Glaxo Welcome - Chemistry is All

by

Joan Pond

I stomped the snow from my shoes, then came into the house. I watched the ants, scattered across the kitchen table, as they tumbled and foraged for food. A dollop of Chivers Marmalade was host to a swarm. The remnants of a telephone dangled from the wall. Black and red wires, with rigor mortised limbs, reached for their lives. Their frenetic connections had ended, all too soon.

My husband always massacred the phone when something was amiss. I assumed he had ripped the receiver from the wall, in a caniptious fit, (as only Sewall would say). Black plastic shards littered the floor, interspersed with spatters of blood. Such an interesting, yet twisted, Rorschach.

I tossed my keys onto the counter and sat at the table. Why did I always have to clean up after these caniptious fits? All I did was go to work, get caught in a snow squall in Tarrytown, and come home late. Now, I was confronted with carnage, wreckage, and ants battling over the remains of Sewall's breakfast.

"Hello", I said, with a heart, half full, half empty, tired of fits, cleaning crumbs, and spraying for ants.

Ssssssssssssssst. Yes, I'd mist the buggers, then watch them stagger, as though suffering from the vapours. Slowly, as the Wicked Witch of the West, they would implode and shrivel into tiny black crisps.

Last year, ants had dismantled the inside of an entire couch. Piece by piece, they had formed a nest in the winter closet where we kept the parkas and skis. When I opened the door I couldn't believe it. There was a huge foam monolith in the middle of the closet. The leaning Tower of Pisant, as we called it. But Sewall did not think we had an ant problem. And I thought, fine, we don't really need any furniture.

I was reminded of the three legged chair, positioned by the piano. Only the pure of heart, as Sir Lancelot, could sit there. Anyone else would be sent, careening to the floor. (Many new Yale Professors had heard of the chair). And on their first visit to the old house, they would, stare at it, as though it could impart some special knowledge. Cagily, the Professors would wait for Sewall and my father-in-law to leave the room before asking about the legend behind the chair. Legend? It had simply lost its leg in a vacuuming accident and no one had bothered to fix it. End of legend. End of story.

"Hello", I said, raising my voice. "Hello."

I followed a trail of blood through the hallway and down the stairs. "Im Home", I said, as I rounded the banister. I could see Sewall's reflection in the bathroom mirror. A towel swaddled his right arm and he held it, high, above his head. He appeared top-heavy, like a one-armed Popeye the Sailor.

"Gosh!" Sewall jumped as though zapped by an electric prod. "Where have you been? I kept calling your office, and calling your office and they said you were out."

"Well, that's what chauffeurs do. They go out a lot." In fact that was about all I did. But I always seemed to return home.

I walked into the bathroom and saw bright red blood in the sink. "What happened?"

"It was that damned cat." Sewall spun around. "I was on the phone trying to tell your boss about my mom's Rex Begonia. I left it out last night and the snow killed it. When I brought it in, it started to bleed. It was the only plant I had left from Mommie, and it bled to death." Sewall shook his arm at me and the towel slipped. "Your boss told me to stop calling so much, or I'd get you into trouble." His voice was shaky. "D-damn her to h-h-hell."

I watched the rivulets of blood trickle down his arm toward the sink. As little blips on a radar screen, they formed an eerie crimson pattern.

"And then," Sewall began to sob. His rigid arm shook. "I. . .I broke up a cat fight between Buster and Milkie, and this is the thanks I get." He tried to re-wrap the bloody towel. "Milkie practically bit my thumb off. I'm going to kill that cat."

"Oh, come on." I put my hand on his arm and began to unwrap the towel. It was hot, heavy, and sticky to the touch. "What could a cat possibly do? Lemme see."

"Jesus!" It was like a car accident I didn't want to witness. I saw the thumb and I stepped back. The appendage was dangling, as a participle, on the blackboard at the Elias Howe School. The poor school I attended, where the desks folded in, and trapped you. I turned to put my hand on the wall. "I can' t believe a cat did that."

"It was Milkie. Baaaaaaaaaad Milkie." Sewall lowered his arm and re-positioned his thumb to where it belonged.

I studied his reflection in the mirror. Blood was spattered on his blonde hair and face. His dark stubble of a beard had tips of red, like the lichen that grew in the upper field by the mill. I'd identified the moss in a book, as British Soldiers. Their stocky little spikes poked out, amid the crab grass, with crimsoned caps.

"Maybe we should go to the hospital."

"No!" Sewall danced in place, as the towel swung from side to side. "No! I'm not getting any needles. They're not putting any needles in me."

I flung my hair from my face and sat on the edge of the tub. "Okay. Okay. Don't get excited. Why don't we just go to bed and see how it is in the morning."

"Yes." Tears trickled down his face turning the blood spatters to pink streams. "All right." He shook his head. "We'll just go to bed and sleep on it."

I stood and stretched. My back ached from sitting in the limo so long. Snow, like tiny needles, had pierced the windshield all the way from Tarrytown. I'd hugged the steering wheel as though it was a life-saver. My hands still tingled from the tension.

"Your boss is a prick." Sewall said. "She said I called five million times. Ass-hole! I couldn't call five million times, because I ripped the phone out after the seventh time she told me to stop calling. Damn her!"

On rubbered legs I walked to the bedroom. Jesus Christ, I can't lose my job. It was the only thing I had saving me from Sewall and insanity.

When I left the house each morning, I would watch Sewall waving good-bye in the rear-view mirror. I was reminded of those Russian nesting dolls. They would become smaller and smaller, then disappear. But Sewall never quite disappeared. No matter how far or fast I drove, the image of Sewall would never go away.

I opened the closet and saw an ant scamper under the tread of my sneaker. I hung my blue jacket on a wire hanger. Taking a T-shirt from the shelf, I shook it to make sure it was not infested with bugs. I unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it on top of the hamper.

Sewall came into the bedroom and sat on the bed. He coddled his toweled arm, holding it above his head. "Gosh, let's just sleep on it."

"Yes," I said and smiled, because if we both slept on his arm we would crush it. "We'll see how it looks in the morning."

Keeping my trousers on, I merely tossed my loafers at the wall. I got under the covers and took in a deep breath. If only I could fall asleep and not wake up. If only I could get out of this house and keep my sanity, intact. Was autism contagious? Would Sewall bleed to death while I slept? Would I be fired for having a husband GE considered, a nut-case? How could I tell his doctor, he was running out of Wellbutrin because he was using it as paint?

I pulled the blanket over my head. It reeked of mildew. We'd have been better off living in the servant's quarters. At least it wasn't as damp as the basement of the main house. But I was actually becoming used to the homey smell of dampness, the three legged chair and the leaning tower of pisant.

At times, I imagined my lungs turning green, and ants running around my brain. Sleep was my only way out. Please, sweet Jesus. Please. Let me fall asleep. Now I lay me down.

When I woke in the morning, Sewall was missing. There was no indentation on his pillow and the blankets had not been rumpled.

Spinning round, I foraged for my loafers, leaning against the moldy wall. I threw my T-shirt onto the hamper, and put on a crisp, clean dress shirt. Oh, the sweet smell of starch and detergent. I especially liked the ironed crease running up and down the sleeve. It was so sharp it could nearly slice cheese. Tommy's Cleaners did the best job. Those Orientals really knew their business. Someday, they would rule the world.

Grabbing my jacket I draped it over my shoulder. I ran up the stairs and found Sewall at the kitchen table. He appeared as a giant question mark, stooped, with the GE toaster at his feet. Every time it would pop up, his big toe would push the lever down again. The tiny red filaments glowed, as his toes did a tiny tap-dance over the slots. I wish I could tell my boss at GE the many uses of their toaster.

"Hungry?"

"No!" And as a child, Sewall clutched the reddened bath towel to his body. "Gee whiz, I'm too upset to eat."

"Well then, I'd better head to work."

"I dunno'." He shoved the toaster's lever with his big toe, re-igniting the coils. "Maybe somebody should look at my thumb."

"That might be a good idea." Oh no. Noooooo! A day away from work. What would become of my job? My mind? I grabbed my keys from the counter and readjusted the jacket over my shoulders. "Let's go to Yale-New Haven. I'll call the office from there."

With the stealth of a stray, Sewall crept from the kitchen to the garage. He tippy-toed, on his flip-flops while clamping the towel to his arm. When he got in the limo, he placed his arm on the dashboard and stared out the window.

I backed out of the garage and slowly drove down the drive. The studded tires made criss-cross tracks in the snow.

"Gosh."Sewall looked in the rear-view mirror. "You know, I can identify you by the tread of your tires. It's like your finger-print. No two are exactly alike."

"Really?" God, he could be so annoying. Why couldn't he identify me by my upturned nose, the bounce of my step, my uniform, my intelligence, my job, my thin-ness, by the fact that I put up with him?

"Yesterday I was tracking the Perseids. If you hold up you fingers and make a square in the air, you've created a parsec. You count the number of meteors in a minute that pass through the parsec and then you know how many you have. I think aliens are communicating with me, this way." Sewall swung his arm onto his lap and flinched. "Don't you think aliens are trying to say hello?"

"I'm not sure." Pulling onto Downs Road I noticed the snow on the power lines. They appeared as cool tracks of cocaine. Yes, that's what I could use. A little snort or two. A respite. I mean, aliens? For God's sake, he was an alien, and he was turning me into one.

The entire trip to New Haven consisted of Sewall changing radio stations at least one hundred times. He figured this as a possible way aliens could contact him. It was either going to be through the FM or television. There was also a spider plant, hanging in our kitchen, that had potential. At night it would sometimes swing in a counter-clockwise motion. "For sure", Sewall would say, "for sure." That's just another way the aliens are trying to speak to us. Thank God, I was only aware of a few of the modes and methods aliens used to contact humans, and/or Sewall.

I parked the limo on a side street and put some change in the meter. Yale-New Haven Hospital was undergoing a face-lift. There was scaffolding, there were tarps, paint cans, signs, and workmen running around in hard hats. We walked to the emergency room door, but it wouldn't open. Sewall jumped up and down on the rubber tread at the entrance. Still, no sign of life. He took his swaddled arm and pounded the glass. Again and again he banged his toweled and bloody hand against the door.

I shouldn't have laughed. Two security guards quickly appeared and opened the door from the inside. They wore uniforms, similar to mine, but they had guns, and I did not.

"Gee!" Sewall yelled. "What's wrong with this place?"

One of the guards put his hand on the butt of his holstered weapon.

Such the tough guy, I thought. His gut was hanging over his black belt. He probably downed a handy six every night along with the pizza that had the extra cheese stuffed in the crust. You Neanderthal! We only want to see a doctor about a thumb that's been bitten off by a bad cat. What's wrong with you? Can't you see I am perfectly normal?

Sweat began to trickle down the guard's forehead, and little beadlets formed on his thick upper lip.

"Can't you see?" The other guard crossed his arms. "We're under construction, so there's trouble with the doors."

"I guessed that," Sewall said. He held his arm to his side and walked past the men. "This place stinks."

Of course, I had to attend to all the normal things. I presented the medical card from my wallet, checked in, signed some papers and told the lady at the desk the story about the cat biting Sewall's thumb. She looked at me as though I was an alien. Fuck her! I don't need this grief. I only want to get Sewall stitched up, call the office, bring him home, go to work, then go to sleep and do it all over again.

Sewall poked at the side of a fish tank with his uninjured hand. What appeared to be a spotted koi, sucked at the air, then dove to the bottom. As little oily bubbles popped on the surface, Sewall made a nasty face at the fish. The koi swam behind a fallen plastic diver, flapping its pink and blue fins.

I was surprised at how quickly an intern escorted us to a curtained room. They probably wanted us out of the public eye. Sewall sat on a sheeted table, while an ancient doctor approached, then unraveled the bloody towel.

"Wow!" The doctor's stethoscope swung round his neck. "What did you do?"

"G-g-gosh!" Sewall began to sniffle. "It was Milkie the cat. He was being bad and fighting with Buster. Buster is a good kittie."Sewall's tears began to run as a faucet. "I just tried to make them be nice, but Milkie turned and bit me. I hate Milkie."

The doctor looked at me and made his ball-bearing eyes very small. "This doesn't look like a cat bite to me."

I stood erect trying to appear to be the paragon of industry. Don't you know, I work for General Electric and drive the Chairman of the Board, Mr. Reginald H. Jones the Third. Do I look like the type of person to take a chunk out of my husband's thumb? I'm the normal one, here.

"He's telling the truth," I said. "The cat bit him."

Paternally, he placed his arm around my shoulder. "Let's you and me go for a walk."

The doctor smelled of pee. I couldn't figure if it was his own or a former patients'. He led me to a curtained room. "I want to show you something." He swooshed the drape aside, as though he was about to reveal a magic act. There was only a young woman, lying on her stomach.

"See her back?" He whispered. "Those are human bites. When her husband gets drunk he comes home and starts eating her."

It was gruesome. Horrific. She turned her head and little bubbles came out of her mouth. I was reminded of The Lawrence Welk Show. The bubbles just kept coming and coming. The woman looked like a gargoyle, fallen from the side of a building. Couldn't someone put her back? Then, she would only be eroded by the elements, and not her husband.

Tugging at his stethoscope the Doctor focused on me. "Now, don't you want to tell me the truth about that bite? You know, a human bite is far more serious than the bite of an animal."

The fucker! I could not believe this. Why would I bite Sewall's thumb? Man, I just want to go back to work and drive. I want to drive and never arrive, because as soon as I get back to GE, I get sent on another trip.

"He was bitten by a cat." I said.

The doctor shook his head. "If you want to maintain that story, it's fine with me." He directed me back to Sewall's cubicle.

His snooty tone reminded me a little of the boss of my boss at GE. Mr. Smith would always say, "When I tell you to jump, you should ask, how high?

Poor Sewall. He was surrounded by two nurses and another man in white. A nurse held a hypodermic needle to the light. Well, that did it. It was lights out. Sewall swooned, then fainted, dead away. His face turned white, and his toes seemed pale against his black flip flops. The room was entirely too white, and the fluorescent tubes hummed like frightened llamas.

I needed a seat. Recalling our blood test before marriage, I remembered Dr. Doering had brought out a needle that had been hidden beneath a white cloth. Sewall fainted, in a heart-beat. When he came to, I told him Dr. Doering had pronounced us corpse and wife. No one laughed.

Since I am not good at watching medical procedures, I looked the other way as they poked and prodded. There was the stink of alcohol, the clanging of metal on metal, chatter, and clatter. Outside, the workmen ran about, like the ants on my kitchen table. All they needed was a mound of Chivers Marmalade, and they could all dive in. Twenty minutes later, the dastardly deed was over and done.

"Gosh." Sewall began to come out of his self-imposed stupor. He shook his head and looked at his thumb. "Gee!" He sat, bolt up-right. "Is it all done?"

The doctor smiled. His teeth were severely tartared. Did he have a fear of dentists? The man was a complete medical mess, with stains covering the front of his coat and a frayed collar sticking out at a right angle.

"You, sir," he said, "are fortunate this thumb did not infect."

"It was Milkie." Sewall hopped off the table and examined his bandaged thumb. "I hate that Milkie. Baaaaaaaaaaad Milkie."

"Let's go." I took the keys from my pocket. "I'll treat you to lunch at the Polynesian Empire."

"Oh Goodie!!!" He clapped his hands. "Can I have a flaming Pu-Pu Platter?"

"Sure. And I'll call the office from the restaurant."

We left Yale-New Haven as quickly as possible. This time, the door successfully opened and closed. I was thankful the Polynesian Empire was nearby, because Sewall kept inspected his thumb and whimpering. He would look at his thumb, whimper, close his eyes, stamp his feet, look at his thumb, whimper, close his eyes and stamp his feet.

The parking lot was nearly empty. As though he was an invalid, Sewall allowed me escort him to the restaurant. It was warm, and a young waitress seated us near the kitchen. Chinese lanterns hung above the plastic tables. As exoskeletons, their guts were hanging, inside out.

"Here is menu." The waitress half bowed, then skittered from the table.

I opened the menu and could not believe the number of exotic drinks. There were Zombies, Coconut Cruisers, Suffering Bastards and Blue Heavens. I wanted them all. I needed them all. The rum, soda and coconut milk, the vodka, tequila and lime.

Sewall looked at his menu and began to sob, silenty.

"What's the matter? I thought you liked this place."

"I'm hurt." He held his thumb in the air. "Milkie was a baaaaaad cat. My Rex begonia is dead. Nobody talked to me on the radio. Today was just another shit-tee day."

Yes, I thought. It was just another shit-tee day. I still hadn't called the office, a doctor accused me of biting my husband and a human bubble machine had bites taken out of her back.

"Listen," I said. "It's all over. They stitched up your thumb and said you'd be fine. Let's order a drink and a flaming Pu-Pu Platter."

Sewall's green eyes opened a bit wider. "Goodie, goodie." He gestured, in his stick-like manner, to the waitress. "Oh, Miss. M-m-miss."

The waitress came to the table and bowed. "You order?"

"Yes," I said. "How about two Blue Heavens and a flaming Pu-Pu Platter."

She grabbed the menus and flew from the table. The Chinese lantern twirled in her wake.

"See." Sewall pointed at the lantern. "They're trying to speak to me."

I cradled my head in my hands and tapped the heels of my loafers together. There is no place like work. There is no place like work. I needed a bit of Blue Heaven to calm the nerves.

The drinks the waitress delivered were enormous. But that did not stop me from digging my heels and taking advantage of the booze. Only booze could ease the pain we both endured. Oh how Sewall relished the tiny umbrella, opening it and closing it one hundred times. One hundred and two, one hundred and three. I began to lose count as the Pu-Pu Platter was finally delivered.

The yellow-orange flames made Sewall's eyes sparkle. He stabbed his skewer, deep, into the fire, and twirled a sliver of chicken. This was my blue heaven. I ordered another drink and watched Sewall play with his food. The second drink seemed to relax and console, as I continued to watch Sewall as he cooked and consumed his food. This was my life. I was married to a savant who could do high math but not balance a checking account. This man played with fire as though it had just been discovered. I sipped my drink through a straw and rocked from side to side. The music sounded as though it had been pan-pipped in from South America.

Sewall frowned and put his skewer on the table. "We have to put Milkie to sleep. He's a baaaaaaaad cat."

"Well, we can bring him to Dr. Moribundi on Saturday."

He stuck a piece of meat in the fire with his fingers. "But it will be sad."

Sad. What was sad? Driving home from work on a Friday with my hands shaking. Not knowing whether Sewall would be in bed smoking dope from a water pipe fashioned from a Vermont Main Syrup bottle, or be ambulatory. What was sad? Wondering if I would become autistic, or crazy, due to association?

I suppose I was sad because Sewall was going further and futher on the stygian ferry, or whatever the hell it was called. He was traveling away and there was nothing I could do to pull him, safely, to shore.

Shit! My life was just plain shit. It was shit and ants and aliens and now I had to bring a baaaad cat to the vet.

My brother had once said he wished Sewall was a chocolate bunny, then, he could bite his little head off. He said it didn't matter if Sewall had a head or not. Yes, there was something going on in there, but no one could understand. Least of all me. Ha! Just let me drive to La Guardia and JFK. Give me a stretched limo with Reginald H. Jones the Third in the back. Now, there was
something I could do with my life.

I sipped my Blue Heaven through a straw and reached into my polyester jacket for some change. I had to call the office and make up some excuse. But I couldn't tell Mr. Smith that Sewall had been bitten by a cat. I couldn't tell him that a hanging spider plant could be a medium for communing with aliens. I couldn't tell him that the Rex Begonia had bled to death, and that was why Sewall had called so many times.

Surreptitiously, I spied on Sewall as he played with fire. His bandaged thumb was leaking a pink fluid, but he was not aware of anything, other than the flame. He was a moth, an innocent, a man who painted with Wellbutrin because he liked the colour red.

If Glaxo Welcome only knew, chemistry was not necessarily all they provided. Just as General Electric brought good things to living, and much welcomed heat from their toasters.

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