Head Cases Part 5

"Yep," Jackson/Bedford said. "Corn's come in, gone to yeller on top. If I can round me up some n.i.g.g.e.rs, might get an ear or two in before first frost."

"Those slaves. Always causing you problems, aren't they? Building up stress, making your chest burn with rage." Dr. Edelhart's voice was n.i.g.g.e.r-rich with sympathy.

"d.a.m.ned right." Jackson/Bedford felt the muscles in his neck go rigid. He thrashed at the corn, then hollered. "Claybo!"

The shout scurried across the stalks of corn, rattled the corners of Dr. Edelhart's office. "Never can find that Claybo when you need him, can you?" said the doctor.

Bedford left Jackson, had no use for him, just as well let him sit in a chair and talk to a dandified free boy. Bedford had ch.o.r.es to get done. And there was only one way to get them done. Work the n.i.g.g.e.rs.

"Claybo," he shouted again.

Sweat ran down the back of his neck, the brim of his hat serving h.e.l.l for shade. Bedford hurried into the field, leather coiled in his taut right hand. His oldest son was on horseback in a far meadow, galloping toward the Johnson place to scramble hay with one of Johnson's bucolic daughters. Bedford gritted his teeth and waded into the corn.

"Claybo, if I ever get my hands on you..."

"Then what, Dell?" It was the dandy n.i.g.g.e.r. Dell shook his head. A d.a.m.ned voice from nowhere. The nerve of an invisible n.i.g.g.e.r to mess in a white man's business. A white man's dreams.

"Then I'll kick his uppity a.s.s. What else can you do with a sorry n.i.g.g.e.r?"

"He's not in the cornfield, Dell. You know that, don't you? We've already been through this."

"Shut up, n.i.g.g.e.r." Bedford tore through the corn, knocking over stalks, heading toward the thin stand of pines where the slaves were quartered. "Bet that d.a.m.ned good-for-nothing Claybo is taking himself a little snooze. And the sun ain't even barely touched the trees yet."

"That Claybo. He's nothing but trouble. Probably even learning to read. Bet he's got a spelling book under his strawtick."

"n.i.g.g.e.rs. Don't let *em read. The first word they teach each other is 'no.' Well, I know how to drive the book-learning out of them." Bedford let the whip play out as he ran, jerked his wrist so that the length of leather undulated like a snake.

"That's it, Bedford," came the easy voice. "Feel the anger. Embrace it. Breathe it."

Bedford scratched at his ear and ran on. He burst from the cornrows and crossed the bare patch of dirt that served as n.i.g.g.e.r-town square. Six cabins of rough logs and mud squatted under the spindly pines. A little pickaninnie sat in front of one of them, playing with a rag doll. She'd be able to walk soon, and finally be able to work for her keep.

Bedford went to the last cabin and kicked at the door. It fell open, and Bedford shouted into the dark. Then he saw them, three pairs of white eyes. There was nothing quite like a n.i.g.g.e.r in the dark. h.e.l.l, he didn't even mind when his neighbors had runaways, because they were so much fun to hunt.

"Tell me what you see," said the distant voice. Smooth-talking n.i.g.g.e.r, like one of them Yankee preachers that come down once in a while to rub in their faces that, up North, n.i.g.g.e.rs were free. How Northern n.i.g.g.e.rs owned all kinds of land, while Bedford had only thirty hardscrabble acres of Carolina clay.

"What the h.e.l.l you think I see? You were here with me last time I done this." Bedford was nearly as mad at the invisible n.i.g.g.e.r as he was at Claybo. He hurried into the cramped dark.

"Don't hurt me, Mar's Bedford," Claybo pleaded. Like a little sissy girl who was going to get a hickory switch across the bloomers. "My baby's took sick. I swear, I was going to go back and work. I just had to come look ina""

"Shut up, n.i.g.g.e.r." Bedford's eyes had adjusted now, and he could make their outlines. The woman on the bed, holding the infant, both of them slick with sweat. Claybo kneeling beside the bed, hands lifted up like Bedford was Jesus Christ the Holy Savior, but Claybo should know that Jesus never helped n.i.g.g.e.rs, only good, holy whites.

The woman wailed, then the baby started crying. Bedford's blood coursed hot through his veins, his pulse was a hammer against the anvil of his temples, his head was a powder keg with a beeswax fuse.

"You're right to feel anger," whispered the educated n.i.g.g.e.r, the one that was so far away. "You've been wounded. This is where your soul bleeds, Jeffrey."

Bedford wondered who the h.e.l.l Jeffrey was, but that didn't matter, that was another world and another worry. He grabbed Claybo by the shirt and tugged him toward the door. As much as he would have loved to stripe the n.i.g.g.e.r in front of his woman, the cabin didn't allow for good elbow room. Claybo only half resisted, dead weight. He didn't dare struggle too much. Because the n.i.g.g.e.r knew if he did, his woman would be next.

Bedford's anger settled lower, took a turn, became something warm and light in his stomach.

Joy.

He loved beating a n.i.g.g.e.r.

He pushed Claybo to the ground, tore at the big man's shirt. He gave the n.i.g.g.e.r a kick in the ribs to get the juices flowing. The whip handle almost throbbed in his hand, as if it had a turgid life of its own.

"Seize the fragment," came that confounded, invisible n.i.g.g.e.r, the one in his head. "Look at yourself, Jeffrey. You're splintered, apart from the world. Outside the circle of your own soul."

"My fragment." Bedford grunted through clenched teeth.

"These are the traumatic emotions and body sensations that have tracked you through the years. This is where your pain comes from. This is your unfinished business. This is your wound."

Bedford tried to ignore the n.i.g.g.e.r-talk. He stepped back, hefted the whip, sensed the graceful leather unfurling, rolled his arm in an easy motion, sent the knotted tip into Claybo's broad back. The ebony flesh split like a dropped melon.

A sweet pleasure surged through Bedford, a fever that was better than what he found between his wife's legs, even between the n.i.g.g.e.r cook's, a honey-hot heaven. He whisked the whip back to deliver another blowa"

"This is your discarnate self, Jeffrey. Doesn't it sicken you? Don't you see why your soul is so far from releas.e.m.e.nt?"

Bedford paused, the leather dripping red, hungry for a second taste.

"Restore balance, Jeffrey."

Bedford/Jackson looked down at the huddled, quivering Claybo.

Dr. Edelhart spoke again, gentle, encouraging. "Resolve the conflict and heal the emotional vulnerability. Seek your spiritual reattachment."

Jackson felt dizzy. The whip wilted in his hand. He wanted to vomit. He couldn't believe he had ever been so brutal. Not in any of his lives. "I didn't..."

"Denial is not the path to wholeness, Jeffrey. Empower yourself."

Tears trickled down Jackson's face. He could feel the eyes watching Bedford from the cabin door. A witness to his spiritual fracture. How could he possibly make this right? How could he become a soul-mind healed?

Sobbing, he turned to the only one he could trust. "What do I do now, Dr. Edelhart?"

"You know the answer. I can only lead you to the door. The final steps are yours."

Jackson bent to his victim. Claybo looked at him, wide-eyed, wary. Jackson placed the whip at Claybo's feet. Then he slowly unb.u.t.toned his shirt, his skin pale in the sunset.

Jackson knelt on the ground. He put his face against the dirt, pine needles scratching his cheek, dust clinging to his tears. "Free me," he said to the man he had whipped.

"Mar's?" Claybo's voice was wracked with hidden hurt.

"Do it."

"Yes, suh." Claybo slowly lifted himself, his shirt hanging in rags from his dark muscles. Both men were on their knees, equal.

"Whip me," Jackson commanded. Then, begging, "Please."

Claybo stood, six-three, a man, black anger. He fumbled with the whip, making an awkward arc in the air with its length. He snapped his wrist and the leather slapped against Jackson's bare back.

Not a strong blow, yet the pain sluiced along Jackson's spinal cord.

Jackson swallowed a scream, his lungs feeling stuffed with embers. He gasped, then panted, "Harder."

The agony was soul-searing, but Jackson knew the blow wasn't nearly hard enough to drive the transpersonal residue from his soiled psyche.

The whip descended again, more controlled this time, scattering sparks across Jackson's fragmented but hopeful spirit-flesh. Claybo was intelligent for a darkie. A fast learner. The whip fell a third time, inflicting a deeper, more meaningful misery. Flogging Jackson closer to whole.

"Your hour's up," Dr. Edelhart interrupted.

Jackson came around, brought back by the words that he'd been trained to recognize as the trigger that would pull him from hypnosis. He blinked as he looked around the office. He was soaked with sweat, his muscles aching, his throat dry. Dr. Edelhart was standing over him.

"How do you feel?" said the doctor, eyes half-closed as if studying a rare insect.

Jackson tried the air, found that it came into his lungs, then out, though it tasted of tannin. He was alive, back in the reality he knew. Years away from the scarred night of his soul. A strange peace descended, though he was tired, drained.

"I...I feel..." He searched through Dr. Edelhart's catalog of catch phrases, then found one that seemed to fit. "I feel a little more integrated."

Dr. Edelhart smiled. "I feel that we've made true progress today, Jeffrey."

Jackson sat up in the chair, energy returning. "Wow. I haven't felt this good in years."

"A hundred and forty, give or take a few."

"How...how did you know?"

Dr. Edelhart waved at the diplomas and framed certificates on the wall behind his desk. "I'm the doctor. I'm supposed to know."

Jackson stood, walked the soreness from his legs. "I could run through a crowd right now, and not even notice all the eyes watching me. I don't feel angry at all. n.o.body to hate."

"Progress through regression. But. . . " Dr. Edelhart's word hung suspended in the air, like a tiny sliver of discarnate spirit.

"But what?" Jackson said.

"Let's not forget. This is only the beginning. A giant step, to be sure. But only a step."

Jackson looked at the carpet. "I should have guessed it wouldn't be that easy. Not after spending months just to get to this point."

"Now we know where your spiritual bondage is. Next time, we can go a little farther."

Jackson gave a smile, enjoying this moment of enlightenment. He was on the road to recovery. Sure, it might take months, maybe years. But he'd be whole. Even if it killed him.

Or rather, killed Dell Bedford.

"Funny, isn't it?" Jackson said. He always felt a little more informal at the end of a session. He'd be on top of the world for the next few days, no worries, the spiders at bay, the clowns snoozing in circus shadows. He'd even be able to take the elevator to the street.

Dr. Edelhart seemed to be in a good mood as well. "What's funny?"

"My fragmented past life. That my psychic wound would be racism. Well, racism, sadism, masochism, the whole laundry list we've already been through."

"What's so funny about that?"

"Well, you being black and all. Or should I say African-American?"

"Black's fine. Maybe it's not a coincidence at all, Jeffrey. Spiritual paths do have a way of intersecting here and there along the way. Sometimes more than once."

Jackson looked into the doctor's eyes. For just a second. Then the brightness was gone, the doctor shielded behind his clinical expression, lost behind the other end of the magnifying gla.s.s.

But for just that one second, Jackson had seen Claybo in there, hunted, haunted, vengeful. Wet with his own psychic scars.

No. Jackson shook the image from his head. He wasn't here to drive himself crazy. He was here to be healed.

"See you next week, same time?" Jackson said.

Dr. Edelhart smiled. "I'm looking forward to it."

METABOLISM.

By Scott Nicholson.

The city had eyes.

It watched Elise from the gla.s.s squares set into its walls, walls that were sheer cliff faces of mortar and brick. She held her breath, waiting for them to blink. No, not eyes, only windows. She kept walking.

And the street was not a tongue, a long black ribbon of asphalt flesh that would roll her into the city's hot jaws at any second. The parking meter poles were not needly teeth, eager to gnash. The city would not swallow her, here in front of everybody. The city kept its secrets.

And the people on the sidewalk- how much did they know? Were they enemy agents or blissful cattle? The man in the charcoal-gray London Fog trench coat, the Times tucked under his elbow, dark head down and hands in pockets. A gesture of submission or a crafted stance of neutrality?

The blue-haired lady in the chinchilla wrap, her turquoise eyeliner making her look like a psychedelic racc.o.o.n. Was the lady colorblind or had she adopted a clever disguise? And were her mincing high-heeled steps carrying her to a midlevel townhouse or was she on some munic.i.p.al mission?

That round-faced cabdriver, his black mustache brushing the bleached peg of his cigarette, the tires of his battered yellow cab nudged against the curb. Were his eyes scanning the pa.s.sersby in hopes of a fare, or was he scouting for plump prey?

Elise tugged on her belt, wrapping her coat more tightly around her waist. The thinner one looked the better. Not that she had to rely on illusion. Her appet.i.te had been buried with the other things of her old blind life, ordinary pleasures like window shopping and jogging. She had once traveled these streets voluntarily.

Best not to think of the past. Best to pack the pieces of it away like old toys in a closet. Perhaps someday she could open that door, shed some light, blow off the dust, oil the squeaky parts, and resume living. But for now, living must be traded for surviving.

She sucked in her cheeks, hoping she looked as gaunt as she felt. The wisp of breeze that blew up the street, more carbon monoxide than oxygen, was not even strong enough to ruffle the fringe on the awning above that shoe shop. But she felt as if the breeze might sweep her across the broken concrete, sending her tumbling and skittering like a cellophane candy wrapper. Sweeping her toward the city's throat.

She dared a glance up at the twenty-story tower of gla.s.s to her right. Eyes, eyes, eyes. Show no fear. Stare the monster in the face. It thinks itself invisible.

What a perfectly blatant masquerade. The city was rising from the earth, steel beams and guy wire and cinder block a.s.sembling right before their human eyes. Growing bold and hard and reaching for the sky, always bigger, bigger. How could everyone be so easily fooled?