Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 19

 

Sixteen

Nights go quickly when you stay asleep, so I couldn’t really believe it when I heard Father brushing his teeth. Hadn’t we just gone to bed?

But streaks of dawn sneaking below the curtains told me the night was over. And a day I feared, dreaded, and anticipated had already begun.

***

At a little restaurant not far from the motel, Father and I reviewed our plans one more time. I couldn’t eat—I merely nibbled at the bagel I’d ordered.

And then we drove off to the site where I’d arranged to meet Dr. Eastbrook and to tell him where he could find his device.

The place was on 114^th Street and 1^st Avenue in nearby Lansingsburgh, New York, right near the Hudson River. Father dropped me at the site and drove off with tears in his eyes, but he could not stay: He’d promised.

It was about 8:45 that morning when he drove off—Will I ever see him again? I wondered. But I could not let myself get emotional now. Too much depended on my calm, on my preparation for this encounter.

Dr. Eastbrook had agreed to arrive at 9, and I wondered what kind of car he would be driving. There was not much traffic on 1^st Avenue, and virtually none on 114^th Street, which came to an end where it hit 1^st. If you kept driving east, you’d end up, very quickly, in the Hudson River, which flows calmly along in parallel with 1^st Avenue.

A small patch of woods stood between 1^st and the river.

And across the street stood a very famous house once occupied by a very famous writer, Herman Melville. It’s not a museum, and the only clue to its significance is the historical marker outside. I walked over and read it:

HERMAN MELVILLE

AUTHOR OF “MOBY DICK”

FAMILY HOME 1838–1847

DID HIS EARLIEST WRITING AND

COMPLETED FIRST TWO BOOKS

HERE, “TYPEE” AND “OMOO”

But the house was empty now—with a For Sale sign in the front yard.

While I was waiting, I stared at that house, imagined the brilliant man who had lived there for nine years, who would write Moby-Dick.

As nine o’clock neared, I began to get a little worried. Did Dr. Eastbrook have some kind of plot he was about to execute? Was I about to discover what it feels like to underestimate an opponent?

But then I heard the sound of a motorboat out on the river. I moved through the few trees and saw something that nearly sent me running away. In the boat were Dr. Eastbrook and Blue Boyle … well, sort of. There were actually two Blue Boyles, one with a bandage on his forehead.

***

I’ll admit it: I was more than a little surprised, though; as I stood there, mesmerized, I quickly realized what had happened—and it confirmed something I’d thought of earlier. But as I saw Dr. Eastbrook arrive at the shore, I decided to play dumb. To act surprised—well, more surprised than I actually was.

He and the two Blues walked up into the trees, saw me, and grinned like three Cheshire Cats. He saw my (falsely) startled face and smiled with pride.

“I think I surprised you,” he said.

“Yes. You could say that.”

The two Blues just stared at me—though the one with the bandage on his forehead seemed a bit angry. What? Just because I knocked you out with a rock?! I silently joked.

“I thought we agreed this would be a private meeting—just the two of us,” I said.

Dr. Eastbrook shrugged. “Kids lie,” he said. “So I figured I’d better bring some back-up.”

I snapped back at him, “So it turns out that you’re the liar.”

“Guess so.” He smiled even more broadly. “Better to lie than to be lied to.”

“No wonder your wife left you,” I said.

Now that he did not like. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, the smile vanishing from his face.

“Oh, don’t I?”

“You do not. And if you don’t stop this line of … conversation … these two friendly fellows”—he gestured back at the two Blues—“are going to have some fun this morning. One of them, especially, would really like some … alone time with you.”

“I’m sure he does,” I said, still trying to project some confidence—though I’ll admit it was getting harder to do so.

“Let’s get down to business,” he said. “Where’s the device?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I need some assurances from you—though since you’ve already declared yourself a proud liar, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here.”

“What assurances?”

“That you will vanish from my life, from Father’s life. Permanently.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“Not really,” I said. “You have to put it in writing. In this envelope.” I had taken some stationery and an envelope from the motel desk—as well as a stamp. “You’re going to write what I tell you. You’re going to put it in this envelope and seal it. You are going to give it back to me, and I am going to walk over there”—I pointed to a mail-drop out by the road—“and we are going to wait until the mailman comes by—which is in about five minutes—and picks it up. So … you’d better get to work.” I handed him the materials. Told him what to write. He did.

I took it over to the mail-drop, addressed it to John, back in Ohio, pulled the lever, put it inside. Returned to Dr. Eastbrook.

“And now we’ll wait,” I said.

Sure enough, in just a few minutes the mail Jeep came by, picked up the letters inside the drop, and drove off.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” said Dr. Eastbrook.

“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m just trying to protect my father—and myself.”

Dr. Eastbrook just smiled. I didn’t like the look of it.

***

“Well,” said Dr. Eastbrook, “are you ready to show me where you’ve concealed my property.”

I turned and pointed to the Melville house. “It’s in there,” I said.

“How could it be!” he barked. “That’s a private home—”

“Do you see the For Sale sign?” I asked.

He looked, then nodded.

“Well, I said, “the house is empty—and appears to have been that way for quite a while. And I have a … way … with locks.”

“I’ll bet you do,” he said.

We walked across 1^st Avenue, pretended to be looking the property over. We saw one motorist approach, so we pointed at the house, as if we were interested in buying it. Of course, I wondered what the motorist would think of those two giant Blues who were with us.

Once there was no traffic in sight, we quickly moved to the back door, which I had previously unlocked. We moved to the kitchen, and on the counter sat Dr. Eastbrook’s device.

“At last!” he said. And moved quickly toward it.

That was my clue to exit.

I didn’t get far.

“Stop her!” he cried. “Something is wrong here.”

And both Blues had my escape route blocked with their massive bodies.

***

The Blue-with-the-bandage picked me up as easily as I would pick up a doll (though I can’t be sure: I never owned one) and turned me around to face Dr. Eastbrook, whose face was tomato-red—with anger, I supposed.

“What have you done to this!” he demanded.

“Done to what?” I tried.

“To this!” And he shoved his device in my face.

“I can’t tell what it is,” I said. “Stop waving it around.”

He nodded to the other Blue, who slapped me in the face—so hard that I nearly passed out.

“I see,” I managed. “I see it clearly.”

“Then tell me what you’ve done to it! And no more games—I’m about to turn these two guys loose on you.”

“Your two sons?” I said as calmly as I could, my ears ringing, my cheek burning in pain.

That stopped him. He stared at me.

“What did you just say?”

“Your two sons,” I repeated. And then I added, “How many more of them are there?”

Now he was stuttering. “What are you—?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” I said. “That ‘device,’ as you call it, is a part—a very key part—of your human cloning project.”

“How on earth—”

“I’ve had that ‘device’ since we left Green Island,” I said. “I’ve been looking at it carefully, and it didn’t take me all that long to figure out what it was—and what you were doing.

“And by the way,” I added, “it doesn’t work anymore—and won’t ever work again.”

I saw the fury surge in him like a flash flood.

“Blues!” he bellowed. “Finish her!”

Smiles formed on their faces like cracks in glass.

And then the door opened behind them, and in walked someone I recognized immediately, a young man in his mid-twenties.

“Who are you?” croaked Dr. Eastwood.

“I have a couple of more pressing questions,” replied the young man. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my house?”

“Your house? But I thought—”

“Well, sort of,” he said. “I haven’t actually lived here since 1847. But in other ways, I’ve really never left here.”

Silence.

“Who is this madman?” said a nervous Dr. Eastbrook.

I stepped forward, shaking off the hands of the Blues, who, too, were startled. “Allow me,” I said. “Dr. Eastbrook, this is Herman Melville.”

***

Those words sounded bizarre even to me. But in recent years—in recent days—I had become very accustomed to seeing and hearing things that made no sense.

And, as I discovered not too long ago (to my sorrow), some of those things I saw and some of those people I saw were but characters from my memory and imagination, people brought to life by the drugs that Dr. Eastbrook had secretly and successfully given me.

But this vision—or memory—or whatever it was—seemed surpassingly real. Herman Melville was dressed in nineteenth-century clothing and looked as he did when he published those first two books, Typee and Omoo, books based, somewhat, on his own adventures in the South Seas.

We all just stood there, looking at one another, our eyes moving from one person to the next. And then back again.

Finally, Melville broke the silence. “I’ve been listening a little while, and I don’t really understand what you were talking about. But I did hear the slap; I did hear the threat to do even more harm to this young girl,” he said. “And I want you to know that I will not allow it.”

A hint of a smile returned to Dr. Eastbrook’s face. “And just how do you propose to stop us?” he said. “A girl. A ghost … if that’s what you are … opposing an adult—and these two stalwart young men.” He pointed to the Blues.

“Your sons,” I repeated.

He whirled toward me. “Yes, my sons!” he cried. “But no one else will ever know about it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Herman Melville calmly as he removed a whaling harpoon from behind him. And at that moment a couple of other doors opened, and in came William Godwin, Mary Shelley, James Fenimore Cooper, and (last of all) the huge nameless creature created by Victor Frankenstein, my ancestor. And that creature, I should remind you, was … is … always will be? … eight feet tall. And quite ugly. But at that moment he looked to me to be the most handsome man who ever lived.

The Blues apparently had seen enough. They both turned and sprinted, screaming, for outside. But the creature, who, as Mary Shelley tells us, could run extremely fast, quickly pursued and caught them, returning to the room, each one dangling like a shopping bag from his enormous hands. Neither bothered to resist.

The creature spoke: “These two rascals have had an alteration in their plans of escape, and have returned so you can do to them what you will.”

The Blue with the bandage yelped: “Frankenstein doesn’t talk like that!”

Mary Shelley stepped forward, her red hair gleaming under the overhead light. “His name is not Frankenstein,” she said. “In my book I gave him no name—and for a very specific reason.”

“Frankenstein was the name of the young man who created him,” I said. “Victor Frankenstein.” I looked over at Mary Shelley, who was smiling at me. “And,” I went on, “if you ever read the book—which doesn’t seem too likely right now, does it?—you’ll see that he does speak in long, complex sentences, not in the grunts and moans you have probably heard in the movies.”

Mary Shelley was now smiling even more radiantly.

“So now what?” asked Dr. Eastbrook. “Someone will call the police? And you’ll all live happily ever after?”

“Not a bad plan,” I began to say, when I heard the front door open again. And in walked Gil Bysshe, dear Gil who, just months ago, had died at Niagara Falls.

All my lights went out as I felt myself slump to the floor.

***

“How long have I been out?” I asked Father, who sat on the floor, holding me in his arms.

“Not all that long,” he said. “Maybe ten minutes.” I thought I heard a catch in his throat. “You had me very worried, Vickie.”

I felt some tears bubbling in my eyes.

So I struggled to sit up.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I thought you’d been in here too long,” he said, “so I left the car and hurried over.”

“Was anyone else here?”

“No. Dr. Eastbrook and the others had left—in a big hurry, I’d guess.”

“Hmmm. Anyone else?”

“No.” He looked at me. “Was there someone else? I did think—”

“Think what?”

“I did think I felt some … movement … in the house. But I didn’t see anything. Why do you ask? Was someone else here?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. And I was being truthful. Had I had visions again? Were there actually ghosts in the house?

“Anyway,” said Father, “if you’re feeling up to it, we’d better get out of here.”

I said I was all right.

Father looked around. “What happened to the device.”

“That’s a long story—I’ll tell you when I get to the car.”

And so I did.

***

We were sitting in a McDonald’s parking lot, sipping soft drinks. Silent.

“So now what?” he asked.

“I have no idea, Father.” I sighed. “I think our only option is to head back home.”

“I was really hoping you’d say that,” he said. “This has become very, very weird.”

“Maybe we can figure out our next move there,” I said. “And—I don’t know—I just feel safer when I’m not in a cave or on a strange island being threatened by giant twins.”

Father looked at me and smiled.

“Me, too.”

From Blue Boyle

My head still hurts. Was that monster real?