Chapter 15, Subconscious Becomes Conscious

The fifteenth chapter of "Wilde Horses Couldn't Stop Me!"

XXXI

Neva held up her sister with one arm so that she wouldn’t topple onto the ground.  They were sitting on the large bed in their secret chamber and Kida was absolutely plastered.

“He doesn’t love me,” Kida moaned, “he never did.”

She had been crying for hours and drinking to forget.  Neva had decided that Kida was drunk enough to forget so she had hidden what was left of the alcohol.  Neva was slightly tipsy herself and trying to stay sharp (and calm).

“I haven’t forgotten yet,” Kida despaired, looking around for the alcohol, “I need more.”

“I’m sorry, sis but you drank everything we had,” Neva said gently but sternly, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“No, I still remember!” Kida sobbed, “I need to forget!  Will I ever forget?”

“Of course.  Time heals everything,” Neva knew it was a lie but she had to calm Kida down.

“That’s what everyone tells me, but it’s a lie.  How do I carry on?” Kida looked Neva in the eyes, desperate and afraid.

Neva, who usually always has something to say, had no words.

Kida screamed, “I want to kill him!  I want to kill myself!”

She ran to the table where the liquor once rested.  The only object sitting there was a dagger which they had used to open their many bottles of wine.  She grabbed the dagger trying to plunge it through her heart but Neva reacted quickly and wrestled Kida for the knife.

“Don’t you dare!  Do you know how stupid that is?  More importantly, do you know how stupid Milo has been?  A stupid deed for a stupid man,” when she noticed Kida looking away Neva hid the dagger under the bed’s mattress.  Safety at last.

Kida walked toward her sister, face wrinkled with despair.  She grabbed Neva desperately holding on for dear life.  

“Everything will be okay.  I’m here for you,” Neva said gingerly, a wide contrast from her usually intense demeanor, “I’m here.  I’m not going anywhere.”

Neva stroked her sister’s long white hair praying to the Great Crystal that Kida would be all right.

XXXII

“Milo, there’s something I need to... I haven’t been completely honest with you,” Beatrice said.

“What is it?” a look of concern crossed Milo’s face.

“The reason I came here.  I said that I was here to research the whales around Iceland with my two colleagues but that’s not the truth.  A pretty weak lie, too, because you don’t just sink into Atlantis from Iceland,” she chuckled nervously and then became more serious, “No, the truth is that I came here to discover Atlantis.”

She looked up at Milo slowly and timidly.

“Discover Atlantis?” Milo asked, perplexed.

Beatrice spoke slowly and hesitantly, “Well, everyone thought you were dead and honestly when I read the article in the paper I was really upset.  And what made me more upset was the fact that no one seemed to care whether you were alive or dead.  Everyone thought you were crazy...  In fact, the day you quit, everyone at the museum seemed, well, happy and some people even had a party to celebrate your resignation.”

Hurt, Milo admitted his hopefulness, “I didn’t think it was everyone.”

“I lied about the people at the museum to spare your feelings,” Beatrice sighed, “And the day you left I found some of your papers which eventually led me to the idea that I should finish what you started and find Atlantis; prove to those selfish pricks that sometimes imagination and idealism can change the world,” her eyes were fiery with passion.

“I used your notes to plan a small expedition to Atlantis,” she continued, “I had to hire a crew and rent a submarine pod and pay other expenses so I worked three jobs for a while to get the money but I didn’t mind.  I really wanted to do it.”

Milo was moved.  He felt a frog in his throat realizing that this woman had dedicated herself to his dream of finding Atlantis, and all for him.

“You, you really care that much?” Milo whispered.

“Of course,” Beatrice blushed, “All this urging for you to confess when I was the one with the secrets.  I’m sorry,” she looked down, ashamed.

Beatrice sat down in a chair and started to sing to herself softly and sorrowfully.  Milo recognized the tune; it was the St. Louis Blues:

I hate to see that evenin’ sun go down,

I hate to see that evenin’ sun go down.

That was the time my baby left this town.

Feeling tomorrow like I feel today.

Feeling tomorrow like I feel today.

Gonna pack my trunk and make my getaway.

St. Louis woman, with her diamond rings,

She pull that man ‘round with her apron strings.

Weren’t for powder and that store-bought hair,

Oh, that man I love would not gone nowhere.

I got the St. Louis Blues, blue as I can be.

That man got a heart like a rock cast in the sea

Or else he wouldn’t have gone so far from me.

It had come out in 1914, the last year he had worked at the museum, and it was one of his favourite songs.  It was so mournful, but at the same time cathartic.  He couldn’t resist joining in, pouring pain into every word.  Beatrice’s head turned toward him at the sound of his singing and she smiled in surprise but kept the music going.  In his mind, a big band orchestra softly accompanied their feeble voices...

Suddenly Milo was back at the museum, sitting in the cafeteria at noon.  It was a large room with a long, varied buffet on one end and double doors at the other end.  There were many rectangular wooden tables with fancy wooden chairs decorated with red fabric.  Both patrons and staff shared the cafeteria, some buying food to eat and some eating bagged lunches.  Milo sat alone at his own table, reading a book as usual.  Today’s feast was an apple and a thin slice of bread.  

The table in front of him was full of members of the museum management, Harcourt sitting at the end of the table.  They stole quick glances at Milo and sniggered amongst themselves.  The hefty men were eating the most expensive meals on the menu; lobster bisque, chocolate soufflé, panini sandwiches, gourmet pizza, caviar in little boxes brought from home...  Unexpectedly Harcourt began to sing, leading the fat black slugs in a rendition of their favourite sing-along:

Milo Thatch is a skinny little stick

Whose face could made a peccary sick.

His proposal we will never pick.

He has an abnormally tiny...

The last word of the rhyme was cut off by the rhythmic and collective coughing amongst the men.  They laughed uproariously, some slapping their thighs and some spurting coffee and espresso out of their noses.  Even in the unlikely case that any of the men actually liked Milo Thatch, they could never reveal their sentiments to Harcourt without being fired or demoted.  It was a table of puppets and pawns.  

Milo looked past their table, wondering who else was present at his funeral.  In the corner of the cafeteria by the doors he could see Beatrice sitting alone and, like him, reading some sort of book.  However, she had begun to pack up her things.  As she left the cafeteria, Milo noticed that she looked his way several times, although she was frowning.   Albert Johnson, the portly man at the other end of the management table, began to sing the second verse, quickly joined by his colleagues:

He’s at the top of our lunatic list.

Our asses are the only cheeks he’s kissed.

If evidence for Atlantis exists

We’ll proudly slit our throats and wrists!

They laughed even louder this time, accompanied by many other cafeteria patrons.  Milo buried himself in his book, pretending to be completely absorbed in it and unaware of their taunting.  A young woman sitting near the buffet began to sing another verse and the entire cafeteria joined her in singing:

Mr. Thatch is a dim-witted buffoon;

A laughable, idealistic loon.

I hope that Harcourt fires him soon.

Let’s see what he thinks of seven moons!

Milo looked up suddenly as he heard the last line, wondering what the people meant by seven moons.  Upon finishing the verse the chubby men laboriously but speedily lifted themselves up and pulled down their pants and underwear revealing their wrinkled, enormous butt cheeks, all pointed in Milo’s direction.  After the quick flashing and concealing of skin the men, many holding master’s degrees and doctorates, blew Thatch numerous raspberries and made rude gestures in his direction laughing uncontrollably.  

Milo neglected the last few bites of his slice of bread and put them back in his brown paper bag trying to quickly pack up his things and leave for the Smithsonian library.  However, as soon as he had stood up to leave, he was promptly bombarded by various chunks of food.  

The skinniest of the men, Dr. Laurence Willcocks, who could be accurately described as medium weight, opened his briefcase which was filled with bread rolls and pelted Milo with them.  Milo winced; the bread rolls felt like punches.  He tried to run but a man dressed in a cheap wellington  and a transparent plastic mask stopped him and held him in place; it was Nigel Duford-Tennant.  

Kenneth Wagner, the museum’s head librarian, pulled several cartons of eggs out of his briefcase and flung the eggs at the linguist.  Dr. Oliver Davis-Rhodes, the rare artifacts coordinator, was a meaty man even compared to the others but he sacrificed the rest of his meal for the good of their fun, hurling bits of his second panini and his chocolate soufflé in Milo’s direction.  The soufflé and sandwich bits stuck to Milo’s egg-coated frame, making him look like schnitzel right before it is fried in fat. 

Milo struggled to escape Nigel’s grip, but it was no use; his clothes were ruined.  His only defense mechanism was to close his mouth and eyes so that nothing could get in.  Nigel pulled both of Milo’s arms together and held them both with his stronger hand while he used his other hand to force Milo’s mouth open.  First he tasted the soufflé, which rested on his tongue; moist, spongy and decadent.  Nigel felt drool dripping onto his hand but he persisted in holding Milo’s mouth.  Then one of Wagner’s eggs landed in Milo’s mouth; both shell and egg touching the poor scholar’s tongue.  Milo screamed as he tasted the snot-like flavour and slimy texture of raw egg.  He could hear everyone around him laughing.  

Finally, like the icing on a cake, Dr. Eugene Marquis, one of the more important historians, wedgied Milo pulling the young man’s underwear high above his head and guffawing uncontrollably.  Milo cried out in pain wishing with his entire being that he could fix his underwear.  

And then all of a sudden Nigel released his grip on the linguist’s mouth and arms.  For a moment Milo was stunned that it was over and he didn’t know what to do.  The important men simply stood around, unable to stop laughing at Milo.  But once Milo realized that he was free, he ran like mad.

He ran to the men’s bathroom in the lobby praying that he would be alone at last.  Museum patrons sniggered at his appearance as he rushed toward the blessed white door of the men’s room.  Luckily it was empty inside so he immediately gagged regurgitating the raw egg and its shell.  Milo fixed his underwear which brought him great relief.  Then he drank some water from the sink in an attempt to wash out his mouth.  He scrubbed and scrubbed at his clothing with towels and water from the sink but much of the egg still lingered on his clothing and his skin.  He longed to be sinking into the hot water of his clean white bathtub.

Defeated, he gave up and looked up at his reflection one last time; his hair was wet with egg liquid and his clothes were dark and wet.  There was no way he could make it to the end of the day looking like this.  Milo wished it would rain outside but glancing out the window he could see that it was a clear sky.  His shoulders shook as he gripped the sink and turned on the waterworks.  The linguist’s tears dripped into the sink decorating the white porcelain.  He would eventually clean himself up once he got home and put on a new change of clothes but could he ever wash away his sadness?

Beatrice wailed out the final phrases of the blues song singing twice as loud as she had begun;

I hate to see that evenin’ sun go down,

I hate to see that evenin’ sun go down.

That was the time my baby done left this town.

Milo had stopped singing long ago but she was so wrapped up in the music that she didn’t seem to notice.  He frowned.  Beatrice had finished singing.

“Isn’t that a beautiful song?” she smiled.

Milo was silent.

“What’s wrong?  You seem upset,” she said.

“If you knew you were my only friend at the museum and that you loved me, why didn’t you ever reach out to me?  You could have saved me so much sadness,” Milo’s face was suddenly streaming with tears, “There were so many painful days.  I was so depressed then.  I almost killed myself once.  Why didn’t you try to save me?”

She looked down and said, “It’s the worst thing about me.  I lose my courage when it matters.  I’m just too damn shy.  I couldn’t stand to see them bully you like that but I was terrified of them too.”

She sniffled and wiped at her watering eyes, embarrassed that she was crying.

“I thought I had to go to the bottom of the sea to find someone who truly loved me, but you were right there.  Just under my nose.”

He smiled and moved his face toward hers delicately kissing her lips.  She pulled his head closer, returning the kiss.  Bodies burning hot, they were touching head to toe and she could feel a bulge in his crotch area.  She could feel his smooth, satiny blond hair in her hand and feel his hand wandering down her back, fingers trembling with pleasure and nervousness.  But then, with great effort and difficulty, he drew away and shook his head.  Beatrice’s lips lamented the loss and quivered in rejection.

Milo made eye contact but his eyes were mournful, “But it’s too late.  I’m sorry, Beatrice.  I’m married now.”

The words cut like a knife.