a teenager. He should be driving, she thought. He’s perfectly fine. They didn’t speak, except for his occasional direction. “Next right.”
The glow of his phone lit his face from below like when a camp counselor holds a flashlight under his face to tell a ghost story. It distorted his features and shone on his dangling stitch. He tapped messages on the screen and exhaled sharply through his nose, then tapped on the screen some more.
Theresa felt disgusted by her earlier attraction to him. This vapid, schmoozing pretty boy, whining about a little cut on his nose. Always running his hand through his hair. She was ready to drop him off. It was late. She was tired. She had a headache from the wine.
All the lights were off at Eric’s house and the rental car was gone. A chill ran through Theresa. Elizabeth’s dead, she thought. She’s had another stroke.
All the lights were off at Eric’s house and the rental car was gone. A chill ran through Theresa. Elizabeth’s dead, she thought. She’s had another stroke.
“Do you think something happened?” asked Theresa. Guilt bubbled up in her like reflux.
Eric didn’t look concerned. “No,” he said.
Inside, there was a note on the table that said, “Gone to take Mother home. Be back soon.”
“Make yourself at home,” Eric said distractedly, still fixed on his phone. He went upstairs.
Theresa waited outside on the front porch. A solemn and violent ceremony took place inside her, like one part drowning another. She sat and listened to the gentle clicking of plastic skeleton parts in the neighbor’s yard.
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.