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A Little Head
A blond, blue-eyed receptionist’s warm smile
broadens as she welcomes Allan Wahl to Number 66, one in a row of six
brownstones converted into executive offices. “Can I hang up your coat?”
she asks before she says, “Mr. Withers has been delayed - in traffic.”
Nice legs, Allan notes following her down the
hallway to a private waiting room.
“Dr. Black will join you, momentarily,” she
announces, still holding his coat.
Allan performs a set of good-news, bad-news
mental gymnastics: Is Withers stalling? Am I being jerked around?
This is Allan’s fourth scheduled interview. Dr.
Black conducted the first like a comfortable conversation rather than an
extensive evaluation and, working together like a well-oiled set of checks and
balances, they both accepted the pretence. Dr. Black hid his latent tendency to
play mind games and Allan made a conscious effort to camouflage his natural
inclination for self-aggrandizement.
A routine psychological examination accompanied
their second discussion. “The information obtained from a series of tests will
measure interests, personality and aptitude,” Dr. Black explained.
Dr. Black included the Rorschach test in this
profile of behaviour and intellectual abilities. This surprised Allan. But even
more unsettling was what he saw in the series of inkblots - an endless array of
bats. Perhaps this was his subliminal reaction to the fine print at the bottom
of the first page of instructions. It warned: Information should be limited to
only those vitally concerned with your personal and professional growth. Whether or not there was a simple
explanation, Allan proceeded with caution. If Dr. Black’s views about
superstitions were as outdated as these tests, an omen like bats could call up
an undesirable reaction. They might conjure a sense of unease, or arouse
suspicions of betrayal. And so he described these images as Ginkgo leaves.
Brazen, he interpreted their shape as bat-like. Then explained, “For just that
reason, the Chinese consider them a symbol of good luck.”
By the time Dr. Black held up a likeness of
fully splayed female genitalia - that much was obvious - Allan was submerged in
deception. He compared them, favourably, to an exhibit of modern art which he'd attended the previous Saturday
evening with his wife, Maggie.
Congratulating himself, Allan sniggered when
that visit was over. And he basked in the knowledge that he'd repressed the urge to share his
belief that Ph. D. stood for Phuddy Duddy.
After what seemed like interminable weeks of
waiting, Allan was informed he'd passed with flying colours. During
the brief encounter that followed, Dr. Black discussed a consequential wage and
comprehensive benefits package with Allan, and then scheduled a meeting with
the client.
According to Dr. Black, this was, “ . . . all
but a formality.” His client was impressed by what he’d learned about Allan. “You’re
an ideal candidate; the exact specs Mr. Withers is seeking. You’re head and
shoulders above everyone else,” he confided. Allan dismissed Dr. Black’s reassuring
chuckle as employment-agency humour.
“Make yourself comfortable,” the receptionist
coos.
Furnished with antiques and overstuffed
furniture, this private waiting room epitomises the surroundings in which Allen
believes he belongs. The fireplace along the far wall is lit to draw the damp
out of the cold November morning. Two deep-brown leather couches face each
other from either side of it, separated by a low coffee table. In back of one,
a rich mahogany unit houses leather-bound books, a solid brass lamp and locked
doors which must hide a well-stocked bar. Behind the other couch, a large
window frames the world outside.
“Please, help yourself,” the receptionist adds
before leaving him to wait there, alone.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Allan says to himself.
Two chocolate brownies are perched on a china plate placed next to a matching
cup and saucer, all set on a tray holding a highly polished silver coffee
service. When Allan notices both the creamer and sugar bowl are empty, he’s
overcome with a feeling of quiet reassurance. This proves the firm is paying attention;
they’ve probably uncovered everything they could about him. They’ve found out
the way he likes things.
Allan pours a cup of strong black coffee. It
has a rich aroma, and the warm liquid deposits an almost imperceptible, fine
gritty residue on his molars. Allan picks up a brownie, takes a bite then,
savouring its flavour, settles back into the supple form-worm comfort of the
couch.
When Dr. Black summarised the background and
references checks they planned to conduct, he guaranteed discretion. “You won’t
feel a thing, Allan.” The sound of his familiar reassuring chuckle accompanied
Dr. Black’s promise.
Despite a vigilant watch during the subsequent
weeks, Allan failed to uncover any evidence of snooping - neither around the
office, nor on the home front. As far as he could tell, no one had been tipped
off to the increasing likelihood of his approaching departure.
Certainly Dr. Black’s firm had sufficient time
to discover that he was willing to do to just about anything to cross the
finish line. And now, balanced on the precipice of the opportunity of a
lifetime, nobody was more ready to get out of middle freaking management or to
change his circumstances than Allan. At long last, he was going to be
appreciated, valued; get the future he deserved.
The quid pro quo was Allan’s agreement not to
tell anyone that these discussions were taking place. “These interviews,” Dr
Black stressed, “are highly confidential.” That piqued Allan’s interest; he
felt he was especially good at keeping secrets. He was also convinced of his
ability to compartmentalize the different areas of his life - in a manner that
discouraged unrelated issues from bleeding into each other.
Allan thinks about the last few years . . . and
the way Theresa made them bearable. The first time she leaned over his desk to
jiggle her magnificent breasts in his face, Allan swore he heard her
kitten-voice promise: “I give unforgettable head.”
As it turned out, she blew his mind in a way
he’d never forget. Cramming her head below the steering wheel of his late-model
Taurus she’d snagged his foreskin in the gap between her two front teeth as she
bobbed up and down, then lisped her apology to his “fordskin.” He should have
stopped the affair then and there. A man like him knew better: Those big-busted
ones don’t know a thing about pleasing a man, always think they’re doing you a
favour just by letting you touch their tits. They’re like those dirty old men
who cruise around in fancy foreign cars . . . assuming if they let a broad ride
in them, she should return the favour.
Still, Theresa was eager and willing to learn,
and she was a quick study. Just as important, she seemed satisfied with their
no-strings-attached arrangement - at least until her divorce freed up her
availability. For a time, he had no regrets. He should have known better about
that too.It was bad enough that Maggie found out . . . and he wasn’t doing
it to hurt her. What made it worse was that, in some pique of rage about a
missed encounter, it was Theresa who told her. It was impossible to trust
anyone these days.
“We’ll take it slowly,” Maggie and Allan
agreed, when first married. “We’ll build a good solid foundation.”
No debt. That’s what Allan thought they’d
meant. But before long, Maggie announced she was pregnant. Then, pregnant
again, she gave up her job at the museum - her career that Allan never forgot.
He thought Maggie’s obsession with African art and artefacts was morbid. And
the way she constantly talked about her intention to do her postponed
dissertation on the Benin bronze trade bored him. Maggie’s preoccupation with
relics, or dead things, reached its ghoulish peak last Halloween. As her
contribution to the pot luck staff party, she baked shortbread cookies sculpted
in the shape of fingers, attaching slivered almonds to look like finger nails.
Despite their popularity, Allan refused to touch them.
When Maggie found out about Theresa, the shit
hit the fan. Allan thought she would never recover. So it was off to a marriage
counsellor once a week. At first, Allan explained that sometimes, after he
rolled off Theresa, he just snoozed, or slept, or simply let his mind wander.
He was desperate to reveal that it wasn’t sex; it was the void that followed. When
the world was absolutely still . . . that seductive silence was the best thing
he'd ever known. Other times, Allan wanted to shout: “It didn’t mean anything!”
Allan tried to make Maggie understand that what
he did with Theresa could never be described as lovemaking, but his excuse fell
flat. After that, he refused to think about what would happen if Maggie ever
caught him again.
And so, Allan’s life revolved around Tuesday
evening’s punishing schedule. Arsenic evenings never varied. The race home for
dinner wolfed down in the presence of two wailing kids and a pent-up wife
followed by an hour-long session of remorse and repentance. To make matters
worse, Allan and Maggie were rushed home after counselling because the
teen-aged baby sitter had to be up and ready for classes the next day.
“Who’s paying her, anyway?”Allan resented the
whole wretched inconvenience.
There wasn’t time to stop for a drink with
Maggie, there wasn’t time to rekindle romance. But it would take more than
booze to prime Maggie for sex. After driving the sitter home, Allan returned to
find Maggie sound asleep, or wide awake and ready to rehash some detail dredged
up during the evening. There wasn’t time for Allan.
Meanwhile, Theresa was once again arranging
intimate conferences. And by Wednesday mornings, Allan was ready to agree to
her schedule of spontaneous sex - just to get out of his rut.
Still, he was fed up with the monotony of fending off
Theresa’s relentless temptations in the office. While hopes of a happy home
life were restricted by his wife’s constant threats. Maggie vowed if Allan
betrayed her again, he’d find his head on a silver platter.
“I expect it would be your balls.” To reinforce
this opinion, the blotchy-faced counsellor said, “If you are serious about your
commitment to save your marriage, you will stay away from other relationships.”
The next day, despite his protests, Theresa
tucked herself neatly under Allan’s desk. Her head nestled between his legs;
the fully absorbed Theresa whispered her admiration. Although appreciative,
Allan couldn’t decipher her mumble. She might have said, “You’re hung like a
pistol,” or, “You’re presidential material,” or, “You belong on a pedestal.”
But when he returned home that same evening,
Allan discovered Theresa’s telephone number displayed on their list of last
callers. Sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for Maggie to return with the
kids and the groceries, he considered the consequences of a full confession.
Then he sorted the mail, separating it into neat piles. Not much personal
stuff. Too many bills. Flyers that were not worth flipping through. And Maggie’s
endless array of industry magazines and tabloids which would remain stacked by
the couch until she had time to get to them, and that included pouring through
personal columns.
Allan opened a large manila business envelope
that had been delivered by hand. Along with a carefully cut out Classified Ad,
a cover letter outlined how someone had recommended Allan as the perfect
candidate. “Would you mind if a representative called later in the week to
discuss a prominent position?”
Loaded with meaningless jargon, the ad called
for an individual who wanted to take his or her rightful place on a team of
carefully chosen professionals, one who was prepared to make the changes
required to get there. It sought a qualified applicant primed for exposure in
the global arena, someone who had a proven track record of producing: on time,
on target, on budget. However, something in the last line appealed to Allan. “Ready
to be groomed, the ideal applicant is willing to do what it takes to assume a
well-deserved position in the board room.”
The compensation package Dr. Black and Allan
discussed at their third meeting included a Lexus and a generous signing bonus.
A handshake confirmed their agreement. During the brief phone conversation that
followed, Dr Black chuckled and said, “Successful candidates never look
back.”
By placing the generous signing bonus in Maggie’s
hands, Allan could move on - guilt free. He would leave everything behind.
Everything, that is, except the Lexus, which he’d use as his getaway car and,
of course, a babe magnet.
Once again Allan looks around this private
waiting room; he has no doubt that he belongs in elegant surroundings like
these. Still, the wait fills him with apprehension. And the room is so warm
that he considers removing his suit jacket and relaxing his tie. He would, if
he could . . . if he thought he could get away with it. But the position isn’t
his yet, and Allan isn’t about to risk it. A foolish mistake now could
jeopardise his chances. Allan moves away from the fire, and pours himself
another cup of their grog. Although it’s cooled considerably, or perhaps
because of it, Allan finds it refreshing. Either way, it’s addictive, just like
the second brownie, which he devours along with a great deal of bravado.
But during this interminable wait, Allan
becomes anxious. Light-headed, woozy, and suddenly lacking energy, he regrets
not having taken advantage of the delay, to use the washroom. Too late - this
isn’t the time to be caught with his pants down. Increasingly aware of
the beads of perspiration forming a dotted line across his upper lip, Allan
wonders whether to count, or to connect them. And this rational thought
convinces him, at least temporarily, that he’s firmly in control of his life.
He takes his handkerchief from his pocket,
wipes his lips and forehead but unable to tuck the hankie back into his pocket,
lets it fall to the coffee table. The tree-lined street on the other side of
the picture window has become blurry; an eerie stillness settles over the leaves,
which, just a moment ago, blustered there. Unnerved and in a cold sweat, Allan
suddenly recognizes the source of these murky feelings. This isn’t stress. It’s
guilt. Thank God – it’s something he can deal with. This morning, he blamed the
stomach flu for his absence from the office. And now, Allan's personal lie detector, seeking
some warped form of revenge for this deception, is causing him to suffer these
phantom symptoms.
“Sorry for the delay, Allan. It was
unavoidable,” says Dr. Black. “Please don’t get up.” Except that standing would
have been difficult; a rubber-like substance seems to have attached itself to
Allan’s bones. Dr. Black had entered, almost unnoticed by Allan. And when he
talks, it demands all of Allan’s effort just to concentrate. But Dr. Black’s
voice reassures Allan. “We’ll just take care of a little paper work, then Mr.
Withers will join us.” And Allan’s tranquil state of mind is reinforced by Dr.
Black’s composure. He carries on as if completely unaware of, or at least
unperturbed by Allan’s condition.
Upon Mr. Withers’ arrival, he agrees
wholeheartedly with Dr. Black’s assessment: “Allan is a remarkable specimen.”
Although Allan is conscious of their discussion, their voices sound as
though they’re being strained through cheesecloth. And when these two men
describe what is required from him, and Allan is correct to interpret this as a
discussion of next steps.
Dr. Black picks up Allan’s limp handkerchief
from the coffee table, and Allan beams with pleasure when Dr. Black uses it to
wipe Allan’s sweat from his face. Dr. Black pauses to appreciate Allan’s
alabaster, almost translucent complexion. Allan admires Dr. Black’s dexterity.
And continues to smile when Mr Withers gently loosens Allan’s tie, and even
when both sets of hands touch Allan’s head. First to appreciate Allan’s blond
curls, then to measure his skull. Confident, sensing, somehow, that his future
is secure . . . and sure that nothing much matters anymore, Allan remains calm.
Liking this exact expression on Allan’s face, Mr. Withers signals Dr. Black.
This is the right time to inject a final, lethal dose. Allan makes no attempt
to stop them. The liquid that plunges through Allan’s veins saturates him with
soothing warmth.
Severing Allan’s head from his cooled body - a
body easy to dispose of - is painless, and placing the head in the
made-to-measure glass jar filled with a prepared solution proves equally
straightforward. The process of grooming, or shrinking, will take
several weeks of meticulous monitoring, but neither Dr. Back nor Mr. Withers
foresees complications.
It will be several months before Allan takes his rightful place behind the closed doors of Mr. Withers’ international boardroom.
Whenever it’s possible, Mr. Withers will unlock the doors of his antique
mahogany cabinet to expose Allan to a discerning world of connoisseurs, other
collectors who will recognize and appreciate Allan’s true value. In recognition
of his contribution, a polished brass plaque will be attached to the base of
the pedestal on which Allan’s shrunken head will be displayed. It will read: A
Wahl.
Oddly enough, the investigating officer wrote a
similar-sounding term in his notebook after he interviewed Maggie about Allan’s
disappearance.
Emilia Wildfield short stories have been published
in literary journals such as Canadian Fiction and Modern Haiku,
USA. During the last year, her work has appeared in Wascana Review,
the issue of Lichen featuring couplings, and Other Voices. As well
as winning several international awards, her poetry has been anthologized
and performed in Japan and Toronto.
Email: Emilia Wildfield
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