by Shirley J. Gregory
I need help. My neighbor has a little problem, and I feel partially responsible for his predicament. Well, we both got a little excited about my idea, and didn’t stop to really think through what we decided to do. It happened so suddenly we were caught off guard. And, now he’s … well … he’s sort of … Well, let me start at the beginning.
It wasn’t all my fault. I mean, he egged me on … He even volunteered! But, I did start it, all just because I was bored.
You see, I’m an artist. I create watercolor pictures for greeting cards. Flowers, trees, ponds, baby birds, kittens, romantic little bridges … I know you’ve seen my work. Right now there’s nothing to paint but wet autumn leaves on the ground because it’s been raining for nearly a week, knocking gold and red leaves prematurely from the trees. I was fed up with painting wet autumn leaves, and my inspiration was waterlogged.
My inspiration comes from all around me, you see, because of where I live – in a cottage near a lake on a mountain. It’s freezing up here in the winter, and searing hot in the summer, but heavenly in the spring and autumn – if it doesn’t rain too much. But, the best part of living here, however, is the solitude. My nearest neighbor is five miles away. Only twice a month do I go into town to pick up my supplies and mail. And, only twice a month do I receive visitors – well, just one visitor – my neighbor Dr. von Holbrooke.
Dr. von Holbrooke is the town’s mad scientist. I never go to his place because it’s filled to the rafters with the booby trap-like inventions of his. No one can understand what these mad machines are supposed to do, and they look sinister to me. Many of the townsmen are superstitious about him. Rumor has it that he was fired from NIMH for experiments even they don’t condone. So, twice a month we have tea and gingerbread at my cottage.
Dr. von Holbrooke even looks like the classic stereotype of a mad scientist – scrawny and bent, salt-and-pepper hair, droopy white mustache, and wire-rimmed glasses – right down to the dingy white lab coat he always wears over white slacks and tee-shirt.
It had been storming so horribly today that I couldn’t even see the wet autumn leaves. I was so stumped for a new idea that I completely forgot today was visiting day. Even my mandatory morning constitutional in all that cold autumn rain did nothing to inspire me.
Then I noticed my cat Amanda resting contentedly on my damp mackintosh, which I’d flung across the radiator under the window after my walk. She wasn’t sleeping, and she didn’t seem to mind the steam rising around her. Sitting like a sphinx, eyes nearly closed, she appeared to be day dreaming.
The steam began to make fanciful swirls and twisting wispy shapes around her and made me think of the romantic prose of science fiction writers describing the “mists of time and space.” Amanda assumed a pose worthy of the royal and worshiped cats of ancient Egypt with a self-contented smile as if reliving and relishing that glorious, golden era.
Or, was it something more? Was she on a plane above transportation or dreaming … Was she somehow communing with something … or someone – a spirit, angels? Or something else?
To prove how bored I was, my mind began to wonder about the mysterious nature of cats. So contented and peaceful, so self-satisfied and calming to be around. And, with the look of wisdom and cunning on their sweet faces when they look at you, almost as if they understood the secrets of life, but preferred to keep them to themselves.
How do they get so wise, I wondered. If Amanda communes with birds, rabbits and deer from her window perches, it must be by mental telepathy. What about inanimate objects? Scientists feel that houses, jewelry, and other items retain strong emotions. Maybe everyday objects do as well, like my mackintosh, for example. What could it tell Amanda about me, where I’ve been, and what I’ve been doing? Was she reliving my recent walk in the rain amid the steam wafting up from my coat right now? Was she absorbing memories?
I flunked science in high school, and I hate it, but suddenly I saw a formula in my mind’s eye of how to test my hypothesis. If Amanda’s temperature rose in proportion to the temperature of the steam rising from my coat, could that mean she was receiving information from my coat? I rushed to get the thermometer from the bathroom cabinet, and held it over the steam. 99 degrees. But, I knew Amanda wouldn’t let me take her temperature by mouth, so I tore open my junk drawer and found the small flexible thermometer my insurance company gave me as a thank you gift for renewing my policy.
I cuddled Amanda on my lap and distracted her with a gentle muscle massage between her shoulder blades as I held the thermometer against her forehead. Her temperature was much lower than 99 degrees. I was dreadfully disappointed.
“Vat in da vorld are yu do’hing?”
Amanda and I both nearly jumped out of our skins. Dr. von Holbrooke walked on crepe-soled shoes.
I explained my idea, and he was fascinated. “Za scientific method iz to take Amanda’s temperature both before and after zhe zat on yur mackintosh,” he admonished thoughtfully. “And, for best results, da temperature must be taken internally in dat area of da brain ve know to be where da memories are ztored! Ah,” he continued thoughtfully, “if dat part of da brain zhows an increase in da temperature, ve can aszume yur hypothesis iz correct!”
I wasn’t about to allow him to poke a thermometer into Amanda’s brain. But, he really wanted to test this theory, so we went to his house in my jeep (Dr. von Holbrooke didn’t own or trust motor vehicles. He walked everywhere usually. But, as he was so anxious to test my theory, he made an exception this time.)
I had qualms about entering his log cabin, but, being careful not to touch anything, I followed him through the small combined living room/dining room, to the steep flight of stairs that led down to his cellar laboratory.
I was amazed at how large his cellar was; bigger than his home. And how crowded it was with table after table of bubbling experiments in bell jars and Petrie dishes over Bunsen burners. At the far end of the room was a long cage filled with at least 30 white mice. I think he must have bred his own.
While Dr. von Holbrooke got right down to work, I was having second thoughts. Or, maybe my creative block was finally gone and I was just coming to my senses.
I watched in horror as he scooped up one of the mice and put a needle through its temple, lickity-split, disregarding its squeals of pain, then, quicker than a blink, attached a tiny hose to it. The hose was attached to some kind of heat measurement contraption.
By now I felt he’d forgotten me, and I should have left right then. But I was fascinated at his absorption, so I continued to watch.
Next, he opened his notebook to a fresh page and jotted down the mouse’s temperature. Then he laid his raincoat on top of a metal plate sitting on his hot plate. He placed the sleeve of his mackintosh on it, and strapped the mouse, squirming and squealing in terror, to it with a heave block of wood on its back.
He kept careful notes of the temperature of the steam from the mackintosh rose, and of the mouse’s temperature. After a while, the mouse stopped struggling and sat perfectly still, as in a daze. Throughout the rest of the experiment it simply sat peacefully with the same far away look in its eyes that I’d seen in Amanda’s.
After a few minutes the steam’s temperature seemed to level off. Dr. von Holbrooke un-strapped the exhausted mouse, returned it to the cage, extracted another one, and positioned in on another, still wet, part of the coat.
I was too stunned to move. What had I started? If only I’d realized that this was just the beginning. If only I’d left right then!
Dr. von Holbrooke placed six mice on the hot plate altogether before he remembered I was standing there.
“It iz conclusive!” he shouted excitedly. “I tink yur theory may be correct! Every time da temperature of da coat and da temperature ov da mices’ brains vise at da zame vate. Dey received some’hink from da Macintosh, of dat I am zure! May be memories. May be images. But, some’hink iz definitely happen’hink. Dis iz zo exci’hink!
“Vhy have I never noticed diz phenomenal before? Yu are a genius, my girl!”
He could see I didn’t share his enthusiasm. I think that’s what pushed him over the edge.
“I am zo zure ov yur theory, I vant to prove it to yu! Zit vight down here and I vill …”
“Ohhhh, no. Don’t even think about it!” I exclaimed. You
better believe I was ready to leave then! “You’re not going to poke that needle
through my brain.”
He seemed hurt. “Ov course nought!” he cried in mild reproach. “Yu zit vight here, and I vill zit vight here. Yu vill zhave a zmall zpot vight here on my temple, ya? And gental’ly press dis needle into da middle of it – into my brain.”
No matter how I protested, he insisted, reassuring me that absolutely nothing bad would happen to him. He even showed a diagram of the mapping of the human brain, and pointed out the region where memory resides. It was right beside a rather larger region of the brain for which scientists have not been able to identify a function.
I should have stuck to my guns. I should have told him to do it himself. I should have left. But, I didn’t. I allowed myself to be convinced.
I shaved away a small circle of hair on his temple where he showed me. I gently shoved the needle in the bare spot and into his brain, which was little bit bloodier than either of us expected (but we managed to slow the bleeding to a trickle), and a lot more painful than he expected. We attached the hose and meter, and took his temperature. Then, we placed a still-wet part of the coat on the hot plate, and he gently placed his hand on it. The coat began to sizzle and steam.
By now I, too, was curious to see if my hypothesis worked for humans. Could humans absorb memories from inanimate objects? I carefully noted the temperatures in his notebook as they steadily climbed, along with the time intervals between temperature changes, just I’d seen him do it. I kept Dr. von Holbrooke appraised of our progress verbally, but eventually he grew quiet and stopped acknowledging my comments. Suddenly, just when the temperature leveled off, I was jarred from my note taking by an explosive gasp from him. I looked up. His eyes had a far-off look as if he did not see me; as if the cellar walls did not exist for him.
“Oh,” he repeated in awe, like a blind man given sight and witnessing sunrise for the first time. “Oh, I can zee … zee yu … valk’hink … in dat little vooded area behind yur cottage … in da vain. I zee yu … trip! Over a … a downed tree branch … covered by da vet autumn leaves. ‘Leaves … leaves, leaves. Not’hink but vet autumn leaves to paint!’”
It was my turn to gasp. That really did happen on my morning walk. I really did say that out loud!
I took the temperatures again; the levels remained constant.
“I … I,” he said hesitantly, “I … oh …”
I looked up, expecting to see the same euphoric, far-off look of serenity the mice had at this point, and which he had just a moment before, but I was frozen in shock by his transformation. Dr. von Holbrooke’s eyes were closed now, but there was no peacefulness in his expression. His brow was furrowed, and his mouth was pinched in pain. The hand on the mackintosh wasn’t lying lightly there, but was gripping a bunch of cloth in a tightly clinched fist. He was obviously in great pain, but he couldn’t move or speak.
Suddenly the thermometer dangling from the needle in his brain burst in my hand. I screamed and jumped away from the table. Had a sudden surge of heat from his brain made the temperature soar? But, the temperature of the steam coming from the coat still remained unchanged.
Stretching as far as I could to avoid brushing against him, I grabbed the notebook and pencil from the table and kept taking notes.
Dr. von Holbrooke’s body began to twitch, and I wondered if some mercury from the thermometer had gotten through the tube and needle dangling from his temple. “If so, he could be dying of mercury poisoning,” I wrote. “Or,” I thought, “maybe we missed the mark. Maybe the needle slid into that uncharted region of the brain.”
“Should I turn off the hot plate?” I wrote. That wasn’t steam coming off the coat now. That was smoke. Pretty soon the coat would begin to burn. I continued to observe. Science was sort of interesting after all, I was beginning to think. Then something happened that made me lose interest in science experiments for ever.
“That part of the brain where memories are stored in the human mind must have a hyper sensitivity to mercury,” I wrote, “because Dr. von Holbrooke is beginning to change right before my eyes.”
I noticed his facial features first. They began to get fuzzy, like an impressionist painting, and his usual paleness became even pastier. I stopped writing when his body began to melt.
That’s what it looked like. He just seemed to melt into his clothes. His head and neck melted into his shoulder out of sight beneath his lab coat collar, a strawberry-vanilla swirl pooling inside his tee shirt. His right hand and forearm dropped to the mackintosh in a puddle of lumpy tomato soup. The other lay beside him on the table now, still solid, but resembling a candy cane a child had gotten tired of. I threw the pencil and notebook away, and backed unknowingly into the wall in my revulsion.
A rustling noise rose from the lab coat as something was trying to punch its way out of it. I edged towards the stairs. I was curious to see what Dr. von Holbrooke was turning into, even though I felt I might sleep better nights if I didn’t know. I wanted to stay, and I wanted to run. Just as I’d convinced my paralyzed knees to bend so I could ascend the stairs, the thing in his lab coat rolled out, blinking furiously at the ceiling light.
I was appalled. My curiosity was satisfied but, in immediate retrospect, I wish I’d never seen it. It was headless, hairless, tailless, and limbless, but it retained intelligence in its soulful eyes and expressive mouth, which resided in the exact center of a perfectly round ball of raw, bloody flesh, all situated right above what used to be his belly button, I believe. And just below two holes that might be nose or ear openings. I couldn’t decide which.
It opened its mouth to speak, but I knew I would freak and maybe faint if I heard Dr. von Holbrooke’s voice come out of it, so I fled. I couldn’t help but look back as I stumbled up the stairs, of course; it had rolled over until its mouth opening was above its eyes.
I totally lost it then. Screaming like a mad woman, I streaked through the house, slammed the front door shut so hard the latch inside fell, jumped into my jeep and speed away from there over brushes, boulders, whatever, from zero to eighty in two seconds flat.
I felt sorry for the cage full of mice, but I couldn’t face that thing again to set them free. I was sorry that I didn’t turn off the hot plate. That mackintosh was going to catch on fire soon, and soon the entire laboratory would be engulfed in flames, taking most of the house with it before the rain could put the fire out. But, by then our horrible experiment would be ashes, and long before Dr. von Holbrooke was officially considered missed, I consoled myself.
No one ever visited Dr. von Holbrooke. They didn’t feel it was a healthy environment. Plus, everyone expected him to blow himself up one day anyway. No one will ever find out what happened to him if I went home, painted some more wet autumn leaves, and kept my mouth shut.
We must have missed the memory region of the brain, my mind raced for an answer to the disaster, and made contact with that huge uncharted region of the brain instead. We must have triggered something that perhaps sets us back or propels us forward on the evolutionary ladder. I couldn’t decide which; was the new Dr. von Holbrooke an improvement? I don’t remember studying anything resembling him in high school (although I did tend to doodle a lot in biology class; I might have missed something).
I momentarily thought about publicizing this new species, then I decided I’d rather go home and paint.
“Yes, that was the ticket,” I advised myself. “Go home and paint some more wet autumn leaves.” I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t been inspired to paint them earlier today. It seemed so logical, and inviting now.
“But, how will you keep the nightmares at bay?” I asked myself. “And, how can you be sure Dr. von Holbrooke hadn’t somehow rolled out of his lab and safely out of his house? How can you be sure he won’t show up at your door for tea and gingerbread on the next visiting day?”
Shirley J. Gregory is a writer of fiction and non-fiction. Her nonfiction covers a wide range of subjects from technical topics, politics, and social issues to book, restaurant, and event reviews. Her fiction is lively and humorous, unexpected, and, at times oddball. She goes where her imagination takes her.