whistled quietly. Did Mr Harris wish his
bones—treated?
‘That depends,’ said Harris.
Well, M. Munigant could not help Harris unless Harris was in the proper mood. Psychologically,
one had to need help, or the doctor was useless. But (shrugging) M. Munigant would ‘try.’
Harris lay on a table with his mouth
open. The lights were switched off, the shades drawn. M. Munigant approached his patient.
Something touched Harris’s tongue.
He felt his jawbones forced out. They
creaked and made faint cracking noises. One of those skeleton charts on the dim
wall seemed to quiver and jump. A violent shudder seized Harris. Involuntarily,
his mouth snapped shut.
M. Munigant shouted. His nose had almost been bitten off! No use, no use! Now was not the
time! M. Munigant whispered the shades up, dreadfully
disappointed. When Mr Harris felt he could cooperate
psychologically, when Mr Harris really needed help and trusted M. Munigant to help him, then maybe
something could be done. M. Munigant held out his
little hand. In the meantime, the fee was only two dollars. Mr Harris must begin to think. Here was a sketch for Mr Harris to take home and study. It would acquaint him with his body. He must be
tremblingly aware of himself. He must be on guard. Skeletons were strange,
unwieldy things. M. Munigant’s eyes glittered. Good
day to Mr Harris. Oh, and would he care for a
breadstick? M. Munigant proffered a jar of long hard
salty breadsticks to Harris, taking one himself, saying that chewing breadsticks
kept him in—ah—practice. Good day, good day to Mr Harris! Mr Harris went home.
The next day, Sunday, Mr Harris discovered innumerable fresh aches and pains in
his body. He spent the morning, his eyes fixed, staring with new interest at the small, anatomically perfect painting of a
skeleton M. Munigant had given him.
His wife, Clarisse, startled him at
dinner when she cracked her exquisitely thin knuckles, one by one, until he
clapped his hands to his ears and cried, ‘Stop!’
The rest of the afternoon he
quarantined himself in his room. Clarisse played bridge in the parlor laughing
and chatting with three other ladies while Harris, hidden away, fingered and
weighed the limbs of his body with growing curiosity. After an hour he suddenly
rose and called:
‘Clarisse!’
She had a way of dancing into any
room, her body doing all sorts of soft, agreeable things to keep her feet from
ever quite touching the nap of a rug. She excused herself from her friends and
came to see him now, brightly. She found him re-seated in a far corner and she
saw that he was staring at the anatomical sketch. ‘Are you still brooding,
sweet?’ she asked. ‘Please don’t.’ She sat upon his knees.
Her beauty could not distract him now
in his absorption. He juggled her lightness, he
touched her kneecap, suspiciously. It seemed to move under her pale, glowing
skin. ‘Is it supposed to do that?’ he asked, sucking in his breath.
‘Is what supposed to do what?’ she
laughed. ‘You mean my kneecap?’
‘Is it supposed to run around on top
of your knee that way?’
She experimented. ‘So it does ,’
she marveled.
‘I’m glad yours slithers, too,’ he
sighed. ‘I was beginning to worry.’
‘About what?’
He patted his ribs. ‘My ribs don’t go
all the way down, they stop here . And I found some confounded ones that
dangle in midair!’
Beneath the curve of her small
breasts, Clarisse clasped her hands.
‘Of course, silly. Everybody’s ribs stop at a given
bones—treated?
‘That depends,’ said Harris.
Well, M. Munigant could not help Harris unless Harris was in the proper mood. Psychologically,
one had to need help, or the doctor was useless. But (shrugging) M. Munigant would ‘try.’
Harris lay on a table with his mouth
open. The lights were switched off, the shades drawn. M. Munigant approached his patient.
Something touched Harris’s tongue.
He felt his jawbones forced out. They
creaked and made faint cracking noises. One of those skeleton charts on the dim
wall seemed to quiver and jump. A violent shudder seized Harris. Involuntarily,
his mouth snapped shut.
M. Munigant shouted. His nose had almost been bitten off! No use, no use! Now was not the
time! M. Munigant whispered the shades up, dreadfully
disappointed. When Mr Harris felt he could cooperate
psychologically, when Mr Harris really needed help and trusted M. Munigant to help him, then maybe
something could be done. M. Munigant held out his
little hand. In the meantime, the fee was only two dollars. Mr Harris must begin to think. Here was a sketch for Mr Harris to take home and study. It would acquaint him with his body. He must be
tremblingly aware of himself. He must be on guard. Skeletons were strange,
unwieldy things. M. Munigant’s eyes glittered. Good
day to Mr Harris. Oh, and would he care for a
breadstick? M. Munigant proffered a jar of long hard
salty breadsticks to Harris, taking one himself, saying that chewing breadsticks
kept him in—ah—practice. Good day, good day to Mr Harris! Mr Harris went home.
The next day, Sunday, Mr Harris discovered innumerable fresh aches and pains in
his body. He spent the morning, his eyes fixed, staring with new interest at the small, anatomically perfect painting of a
skeleton M. Munigant had given him.
His wife, Clarisse, startled him at
dinner when she cracked her exquisitely thin knuckles, one by one, until he
clapped his hands to his ears and cried, ‘Stop!’
The rest of the afternoon he
quarantined himself in his room. Clarisse played bridge in the parlor laughing
and chatting with three other ladies while Harris, hidden away, fingered and
weighed the limbs of his body with growing curiosity. After an hour he suddenly
rose and called:
‘Clarisse!’
She had a way of dancing into any
room, her body doing all sorts of soft, agreeable things to keep her feet from
ever quite touching the nap of a rug. She excused herself from her friends and
came to see him now, brightly. She found him re-seated in a far corner and she
saw that he was staring at the anatomical sketch. ‘Are you still brooding,
sweet?’ she asked. ‘Please don’t.’ She sat upon his knees.
Her beauty could not distract him now
in his absorption. He juggled her lightness, he
touched her kneecap, suspiciously. It seemed to move under her pale, glowing
skin. ‘Is it supposed to do that?’ he asked, sucking in his breath.
‘Is what supposed to do what?’ she
laughed. ‘You mean my kneecap?’
‘Is it supposed to run around on top
of your knee that way?’
She experimented. ‘So it does ,’
she marveled.
‘I’m glad yours slithers, too,’ he
sighed. ‘I was beginning to worry.’
‘About what?’
He patted his ribs. ‘My ribs don’t go
all the way down, they stop here . And I found some confounded ones that
dangle in midair!’
Beneath the curve of her small
breasts, Clarisse clasped her hands.
‘Of course, silly. Everybody’s ribs stop at a given
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