Wallflower

case.

The trap consisted of creating a traceable path between Diana and the signature, a path that would not run through me. So I instructed her to tell Carl, Sue Farber, the librarian, and a couple of her cronies among the patients that she was a sort of 'wallflower type,' and that was why she didn't like going to hospital dances. None of them would think anything of it, unless, of course, they were questioned about it later on. Then they'd all remember, wouldn't they? You bet they would! 1 also had her sign a note to me with a droopy flower leaning against a wall, a note I could plant without comment in her file. The best part of it was the way I persuaded Diana that the devalued flower she'd leave at each gluing would, in fact, be her signature.

A neat little double trap, if I do say so, for although she would only be the tool, she would think she was the artist!

Beverly Archer, wearing a prim navy blue wool skirt and freshly ironed white blouse, sits in a chair in her bedroom facing the full-length life-size oil painting of her mother on the wall. Diana Proctor squats on the floor between Beverly's legs, also facing the portrait.

The girl wears jeans but is bare above the waist.

'You know why we're facing Mama?' Beverly asks. 'You do, don't you?'

Diana shakes her head. 'I'm not sure,' she whispers.

Beverly, tightening her grip by pressing her knees together, feels the girl shudder. The little lynx is afraid, she thinks. As well she might be, considering she's about to get it.

'We're facing Mama because we want Mama to see, Beverly explains patiently. 'Isn't that right, my dear? I mean we do want that, don't we?' Beverly squeezes her again. 'Well?'

'I guess so,' Diana responds.

'Guess! Well, I assure you we most definitely do want her to see.

We want Marna to witness your correction.' Beverly pauses. 'You know why you're going to receive correction, don't you?'

'I think so,' the girl mutters.

'Tell me?'

'Because I hesitated.'

'You did, and now you're going to be punished for it.'

Beverly does not feel unkindly toward Tool. On the contrary, she feels quite maternal toward her. But the tool has effed and must be disciplined. The principle of unquestioning obedience must be reinforced.

'You know I don't like to hit you, Diana. You know how much it hurts me,' Beverly says. 'I know,' the girl concedes in a whisper.

'Especially as I understand what you went through as a child, the beatings you took from your grandmother. You know how much I despise brutality.'

'Yes, I know that, Doctor.'

'So you must concede that when I strike you, there has to be a very good reason?' The girl nods. 'What you did before down in the cellar, hesitating, standing there petrified, not even acknowledging my order, was deserving of the good, hard slap you got, wasn't it?'

Beverly feels another wave surge through Diana. 'Yes, I deserved it. I know I did.'

'Well, what I'm going to do to you now is not like a slap at all. It's important for you to understand the difference. I slapped you to shock you into action. The purpose was to sting and stun, make you aware of your responsibility to obey. The correction you will receive now has an entirely different objective. It's to remind you of your status vis-hl-vis myself. What is that status, Diana?'

'You're the doctor and I'm the patient,' Diana says as if by rote.

'Correct. And who is in charge in a doctor-patient relationship?'

'Doctor is always in charge.'

'Completely, in charge of everything?'

'Everything.'

'And patient's role is-go on, girl, fill in the blank spaces?' 'Her role is to obey Doctor.'

'Always. '

'Always.'

'No matter what Doctor prescribes.'

'No matter what.'

'And so if Doctor says, 'Kill the cat,' then patient must kill the cat, correct?'

Diana nods. 'Patient must immediately kill the cat.'

'Easy to forget sometimes, when the assigned task is disagreeable.

Nobody wants to stab a helpless creature and make a bloody mess on the floor. We both understand that. But there are many disagreeable tasks to be performed in this life. Mama taught me that, and now I'm teaching you.'

'Yes, thank you, Doctor.' 'Good. Now we shall proceed with the corrections Beverly grabs hold of Diana's hair, pulls her head back so her face is pointed up at the portrait. 'Look up at Mama, straight into her eyes. Keep your eyes fastened to hers. Don't look down again until I tell you.'

Beverly reaches to the little round marble-top table beside her chair and extracts a pair of stainless steel scissors. Feeling Diana tense between her knees, Beverly freezes with the shears as if posing for a photograph. She looks up at Mama, smiles, and nods, then, taking up a big handful of Diana's glossy black hair, abruptly snips it off.

Diana, finally comprehending the nature of her chas tisement, moans while Beverly looks down at the hair lying inky black in her hand. It is beautiful luxuriant hair, thick and soft, the little lynx's protective fur. And it's going to come off now, all of it, every single strand, until Diana's head is as smooth as a billiard ball.

Snip! Snap! Snip! Snap! The hair falls fast beneath the scissors. Beverly can feel the sweat on Diana's neck as she holds the girl's head steady, can hear the sobs that rack the poor lynx's body, too. Every so often, out of kindness, she reaches around to Diana's face to wipe away the tears. But still, she cuts, relentlessly.

'Now, now, my dear,' she comforts.

Tool, for all her distress, is behaving well. Even as she weeps copiously for her loss, her eyes remain riveted to Mwna's. Good little tool, brave little tool, but the hardest part is yet to come.

Diana's head, now topped by a mop of ragged black, still must be clipped and shaved.

Beverly, finished with the scissors, takes up a small electric clippers, turns them on, applies the clipper head to Diana's skull. Buzz, buzz, buzz, she mows the hair straight off the top the way she's seen it done in films about marine recruits, slowly, inexorably shaming the girl caught tight between her knees.

More tears now, great rivers of them, as Beverly takes up a shaving brush, dips it into a bowl of wann water, stirs it around in a cup of soap, then applies the rich lather to Diana's head. Swish, swish, swish, she shaves the head clean with a razor. And all the while she whispers: 'Now, now, little darling. Now, now…

Diana's hair is everywhere, on the floor, on Beverly's skirt, sticking to the girl's bare moist torso, front and back. Her pale shoulders and breasts are decorated with little flecks of black, and her skull gleams white like alabaster.

Beverly cradles the girl's head in her arms, tenderly petting the back of her neck. After granting permission for Diana to lower her eyes from Mama's, Beverly urges her to turn and sob upon her lap. 'There, there,' Beverly says, gently caressing the well-shaved skull. 'There, there, my little precious. It was difficult, I know, but it wasn't as bad as that. And I have a lovely black wig all ready for you, to cover you up when you go out.' Diana stares up at Beverly, her eyes large, beseeching. 'You're not going to let me-?'

'No, my dear. Every few days we'll be shaving you clean again. I'm afraid you won't be allowed to grow another full head of hair until you've completed all your missions.'

'Oh, Doctor!' The girl's red, teary eyes are filled with pathos.

Beverly, slightly touched, knows she must not relent.

'Think of yourself as a Ninja warrior. they shave their skulls to symbolize their commitment.'

'I so love my hair long.'

Yes, long like a witch's. 'And so do I,' Beverly assures the girl.

'Which is why we shall be saving all the trims. I have a lovely rosewood box to keep them in. Some evenings we'll get them out, feel them, and remind ourselves of the glorious mane you had and will someday have