Free Zod Wallop by William Browning Spencer Page A

him.
    “I thought you might be able to tell me something about it. Your son dropped it when he fled the grounds. I thought you might have seen it before, might know something of its history.”
    “No.”
    “It’s not a published book,” Lavin said. “It’s a sort of mock-up. Actually, its author is famous, a writer named Harry Gainesborough who was a patient at Harwood. You must have met him. He has certainly seen you. This evil countess in the book is supposed to be you, Gabriel.”
    “I don’t recall meeting anyone named Harry. I suppose I might have. Perhaps at one of those picnics.”
    “Your son never spoke of the book? It’s called Zod Wallop , but it is not at all like the book in the stores. This is much different. This is not something any child should read, I can tell you that.” Dr. Lavin’s voice had grown louder, tremulous, modulated by anger—no fear, it was fear—and he reached out a hand toward the book, prepared, no doubt, to show Gabriel some proof of its vileness. But he stopped, pulled back his hand, as though remembering the serpent was poisonous. This seemed to require some act of will, and he closed his eyes and exhaled. His jowls quivered like a curdled pudding.
    “What was this man doing at Harwood?” Gabriel asked.
    “He had lost a daughter. She drowned in the ocean. He began drinking heavily, became suicidal. Dr. Moore was his doctor.”
    “When I was eight years old,” Gabriel said, “I had a dread of swallowing my teeth. I thought I would probably swallow them in my sleep, and, consequently, I couldn’t sleep. My mother knew I wasn’t sleeping, but I refused to tell her why. Perhaps I was afraid she would have them removed.”
    The phone rang and Gabriel answered it. She handed it to Dr. Lavin.
    “It’s for you,” she said.
    Gabriel walked into the kitchen while Dr. Lavin spoke on the phone. He had adopted his official bullying voice.
    When she came back, carrying a bottle of wine, Dr. Lavin was replacing the receiver and folding a piece of paper.
    “We think we know where they are,” Lavin said.
    “You know where my son is?”
    Lavin shrugged. “We think he is with Raymond Story, and it seems Raymond Story has gone off in pursuit of this writer of children’s books, this Gainesborough fellow.”
    “Why?”
    “Gainesborough somehow figures in the boy’s delusional system. Apparently Story was almost drowned as a child, so he feels a bond to this man whose daughter drowned. Schizophrenic systems are not, by definition, rational, and since Story’s problems are not amenable to interactional therapy, I’ve never been much interested in his case. I have very little time for any individual therapy these days—I make an exception in your case, Gabriel—and speaking of time, I’ve got to go.”
    Dr. Lavin stood up, swept the book from the table, and strode toward the door.
    “I can remember my father licking my kneecap!” Gabriel screamed at her psychiatrist’s retreating back. “I once grew sexually excited while fondling a kitten. When I was in the third grade, I bit a boy on the ankle, clean through his sock, made him bleed. I didn’t even know him.”
    Dr. Lavin had his hand on the door.
    “I am terrified of ants. I think, I think it is their smallness that frightens me. They shouldn’t be so small, you see, and so busy at the same time. You understand me, Theo?” Gabriel shouted, coming quickly across the lush carpet. “I need some answers here!”
    “Come to my office tomorrow morning,” Lavin muttered. “We’ll discuss it then.”
    He opened the door, intent on doing what males did best, abandoning her, and Gabriel screamed.
    “You old whore!” she yelled, and she swung the full bottle of wine, clutching it by its thick neck, and it traveled proudly at the end of her arm, a heavy, aerodynamically confident instrument suddenly recognizing its purpose, and it struck the psychiatrist’s head, the back of his skull, eliciting the sort of sound you