La Folie Raisonable Vii

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La Folie Raisonable by James L. Secor There was Uncle Albert, as always, lounging in the round-seated booth in the far corner of the restaurant. The fish restaurant that she always went to. She liked the fishy smell, the odor of fresh salt water stinging her nostrils, the stink of carrion. And, true to herself, her nostrils dilated and she breathed deeply. There was no one in the place but her and Uncle Albert. How strange. She smiled at him and raised a hand to wave, but didn't. Her hand just hung in the air in the face of his implacable countenance, lean body stretched out along the naugahide seat, his long thin legs poking out from beneath the table. There was no sustenance on the lazy Susan. No glasses or other implements for gustatory delight on the table. It was bare. But how could that be? Uncle Albert had invited her here. Told her there would be a feast. She lowered her hand, rounded her fingers into a fist, nails creasing her palm. And she scowled. She scowled so hard her head began to ache, the ache wrapping itself around her ears and nestling down into her neck, hurting her eyes，burning her shoulders. Her smile wanted to fade, the constancy of it only irritated the headache, but she couldn't not smile. An exquisite pain. She moved forward, legs heavy, dragging herself through the thick bisque atmosphere.

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A crabbed old lady, withered and wrinkled like a prune, materialized at the reception counter, sitting on the counter, one leg crossed over the other, bony knees sticking up like little mountain peaks. She smiled her three teeth at Victoria Lake and pointed with her pointy chin toward Uncle Albert. The old hag crooked her finger at Victoria, inviting her to come closer as she progressed through the dining room, mouthing something to her with her cracked blue lips. Her voice was too thin to be heard. Victoria changed course and went toward this ancient maitre d', though it seemed she could not quite get any closer. She tried harder, walking more sternly, but to no avail. The floor wanted a different direction. However, Victoria could hear the old critter's whispering, "Come here, dearie. I've got something for you." She turned her hand over. She held up a shiny red apple. Her mother never said anything like that to her! Her mother never really gave her anything before, let alone an apple, though she longed for something. . .something. But in this ghastly restaurant, everything was like a soda cracker, dry and harsh. Uncle Albert stood up, still impassive. There was no emotion on his face, though he smiled. No lines, just the widening of his excessively red lips over his yellowed teeth, all pointy like shark's teeth. Filed, Victoria thought as a child, when she saw him in the darkness. And again now. She was drawn to him and moved by the floor, floating effortlessly and gaining speed as she approached her Uncle. His red eyes gleamed-Red eyes?! ***

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Victoria sat up. Another nightmare. The same one. Her breasts rose and shook violently with her breathing. Her hand at her throat trembled as she played with her ankh. She had been playing with this more often than usual through the past several days, she realized. The blood pumped through the arteries in her face, around her nose, beneath her eyes. She could feel it surging just beneath her skin. First around her lips, then around her nostrils, then beneath her eyes and in their balls. Worms under her skin. So irritating! She tried to blink it away. With her hands to either cheek, Victoria got out of bed and padded to the bathroom. She shut the door and turned on the light, closing her eyes to the glare. When she opened them, she looked at herself in the mirror. The same Victoria Lake, albeit a bit more high-colored in the cheeks. She leaned in to her reflection, amazed as always that she looked quite like this. Smooth pore-pocked skin that wore no character. Where did she come from? What was in her eyes, dark unto black? Were those bags under her eyes? Her fingertips played over their swelling, searching for some underlying reason for their discomfiting her face, a nice round classic face. More sleep would take care of that. But. . .she couldn't sleep without those terrible nightmares. That one single recurring nightmare. Wherever did it come from? Why was her mother like that, an old crone? And why was Uncle Albert there? So important to the vision. He'd been dead for years and she didn't like him when he was alive. Victoria turned on the cold water and let it run over her hands before splashing it on her face and neck. It cooled her off but it didn't make her feel any better. She

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patted herself dry, turned off the light and returned to bed to lie there til the alarm went off, a petrified tree. Afraid to breathe. Afraid to close her eyes. Her husband grunted and flipped over against her.

"Here she comes!" The office help broke up their little coffee klatch and returned to their respective desks as Victoria climbed up the stairs to the office building. She was going slowly, slower each day, dragging her feet. But it would not do to be found chitting and chatting. "Good morning, Ms. Lake," they said, raggedly, as Victoria entered the office. Victoria stopped and looked at her helpers, her assistants, she called them to make them feel a bit less unimportant, knitting her brow at their politesse. Always careful with and suspicious of her underlings, Victoria sensed that they'd been doing something they shouldn't have been doing, like misbehaving children. So many adults were like that. Snickering and dithering and scheming behind her back. And why were they looking at her that way, as if something was woefully undone about her? She'd checked herself in the mirror before she left the house: fastidious, as ever. There was nothing wrong with her. "Good morning," she said and went into her office, shutting the door behind her and all but falling into her black high-backed swivel chair, the one with wide wings. She slumped there for awhile, a sack of potatoes. She took a deep breath and pulled herself up and to the desk. Time to get to work! But, lord knows, she didn't

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want to. No sleep for--how many weeks had it been?--had sapped all her energy. Those frightening dreams. . . Out in the outer office, the girls were furtively glancing toward Victoria's door and whispering amongst themselves. For months now, they'd had to pussy foot around their boss, as she'd become more and more irritable and intolerant. Which was reasonable, as she told them she wasn't sleeping well. Yet, to begin with, she was temperamental. When in the dumps, there was nothing anyone could do that was acceptable or without fault. When in a temper, Victoria was a bully, a bully with a wicked tongue. But there were other reasons for them to be gossiping: Victoria's appearance was changing. No longer was she crinoline stiff and wellgroomed, no longer well-made up, impeccable like a movie star. Oh, her clothes were the same but they now did not fit her properly, making her look dumpy and negligent. A poor tailoring job. And her face and hands, the only parts of Victoria's body she allowed to show. . .they were scruffy, like a snake shedding it's skin. And then, another day, they would be red and irritated, her nails cracked like she'd been digging in the dirt, her face pinched and plagued. She was making lots of mistakes in her work, too, mistakes her staff corrected, for if they didn't the faults would be theirs. Victoria Lake was beyond such a possibility. What was happening to her? Victoria was not aware of these changes. She still saw herself as the classic beauty with the rounded face, almond-shaped eyes--no extra fold--and arched eyebrows. Of course, her eyes were not as bright as usual but with the nightmares

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disturbing her sleep this would be expected. Even wearing her glasses did not hide their glazed, bulging look and darkening rings. She didn't like wearing glasses, thinking it made her look old maidish--and she wasn't. Lately, though, she'd taken to wearing them all the time, even out in public. What a horror! But she couldn't stop herself. Her clothes were ever straight-laced and coldly professional, crisp, creased, sensible. Black and white. Or various shades of earth brown. And, of course, she was as meticulous with details in her work as ever, she knew, because nothing was ever returned to her for editing. She was still at the peak of her powers. And, as far as she was concerned, ever more would be. It was ordained. "Uncle Albert! What are you doing here!" bellowed from behind Victoria's office door. A pause. Then, "Answer me, dammit!" And again silence. The ladies in the outer office stopped working, raising up their heads to look at each other, eyes wide. No one had gone into her office. No one could climb through the barred window. They shook their heads or bit their lips or muttered "oh, dear." This was not, though, the first time something like this had happened. Indeed, over the past couple of weeks, such outbursts were becoming more commonplace. "What ya think's the matter?" "Who ya think she's talkin' to?" "She's goin' wacko, I tell ya." "What can we do about it?" "No one would believe us, she's so reasonable." "Yes. She's got a rationale for everything. All in its place."

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"Must be nice to have all the answers." They were silent awhile, waiting in the silence for the next explosion. Soon enough, before they'd let out their collective held breaths, sobbing slid from under the door of Victoria's office. The ladies looked to each other. And then they were jolted upright by Victoria's huge scream: "But I've done everything right! You can't do this! Not now!" Her door flew open and she emerged, blouse rustled like she'd been fighting off a rapist, her hair disarranged, eyes wide behind her askew glasses. "I don't want to see anyone!" She slammed the door.

Victoria Lake was tremendously successful. She had risen quickly in her position as liaison officer until she took over the department before she was 28. The youngest ever. She knew everybody and everybody was at her fingertips, ready with any favor she might ask. Always smiling, always with a bright eye, Victoria was popular and very personable, unlike the man she replaced. The heads of the company were glad to have her with them. She was at the top of her form, the top of the ladder. She was the power, her decisions setting the tone for the company's profile, however hard it might be to take her pronouncements. As when four employees in two years had been sacked for not very substantial reasons. And her decisions were final, unilateral. There was no arguing. There could be none. For one of the Directors, one such sacking remained a mystery. But he said nothing. Around Victoria there was a shield of silence: no one talked of what it was she did or how she did it. No one bucked her, for she had control of

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the employment base and was known to be caustic, at the very least, and immovable when confronted or criticized. After all, she'd never failed. Some would say, she'd never been tested or confronted. There was nothing she didn't seem to be able to do. So nobody complained. Openly. She seemed to "hear things." Except for the past couple of weeks, though some said they saw a change in Victoria's demeanor earlier on, perhaps a month past. She had become, first, a little irritable at any requests of her, though she would come through in the end. But not with her usual aplomb or good will. And she would suddenly lose her temper at the most untoward moments, over the most insignificant of peccadilloes, shouting at the offender like a harpy. Later she would turn around and smile at them, offering help or whatever else may be needed, as if nothing had happened. A few times, she'd even snapped at the Directors, an unheard-of behavior. Post-partum depression? Pre-menstrual tension? Marital blues? Since she would not talk about things, no one could come up with a reasonable explanation. When would the break-up occur? Everyone tip-toed around her.

There was Uncle Albert, draped over the seat, legs protruding from beneath the table, that supercilious smile on his smooth face, nary a wrinkle. Placid, emotionless glass eyes. Eyes that grew rounder and redder and more robustly red

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the closer she slid toward him. She wasn't sure she wanted to go to him but the floor carried her in his direction. His smile, great pointy yellow teeth and red lips, grew huge before her, taking up the whole screen of her vision. "Uncle Albert. . ." she whined. "This is not right." "You signed," he said in a flat, emotionless voice that rose up out of the soles of his feet, maybe even from deep in the earth, gravel grating on gravel. "It's not. . ." "Oh, yes it is." Uncle Albert took out a roll of parchment, a red ribbon wrapped around it. "Remember?" "Is that. . .it?" "Ahh. . ."

She awoke choking and cold with fear. This was near to death, nearer than she'd ever been before. Her breath had been stopped up and she woke panting. She coughed. Sodium taste in her mouth, like an uncleaned grate. Ashes. Her stomach turned over and she jumped up and ran into the bathroom, kneeled over the toilet and vomited. She hated to vomit. It was so disgusting. But she could not help herself. The partially digested dinner, the drinks, the bile just kept billowing up and spewing out. Just when she thought the spasms were dying down, another wave of nausea would overtake her until there was nothing but clear bile drooling from her white lips. Her breathing ragged. Eyes drippy and ringed with black.

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She sat back on the floor. Lights flashing in her eyes and ears, floor moving like a ship at sea. Her head ached. And she was unable to move or think. The world was a blank place. Not black. Blank. It danced before her eyes. Taunting her. "Honey? Are you alright?" came her husband's voice from the darkness. Victoria shook her head, very slowly. Just once. Any more and she didn't think she would remain upright. Her elbow buckled and she locked it again, trembling. He came to her. "What's up?" "Vo. . .mit. . ." she spit out. "Here, let me clean you up." He flushed the toilet, a raging Niagara Falls in her ears, and wet a cloth to wipe her chin and mouth. She didn't like to be waited on like this but there was nothing for it, she was unable to do it herself. She was unable to do more than sit on the floor and hold onto the porcelain bowl to steady herself. "You're hot, baby. Come back to bed." He helped her up and led her rubber legs back to bed, tucking her in. She was feverish, with red skin showing white patichiae like welts on her arms. Her breathing was a fiery furnace as he bent over her, kissed her forehead. He climbed into bed next to her. Recoiled. He couldn't get so close, she would burn him. So he held her trembling yellow leaf of a hand, a hand that was soft and white at other times, a hand he enjoyed running over his skin. Now, it was bony and knobby. Eventually, her breathing slowed, the wheezing stopped and she fell asleep. It took him some time before he, too, drifted off, still holding onto her withered hand.

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Victoria smiled over the phone, poison seeping into the little holes and overflowing the plastic mouthpiece. She was in her element here. Gusts of fresh air blew into her lungs and heightened her color. "No," she cooed. "I will not. My decision is final. There is nothing you can do." She carefully hung the phone up. "Yes!" Her smiled broadened. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes against the pure joy of success, of one more crushed overachieving, over-reaching human. No one could be better than her. No one could outshine her, deflect attention from her. "I so love doing that!" And she wrought her destruction so calmly, so effortlessly. This was her forte. And everyone in the office knew when she had once again handed someone their destiny, for she was pleasant to everyone. Her smile and twinkling eyes were, though, somehow dreadful, making her assistants' flesh crawl. But any mistakes went by the wayside. "No problem. We'll take care of it later. Isn't it a wonderful day, ladies?" But their fingers shook over the keys, holding their pens, filing the papers. It was at times like this that Victoria licked her lips, as if she'd just tasted blood. And it was good. *** Visions swarmed over the ceiling and walls, a racquetball court of furious pictures, all bright primary colors but with burn-tinted borders. Victoria knew all of the people in this hemispheric movie. She knew them well. She knew she'd done something to them but just what was right just beyond her reach. What is it?

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Why are they so. . .augmented in their suffering? And why were they here torturing her? She'd done nothing wrong. None of the pieces fit together and nothing sequentially followed anything else. This virtual life was a mishmash of. . .of. . .memories? No. Not memories. Memories were more complete and meaningful. This. . .this was a glut, as if there was not enough time to get it all in in time. A hurried life. Much too hurried. Nothing was touching. Victoria didn't know her emotions. She didn't know what she was feeling, if indeed she was feeling at all. These things were not happening to her. Nor were they her happening to them. She was kind of removed, dissociated, as if walking through a life that did not touch her but yet she affected. Or effected? Sometimes the difference between the two was insurmountably tiny. It didn't matter that someone was hurt or lost. It didn't matter if someone's life fell apart. It didn't matter. Things happen. It wasn't her problem, it wasn't her fault she was around when they did. She didn't ask to be born! Little girls rushed at her from the ceiling: "Why did you take my daddy away?" Men loomed out of the corners: "When are you going to do something worthwhile?" "When will you pay attention?" From the walls. "You don't have the authority!" blew up the air. And from the floor: "You are nothing! You're a failure! My biggest disappointment." "Why is she doing these things?!"

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Growing out of the ceiling light, that was never turned on, grew Victoria as a little girl, troubled and weak and whiny. A crying shame. "It's me," Victoria said to the slowly enlarging shadow of her former self. "It's me. . ." "Nobody loves me," whined the little girl in the ceiling. "Nobody. I'm a nobody. Waaaah!" She sniffled and snuffed and snaked her hand across her nose. And then, a disembodied voice, Victoria's voice as a college student. "People are always at me. They won't leave me alone. I'm only comfortable lying in bed at night listening to the darkness settling around me. It overcomes me. It comes into me and fills me up with soft, gentle. . .grandmother arms. Sighing and asking me to come in. Come in. I like that. I want more of it. Oh!--I'm yours. I'm yours! Take me and make of me what you will." Uncle Albert's voice answered, "I will. Oh, I will." He scratched her left breast, just above the nipple, and dipped a long, blacknailed finger into the welling blood. Victoria had no sense other than it felt so good, so nourishing. It made her feel, finally, like somebody. A real person. She signed a long, yellow piece of paper. The walls and ceiling and floor crashed into her. Victoria was assaulted and lashed, every picture shouting at a different pitch. And some chanting grew out of the pitching explosion. "And everything changed from then on! Everything changed. Everything changed and became real." A Gregorian chant.

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It's true. Everything changed. She became charmingly successful, navigating troubled waters without batting an eye, eventually wielding great power. Whatever her whim, it was to be. Like magic. And yet the world around her, now, in this room was laughing, laughing. Laughing like the laugh was on her, Victoria Lake. How could this be? There was nothing funny about her! The visions disappeared furiously quickly, sucked up into a tornado vortex and ending with a pop and, "It's too late, Vicky." Nobody ever called her Vicky!

Morning came sooner than expected, certainly for Victoria. She rolled over and tried to climb out of the bed only to fall to the floor. Her legs would not hold her. Her stomach and chest hurt terribly, as if she'd been beaten with a blunt instrument. Her throat was dry and her lips cracked. She smelled of fever sweat and putrid flesh. What had happened last night? There had been the dream, yes. But then what? She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and slowly rose to her feet. Unsteadily, she made her way to the bathroom and closed the door. And there was Uncle Albert, sitting on the toilet. "Let me use that, please," Victoria said. "Sure thing, sweetheart," replied Uncle Albert. He got up, even lifting the seat for her. He gesticulated for her to sit, long fingernails folding out of his opening hand. She did.

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"Thank you." "You're welcome. Anything else I can do?" Victoria shook her head. "What are you doing here?" She closed her eyes against the evacuations. She pulled at the toilet paper. "It's time." Uncle Albert smiled his mirthless smile. "Not this morning." "No time like the present, they say." "So they say. . .but they're wrong." Victoria got up and put the seat down. "Don't forget to flush," suggested Uncle Albert. "You don't want to leave evidence." Victoria looked at him, pulling her eyebrows together to fight the glaring light. "Evidence?" "Sure. Proof that you were here with me." "There's proof in there?" Victoria lifted the seat and peered down into the toilet. It was filled with maggots and worms. "Oh, fuck!" She let the seat fall, shattering the pristine silence with its echoing bang. "I'm dying." "Sweetheart, you've been dying for a long time." "Since when?" "Since you signed."

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The parchment from the restaurant appeared, red ribbon and all, in his skinny white hand, the one with the long black fingernails. Like a squire delivering a message from the King. "I never wanted this." "Oh, yes you did." "I need to wash up." "No need. Everyone will love you." She snorted. "No one loves me." "Oh. You'll be amongst your own kind, dearie. How could they not welcome you?" Uncle Albert turned Victoria around so she could see herself in the mirror. The shock made her take a step back and grab at her throat, at her precious ankh. . . which wasn't there. "Ahh. I took that last night. You don't remember, do you?" Victoria shook her head, not able to rip her eyes away from the image before her. Not a still image but a moving mirage. Her skin hanging in rags around her, apple peels revealing not soft juicy meat but a black basalt hardness that glittered like it had been oiled. This was no snake shedding its skin. This was no flaying alive. There was no method to the madness of her skin dripping away from the crust of her that lay beneath. "This. . .this isn't me. . ."

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"Oh. Yes it is. It's what you've become, sweetheart. You wanted the power and the glory. You wanted to be somebody. Well, you've had it. The thrill is over. It's time. Time to pay the piper." "I must say good-bye to. . ." "Nope. No time. Besides, you're already dead to them. You're lying in bed all bloated and ready to-A huge explosion hammered at the bathroom door. Protoplasm and ectoplasm and other inner ingredients flung themselves against the door. In fact, all about the room. Soaking the bed. "Explode. Pow! What an exit." Uncle Albert smiled but this time there were nasolabial folds on his face, mirth in his eyes, in his gleaming red eyes. He licked his lips with his exceedingly long, crimson, pointed tongue. "So. . .flush and let's be on our way." "There's some business I must attend to. I must finish another. . ." "It must remain unfinished. I'm sorry. There's a contract to uphold." "No. I've just got to do this one thing. I've just got to. . ." "It's all over, Victoria. You've had your go at it. You did good." "I did, didn't I?" She squeaked, tipping her head to one side to look up at him. "Not all by yourself, of course." Uncle Albert untied the red ribbon, showed her the contract. "You had help." Victoria looked at it, put her hands on it and pulled it closer to her one good eye to see better. The other had since melted from its socket. She scowled. "This is a contract. . ."

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"Right. And you signed it right there. See?" he pointed to her pretty signature. "I signed that?" She looked up. "I really signed that?" "Would I lie to you?" Uncle Albert laughed, two loud ha's. "Where'd you get this scar?" His finger snaked out and pressed on the thin scar on her left breast. "Fuck." "That's already been taken care of. You've got the son--" "He's not yours! You can't take him!" "No need to. He'll do fine by me later on. Be a real proud off-spring." "My husband did. . ." "Nope. No time for this. You're mine. Your soul is mine and I want it. Now." And Victoria stood naked before him and the mirror, stripped of all remnants of humanity. Skinned. Scaled past the bone to the glacial interior. She groaned and melted away, Uncle Albert brought up his fist, holding onto something, and crushed it between his fingers. "Another one bites the dust." He reached out and flushed the toilet.

dedicated to Si Tang August 2009