Orpheus and the Pearl & Nevermore Read online

  "It will take her a few minutes to dry and dress herself. Are you all right? I know this is difficult, but you must be prepared for the more unusual and disconcerting aspects of my wife's condition."

  "Yes, I know, I'll do my best. But Dr. Wallston, we were standing here for several minutes. How did she stay submerged for so long? I have to understand what's going on if I am to compose myself."

  "My wife no longer breathes, Dr. MacGuire. She is completely submerged in the chemical bath for two hours each morning."

  Catherine blinked, trying to take this in. "But you said you revived her, doctor. I don't understand what her condition is, if she is revived but doesn't breathe."

  "I know that term was a little misleading, and I apologize for that, but there is no sufficient or accurate term in our language. I had thought to call the process 'reanimation,' but that too is misleading, for she is not simply moving about mindlessly like a puppet or an automaton. She has all her faculties of speech, reason, thought, and emotion. She is active, deliberate, mentally aware, and therefore, I believe, fully human and alive, even if she lacks some of the incidental, physical qualities of what we label 'life.'"

  As in their previous conversation, Dr. Wallston's explanation had come closer to putting his wife's condition into normal, understandable human categories of thought and analysis, but it was still far wide, to say the least. "'Some physical qualities,' doctor? I dare say most of us consider breathing a little more than 'incidental' to life, wouldn't you? I don't know how to comprehend or deal with what you are presenting to me."

  "I know, doctor, I know, and I apologize again. But there is nothing I can do at this point. My wife is now what she is, and I hope you will still strive to treat her."

  Catherine pursed her lips. "You know I will. It is my duty and, I hope you realize, an all-consuming passion to which I have devoted my life."

  "Yes, and I hope you know how grateful I am."

  She paused, then pursued her investigation to understand, as calmly and clinically as she could. "Circulation?"

  He shook his head. "No. None."

  "If there's no circulation, how do the chemicals get through her system?"

  "Partly, the chemicals' effects are carried along the nerves, the way pain or any other information is carried through the nervous system. Also, it is why she has to soak for such a long time, to let the chemicals penetrate the tissues adequately. That's another reason the chemicals are so dangerous to handle: the molecules are so rarefied they penetrate most anything."

  Catherine felt her stomach briefly convulse. She did her best to keep down the bile and hide any sign of her discomfort. A walking corpse was unnerving enough, but the idea that the poor woman was pickled daily was somehow much more nauseating. After a brief pause, she asked, "Body temperature?"

  "Exactly equal to her surrounding environment. We have had to keep the house quite warm in the winter months, lest the cool temperature inhibit her functions, the way it would any cold-blooded animal. I am very much looking forward to the spring and summer to alleviate this. She was always so vibrant and lively in the summer months."

  "Digestion?" She remembered thinking how perfectly shaped Mrs. Wallston's body still was, even in her unnatural state. Other than the pallor, she looked like the beautiful, well-fed, pampered young woman that she had been in life.

  "Oh, my, yes. That is another of her urges I don't fully understand. Victoria is consumed with an overwhelming hunger, and for the most robust fare. Since she doesn't metabolize like we do, I knew her needs would not be nearly as much as a grown adult, but I had anticipated that she would need a small amount of nutrition in order to sustain her bodily motion and to repair damaged tissue, so I had thought to feed her simple foods, as you would a small child. Cooked vegetables and breads and cereals. These meals caused some of the first violent outbursts from her, and since then she has demanded nothing but barely-cooked steaks and room temperature scotch."

  "Scotch? Is that a wise addition? What are its effects on her?"

  "None. Without circulation, it never reaches her brain, or liver, so there's no danger of any of the usual damage from alcohol. There are not even any signs of intoxication. She says she just likes the taste, but I suspect it's more recalcitrance, as though she enjoys the sheer naughtiness of drinking something so unladylike, as strange as that may seem." Catherine didn't think this sounded the least bit strange, unlike everything else she had heard. "It's the steak that's the real problem. We try to keep the quantities as small as possible, but the nearly raw meat is hard for her to digest, since she lacks all bodily fluids, such as stomach acids. We have partly solved this with gullet stones."

  This time Catherine couldn't keep the retching down to the pit of her stomach, and she audibly gagged. Again, it was one thing to have to get over the unnaturalness or hideousness of the situation. But the indignities to which the poor woman was constantly subjected made her gag instinctively and sympathetically. "Gullet stones?"

  Dr. Wallston had lapsed into the enjoyment of clinical details and analysis that often make doctors go on about things that should demand respect or tact, and not fascination or excitement. "Yes, as in birds. Surely you know..."

  Catherine could not help her glare, nor her rising tone. "I know what gullet stones are, Dr. Wallston! I'm not some neophyte who chats with people on the couch, who practices the 'talking cure,' because I couldn't master anatomy or biology! I was expressing surprise that you fed your wife rocks, for God's sake! It's as though you've turned her into some lower order of creature so she could continue her savage, bestial feasts. And all of this brought on by her being made into some unnatural monstrosity, through no choice of her own, I might add." She paused and calmed slightly. "I'm sorry, I'm not judging you. It's just some of the details are particularly horrible and difficult to accept. I will do my best to look at them dispassionately and help her."

  He hung his head. "Again, I know. You have to understand, once she was revived, there was nothing I could do but think of ways to continue her existence. I couldn't very well just stop administering the chemicals and let her die again. It would be like murder. And I couldn't stand to lose her again."

  They both heard the clank of Mrs. Wallston opening the hatch. Dr. Wallston went to stand next to the door through which she would next pass. It opened, and she stepped into the hall. "Victoria," Dr. Wallston said, meekly. "I told you someone would be arriving to help with your treatment. This is Dr. MacGuire. She comes highly recommended."

  Mrs. Wallston was wearing a long white dress. It billowed out hugely from her small frame, both in the skirts and in the gauzy sleeves. Her hair was neatly put up. In life it surely would've accented her fine features and fair complexion with an enormous shock of shining, glowing yellow, but in death everything was nearly the same exhausted shade, like an overexposed photograph in which one can barely make out the details or contours. And her eyes. They had clearly been a stunning pale blue, but without moisture they could neither glisten, nor shine, nor flash, so they were as dull as if they were made of unglazed porcelain. They had the same fair hue and matte finish as a robin's egg. Catherine could not stop gazing into them, their soulless beauty was so mesmerizing.

  Mrs. Wallston tilted her head down and cocked an eyebrow. There was the same growl as Catherine had heard the previous night, before the laryngeal resonance resolved itself into human speech. "Recommended, Percy? Recommended for what, pray tell? With a name like that, and young as she is, I can't imagine it's for anything other than a maid, and I don't need a maid, as you well know." Mrs. Wallston smiled, but with gums the color of lard and no joy behind the expression, it was not very becoming. "Although decked out like that, do you have something else in mind? Stable boy? Perhaps you're taking up falconry or jousting, Percy?"

  Catherine knew she had instantly flushed way past crimson at the insults, but there was no avoiding it. Dr. Wallston tried to overlook his wife's monstrous rudeness. "I need the help of another doctor, Victoria."


  "And you couldn't bear to have one of your male colleagues see what you've done to me, Percy? Couldn't bear to have them see my freakish body, or my ruined mind? And what? I'm supposed to bare my soul to this tarted-up bit of fluff?"

  It seemed to Catherine that she felt Mrs. Wallston slam into her before she saw her move or heard her shriek. But she must've seen her, for she had instinctively raised her right arm to protect herself. The nails of Mrs. Wallston's right hand raked Catherine's cheek, as her other arm grabbed Catherine's, and those hideously beautiful eyes, narrowed now in rage, lunged toward her. Catherine barely kept from falling as Mrs. Wallston, oblivious to either decency or pain, clamped her jaws down on the forearm Catherine had raised in defense. Her teeth were no danger through the leather, but Catherine wondered at the force of her bite; it seemed much more powerful than what the human jaw muscles should be able to exert. Dr. Wallston had grabbed his wife from behind and was shouting for her to stop, but for several seconds all three of them were struggling, before he got her off and put himself between the two women. He had a hold of his wife's shoulder as he looked to Catherine. "You're hurt. Are you all right?"

  Catherine could only nod, tasting the blood as it trickled down to her mouth from the four gashes on her cheek. She was panting for breath after the unexpected assault, and she could see that Mrs. Wallston stood impassively, not breathing at all, and with a grotesque attempt at a smile curling her lips. Dr. Wallston still tried to take control of the situation. "Victoria, will you please stop?! This is serious."

  Mrs. Wallston wrenched her shoulder free of his grip and took a step back. "What's serious, Percy, is how hungry I am. The same gnawing hunger you've condemned me to every minute of this purgatory. With all your foolishness about bringing an Irish nurse-maid into the house, at least I can count on long-suffering Romwald to fix a decent steak." She shrugged. "Have your esteemed colleague join us, if you must." She fixed her hellish gaze again on Catherine. "I don't care about your cold comfort or pity, doctor, so long as I get some steak and scotch that are both warm. I feel a little chilly."

  Catherine had removed her Medieval garb and stanched the bleeding of her cheek, but foregone a bandage. The deepest gash, from Mrs. Wallston's middle finger, might leave a scar, but the other three were barely noticeable even now.

  Mrs. Wallston was at the far end of the table, the sunlight from the window behind her throwing her front into shadow. Dr. Wallston was at the middle of the table and rose when Catherine entered. The seat closest to the door was empty, and Romwald appeared from the door to the kitchen and pulled it out for her. In front of her and Dr. Wallston were bowls of a potato and onion soup. As discreetly as possible, so as not to incite another incident, Catherine glanced at Mrs. Wallston's plate and saw four paper thin slices of steak. Even from this distance across the table, the shiny redness of both the meat itself and the blood that pooled on the plate were vivid and nauseating to Catherine. Next to the bloody plate was a water tumbler of scotch, the amber liquid swirling with the oily currents of strong liquor.

  Mrs. Wallston fell to her carnivorous repast with gusto, while Catherine and Dr. Wallston sipped more daintily at their soup. Mrs. Wallston made little attempt at conforming to typical table manners, smacking as she chewed and slurping the scotch. Catherine could swear she heard the clacking of the rocks inside the dead woman, and once again she had to exert herself to keep her stomach from heaving. When Mrs. Wallston belched loudly, they ignored it, but the second time Dr. Wallston tried to intervene, however mildly. "Victoria, please, we have a guest."

  Mrs. Wallston looked up from her plate for the first time. Now her lips were obscenely painted a glistening crimson from the bleeding meat. She took up the scotch for a long gulp, which at least had the benefit of mostly clearing the blood from around her mouth. "What, Percy?" Mrs. Wallston sneered. "She's Irish, for God's sake. You know how they are. I'm sure she's heard and seen worse around the dinner table, haven't you, missy? Your dear old mum probably had quite a brood running about, since you all breed like vermin. And doubtless father was always in his cups, hmm? Pshaw. My dainty little burp shouldn't faze her a bit."

  Catherine looked up and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. The woman's snipes about her nationality were much more painful than probably even Mrs. Wallston could have guessed. Catherine's grandparents had given up their religion and changed the first letters of their last name when they came to this country, to try to pass as Scots and Protestants and give their children a chance at a better life. When Catherine had learned that her name was the English or American version of her grandmother's name, Cathleen, it had hardly seemed to her that the name was honoring the family, but just another badge advertising their shame, like the all-too-conspicuous mane that she had to carry with her everywhere. And to what had all these various sacrifices and subterfuges amounted? For Catherine, a head full of knowledge and skills she wasn't allowed to use, years of abuse and scorn from men, and now even this unnatural hag, this thing that shouldn't even exist, could cruelly taunt her with impunity and a perverted glee. It was all she could do to keep from bolting from the room. But as ashamed as she was, years of practice and emotional calluses kept her nailed to her chair with her face completely expressionless.

  Dr. Wallston put his hands on the table. "Victoria, please! She's right there! And she's come to help! Please! I can't do this alone anymore." His voice was cracking. He clearly hadn't slept well in months, and he was at his wits' end now with the infernal situation he had himself created.

  Mrs. Wallston clearly reveled in her ability to shock and hurt everyone around her. "Oh, poor Percy, embarrassed that your little Irish tramp is more ladylike than your wife? I'm sure she's a good deal warmer, too, but what difference is that to me? I'll tear her throat out with my teeth as soon as you're out of the room, dear, and then she'll get right down to room temperature, I'll warrant."

  There was a moment of silence. Then Catherine again fastened her burning, green eyes onto Mrs. Wallston. When she spoke, her tone was as icy and even as the stare of Mrs. Wallston's two frozen orbs. "I assume you two were raised not to use the third person when speaking of someone who is present, unless that person is a servant or a child. And let us be quite clear, I am not the servant or inferior of anyone here."

  "I'm sorry, I never said you were," muttered Dr. Wallston.

  "If you wish to remain the loathsome, little beast that you are playing at the moment, Mrs. Wallston, then I will gladly get on the next train back to Boston. If it's threats you enjoy, then let's have a good and proper row right here and get it over with. But if you want me to stay, so that perhaps you and your husband can return to something resembling a normal, or even a happy existence, then you will address me by my title. And you will apologize."

  Catherine had no idea where the words had come from, or what their effect would be. She had actually been formulating something quite different when those words had come tumbling out instead. And even if the part about fighting Mrs. Wallston was mostly adrenalin induced bravado, it had felt like the right way to address the situation.

  Mrs. Wallston took another drink of scotch, sipping it tidily, and kept her eyes fixed on Catherine. "Please believe me, doctor, when I say that no one is more sorry for the way I am than I, myself. You have now been forthright with me, and that is something that deserves much better treatment than I have given you. I am sorry I was rude to you. Will that do?"

  "Yes, it will do quite well, thank you."

  "Good. Would you like some scotch? It's really quite exceptional, and I expect, with your anatomy, you might enjoy it even more than I do."

  "Yes, thank you. That would be nice."

  After lunch the two women retired to the sitting room in the west wing. There was a couch there on which Mrs. Wallston sat, while Catherine sat in the same large chair she had the night before. Dr. Wallston was surprised she was already willing to sit alone with Mrs. Wallston, but there was no other way to conduct therapy. Besides, Catheri
ne thought with grim humor, to be the first doctor to die at the hands of the first reanimated corpse was a sort of scientific milestone of which she could be proud, even if it had not been the one she had had in mind all these years.

  Mrs. Wallston kept her humor as well, even if her demeanor had softened. "So, do I start talking about my parents now?"

  "No, it's not like people think. We don't just come out and force you to talk about certain things."

  "Oh, all right. Don't you take notes?"

  "No, it's distracting to both of us. I'll write everything down when we're finished."

  "So what do we talk about?"

  "Well, what do you like to do?"

  "I like to read. These are all my books. Many are from my father's house, he is a professor of literature at Brown University."

  "I noticed they were all books of literature and not medicine. I wondered what the doctor was doing with such a collection."

  "Oh my, he considers literature quite frivolous, I think. That's why they all ended up out here and not in the main building. But there is so much in these pages. So much beauty that I sometimes wonder how they came to be in such an ugly world. And what about you, doctor? Do you think literature a frivolity, too, like my husband?"