The alien feeling did not pass. It grew.
On Tuesday and Wednesday it bothered him terrifically that his epidermis, hair and other appendages were of a high disorder, while his integumented skeleton of himself was a slick clean structure of efficient organization. Sometimes, in certain lights with his lips drawn morosely down, weighted with melancholy, he imagined he saw his skull grinning at him behind the flesh.
Let go! he cried. Let go of me! My lungs! Stop!
He gasped convulsively, as if his ribs were crushing the breath from him.
My brain–stop squeezing it!
And terrifying headaches burnt his brain to a blind cinder.
My insides, let them be, for God’s sake! Stay away from my heart!
His heart cringed from the fanning motion of ribs like pale spiders crouched and fiddling with their prey.
Drenched with sweat, he lay upon the bed one night while Clarisse was out attending a Red Cross meeting. He tried to gather his wits but only grew more aware of the conflict between his dirty exterior and this beautiful cool clean calciumed thing inside.
His complexion: wasn’t it oily and lined with worry?
Observe the flawless, snow-white perfection of the skull.
His nose: wasn’t it too large?
Then observe the tiny bones of the skull’s nose before that monstrous nasal cartilage begins forming the lopsided proboscis.
His body: wasn’t it plump?
Well, consider the skeleton; slender, svelte, economical of line and contour. Exquisitely carved oriental ivory! Perfect, thin as a white praying mantis!
His eyes: weren’t they protuberant, ordinary, numb-looking?
Be so kind as to note the eye-sockets of the skull; so deep and rounded, somber, quiet pools, all-knowing, eternal. Gaze deep and you never touch the bottom of their dark understanding. All irony, all life, all everything is there in the cupped darkness.
Compare. Compare. Compare.
He raged for hours. And the skeleton, ever the frail and solemn philosopher, hung quietly inside, saying not a word, suspended like a delicate insect within a chrysalis, waiting and waiting.
Harris sat slowly up.
“Wait a minute. Hold on!” he exclaimed. “You’re helpless, too. I’ve got you, too. I can make you do anything I want! You can’t prevent it! I say move your carpales, metacarpales, and phalanges andsswttup they go, as I wave to someone!” He laughed. “I order the fibula and femur to locomote and Hunn two three four, Hunn two three four–we walk around the block. There!”
Harris grinned.
“It’s a fifty-fifty fight. Even-Stephen. And we’ll fight it out, we two! After all, I’m the part that thinks! Yes, by God! yes. Even if I didn’t have you, I could still think!”
Instantly, a tiger’s jaw snapped shut, chewing his brain in half. Harris screamed. The bones of his skull grabbed hold and gave him nightmares. Then slowly, while he shrieked, nuzzled and ate the nightmares one by one, until the last one was gone and the light went out.
At the end of the week he postponed the Phoenix trip because of his health. Weighing himself on a penny scale he saw the slow gliding red arrow point to: 165.
He groaned. Why, I’ve weighed 175 for years. I can’t have lost ten pounds! He examined his cheeks in the fly-dotted mirror. Cold, primitive fear rushed over him in odd little shivers. You, you! I know what you’re about, you!
He shook his fist at his bony face, particularly addressing his remarks to his superior maxillary, his inferior maxillary, to his cranium and to his cervical vertebrae.
“You damn thing, you! Think you can starve me, make me lose weight, eh? Peel the flesh off, leave nothing, but skin on bone. Trying to ditch me, so you can be supreme, ah? No, no!”
He fled into a cafeteria.
Turkey, dressing, creamed potatoes, four vegetables, three desserts, he could eat none of it, he was sick to his stomach. He forced himself. His teeth began to ache. Bad teeth, is it? he thought angrily. I’ll eat in spite of every tooth clanging and banging and rattling so they fall in my gravy.
His head blazed, his breath jerked in and out of a constricted chest, his teeth raged with pain, but he knew one small victory. He was about to drink milk when he stopped and poured it into a vase of nasturtiums. No calcium for you, my boy, no calcium for you. Never again shall I eat foods with calcium or other bonefortifying minerals. I’ll eat for one of us, not both, my lad.
“One hundred and fifty pounds,” he said, the following week to his wife. “Do you see how I’ve changed?”
“For the better,” said Clarisse. “You were always a little plump for your height, darling.” She stroked his chin. “I like your face. It’s so much nicer; the lines of it are so firm and strong now.”
“They’re not my lines, they’re his, damn him! You mean to say you like him better than you like me?”
“Him? Who’s ‘him’?”
In the parlor mirror, beyond Clarisse, his skull smiled back at him behind his fleshy grimace of hatred and despair.
Fuming, he popped malt tablets into his mouth. This was one way of gaining weight when you couldn’t keep other foods down. Clarisse noticed the malt pellets.
“But, darling, really, you don’t have to regain the weight for me,” she said.
Oh, shut up! he felt like saying.
She made him lie with his head in her lap. “Darling,” she said, “I’ve watched you lately. You’re so–badly off. You don’t say anything, but you look–hunted. You toss in bed at night. Maybe you should go to a psychiatrist. But I think I can tell you everything he would say. I’ve put it all together from hints you’ve let escape you. I can tell you that you and your skeleton are one and the same, ‘one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.’ United you stand, divided you fall. If you two fellows can’t get along like an old married couple in the future, go back and see Dr. Burleigh. But, first, relax. You’re in a vicious circle; the rnore you worry, the more your bones stick out, the more you worry. After all, who picked this fight–you or that anonymous entity you claim is lurking around behind your alimentary canal?”
He closed his eyes. “I did. I guess I did. Go on Clarisse, keep talking.”
“You rest now,” she said softly. “Rest and forget.”
Mr. Harris felt buoyed up for half a day, then he began to sag. It was all very well to blame his imagination, but this particular skeleton, by God, was fighting back.
Harris set out for M. Munigant’s office late in the day. Walking for half an hour until he found the address, he caught sight of the name “M. Munigant” initialed in ancient, flaking gold on a glass plate outside the building. Then, his bones seemed to explode from their moorings, blasted and erupted with pain. Blinded, he staggered away. When he opened his eyes again he had rounded a corner. M. Munigant’s office was out of sight.
The pains ceased.
M. Munigant was the man to help him. If the sight of his name could cause so titanic a reaction of course M. Munigant must be just the man.
But, not today. Each time he tried to return to that office, the terrible pains took hold. Perspiring, he had to give up and swayed into a cocktail bar.
Moving across the dim lounge, he wondered briefly if a lot of blame couldn’t be put on M. Munigant’s shoulders. After all, it was Munigant who’d first drawn specific attention to his skeleton, and let the psychological impact of it slam home! Could M. Munigant be using him for some nefarious purpose? But what purpose? Silly to suspect him. Just a little doctor. Trying to be helpful. Munigant and his jar of breadsticks. Ridiculous. M. Munigant was okay, okay . . .
There was a sight within the cocktail lounge to give him hope. A large, fat man, round as a butterball, stood drinking consecutive beers at the bar. Now there was a successful man. Harris repressed a desire to go up, clap the fat man’s shoulder, and inquire as to how he’d gone about impounding his bones. Yes, the fat man’s skeleton was luxuriously closeted. There were pillows of fat here, resilient bulges of it there, with several round chandeliers of fat under his chin. The poor skeleton was lost; it could never fight clear of that blubber. It might have tried once–but not now, overwhelmed, not a bony echo of the fat man’s supporter remained.
Not without envy, Harris approached the fat man as one might cut across the bow of an ocean liner. Harris ordered a drink, drank it, and then dared to address the fat man:
“Glands?”
“You talking to me?” asked the fat man.
“Or is there a special diet?” wondered Harris. “I beg your pardon, but, as you see, I’m down. Can’t seem to put on any weight. I’d like a stomach like that one of yours. Did you grow it because you were afraid of something?”
“You,” announced the fat man, “are drunk. But–I like drunkards.” He ordered more drinks. “Listen close, I’ll tell you. Layer by layer,” said the fat man,
