Prototype

Early Monday morning, Adrienne began setting appointments to see condominiums for an indefinite rental. Her criteria were few but inflexible: The place would have to be fully furnished; it would ideally be within a mile or two of Clay’s apartment, to facilitate contact; and it would need, if not a room, at least a corner or wall that she could rearrange to her liking into some semblance of a professional domain. Better for both her and Clay if they had a territory to help ease them away from the Tempe office to which they’d been accustomed.

She kept her first appointment later that same morning, with another for late afternoon, a third for Tuesday. After lunch, she whittled away a couple of hours going over notes and the Helverson’s case studies.

Anything to put off taking the actual plunge? Maybe she was stalling. Once she picked up that phone and resumed contact with Clay, the pressure to perform would begin from all sides, with no one to fall back on. Her isolation had become a tangible essence, she was bathed in it. Even Sarah’s eventual arrival — whenever that occurred — would be more tonic than cure.

She placed the call, imagining that Clay would not answer, that the number he’d given was a decoy and the apartment not even his; he would have given them all the slip as he straggled off to some other desert of scorched revelations. She would return south in failure and disgrace.

And when he picked up on the other end, she felt quite the irrationalist.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “This isn’t too early to call, after all, is it?”

“No, no. I’m fine. I’ve slept a lot, but I think I’m coming out of that today.”

“How is it to be back home? Any feelings of dislocation?”

“A few,” he said, a reluctant admittance. “Even though I didn’t much care for it, I got used to a routine in that place and it’s not in effect anymore. I keep expecting people to come in to look at me, and they don’t.”

“It’s normal, trust me. Clay, Friday morning you woke up on Ward Five, the same as you had every morning for a month and a half. This is only Monday. If you still feel this way in a week, let me know. But I doubt you will.”

“I don’t miss them,” he said. “And it’s good to get back to an irregular meal schedule.”

Adrienne had him grab a pen and paper and take down the hotel phone and her room number, told him she should be there until the end of the week, give or take a day. She didn’t think they should wait for her relocation to resume sessions. Had he given any thought to a schedule he might like? Sundays and Wednesdays were good enough before, nothing wrong with them now, he said.

“Then I’ll expect to see you day after tomorrow,” she said.

“Listen, if you’re interested… three or four people I know, they wanted to welcome me back tonight, at this place we go. If you want to come…”

Her immediate impulse was to decline. He was a patient; it was not a good idea to socialize with patients. Then she amended: He was far more than that, as her duties had for the first time been extended beyond therapy into field observation.

You’re in my world now, he had told her. I’m not in yours.

“What kind of place are you talking about?”

Clay seemed to consider this for several moments, perplexed or at a loss, then asked, almost cheerfully, “Have you ever read Dante’s Inferno?”

* * *

The Foundry, it was called. She had said she would try to make it by ten, after the others would have been there an hour or so, but decided it wasn’t so bad to be fashionably late, however unwittingly.

She fought the urge to take a cab — better she learn to get around without a hired crutch. Circling the blocks in an area north of downtown to which Clay had directed her, where the buildings looked grained with decay, where storefronts and their roof lines defiantly stood despite advancing age, as if proud of fatigue and scars. Doorways and windows frequently wore faces of nailed plywood, never blank, bristling with bent-cornered flyers and thousands of staples, layers upon layers of each.

She parked, finally — perhaps the place she was looking for was invisible from a car — trying to walk these streets as if she belonged here, knew them by heart. At last she came upon a sigil: The Foundry, in black spray paint on raw brick, nearly invisible in the night, on the flank of a building just inside the mouth of an alley. An arrow pointed back. Not a place you would stumble upon by accident.

Descending to a doorway below street level, she paid the four-dollar cover to a boy with blond dreadlocks, greenish in a spill of light from within. Without checking her driver’s license — how depressing, her youth must really be gone forever — he sealed a cheap vinyl bracelet around her wrist and she was on her way. The music was already rumbling out at her, louder with every step along a concrete corridor that felt thick underfoot, sticky, like an old theater’s floor.

It took her into a low, cavernous asylum of a place — bedlam’s basement — where heavy-gauge pipes ran riot along walls and the ceiling. Here and there some fetish dangled; mutilated baby dolls were popular, charred with a blowtorch or skewered by spikes or garroted with frayed wires, shining sightless eyes, invariably blue, wide with naivete. A pair of projection screens unspooled a continual flood of imagery — one a horror film, the other what appeared to be a narrative-free video collage of everything from medical procedures to wartime-atrocity footage to factory machines disgorging glowing rivers of molten iron — but no soundtracks could be heard above the music. Much pandemonium on the dance floor, as heavy bass tones shuddered into bones and a caustic treble grinding rended equilibriums in a corrosive symphony of deconstruction.

Seating was confined along the walls, discarded cathedral pews and tables and chairs imprisoned in alcoves behind chain link fencing. It was in one of these that she found them, Clay her one and only clue. He stood when he saw her, laughed at the look on her face.

“Toto,” he said, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

“I’m more used to coffeehouses at home.” An idiot confession. A college town, surely Tempe had someplace like this, but she had no idea where to find it.

Three others sat at the table, eyes neither welcoming nor rejecting her, more curious than anything. They would surely know what she was, if not every detail as to why she was here. She guessed that she was older than most by eight or ten years, maybe more in the case of the thin blonde to Clay’s left, but it did nothing to alleviate the sense of intimidation. The world often aged people by pain rather than by years, and if their families had been anything like Clay’s, she could well have walked in upon a conclave of ancients with deceptively young faces.

 She sat, and Clay made cursory introductions. The thin blonde to his left was Erin. At the end of the table was Graham, another stick figure lost inside a T-shirt — didn’t these people eat? — who met her eyes briefly, then averted as he took a draw from a cigarette pluming with some rank herbal smell.

“Clay’s mentioned your paintings,” Adrienne said. “I’d like to see your work sometime.”

Graham nodded, and with one bony, large-knuckled hand waved out toward the dance floor, the ceiling.

“The dolls?” she guessed.

He nodded again. “They aren’t supposed to be anything, I was just bored one night.”

“But the material just happened to be sitting around,” this from the chunky young woman across the table, with thick, red, wavy hair, an obvious dye job, gathered to one side in a kind of gypsy scarf. Clay introduced her as Nina.

“Look close now, she’ll probably look completely different next week,” he added as a caveat.

“Piss off,” Nina told him, not unkindly.

“I’m just letting her know you keep a frequent metamorphosis schedule, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it.” Turning to Adrienne, “Uncle Twitch works in the sound booth, maybe he’ll be out later.” Clay pointed across the dance floor, where brutal silhouettes collided under blue-purple lighting. A small structure appeared to cower in the far corner, behind another barricade of chain link fence, beneath lights and speakers.

“Would you tell me if you did think there was something wrong with it?” Nina asked.

“Yes,” Clay said without hesitation.

She leaned forward to seize Adrienne’s complete attention, as if it were suddenly very important to explain herself. She seemed to crave intimacy and there was no way intimacy could be achieved with the volume of the music, with the exaggerated gestures required to compete.

“I just don’t think anyone should limit herself to only one incarnation, that’s all,” she said, nail-bitten hands