The Machine Tulips

“I am Treivor.  You are Machine.  She is Mother.  There is so much I want to say to her without you.  So I beg you: please say what I mean, not what I say.  I submit to you.  Inside of you I sit and to your microphones speak.”



                                      The Machine Tulips



Son screamed at how slow the Machine spit text on the page.  Mother shivered.  Fingers whitened round the knife handle.  Three slow, measured and much-rehearsed breaths passed before she set the knife onto the kitchen counter and went to him.

He sat on the living room floor, head down, knees up with his elbows resting on them, hands together as if in prayer, a single scrap of paper clenched tight between thumb and forefinger.  The carpet was littered with the torn debris of computer paper.  Mother glanced at the scrap in his hand, looked towards his downturned face, and thought: This is my body.  She ignored the offering and sat down to talk to him.

“You want something else for dinner?” Chora asked.

No sign she’d been heard.

“You don’t want a babysitter?”

Nothing returned.

“You want me to stay home tonight?” she asked, dreading the answer.

He grunted, his head moving between a shake and a nod.

“But I’ll be back soon,” she said, assurance tinged by the faint pleading in her voice.

He looked up and shook the paper at her until she took it.  It read: ][do not want to stay][want to be with you][

She slipped it into her pocket before saying, “You can’t.  I said it before.  You’ll be happier here.”

His long, muscular arms rocketed up and then slammed down into the dingy, brown carpet—she thought of chimpanzees seen on TV—and another scream tore free of his viscera, a scream beyond animality, a scream from which the writhing worm of language had been ripped and had been left standing alone, desperate and hating.  Spittle clear like water like the salt of childhood tears flecked her face.  No monkeys here, she knew: here was humanity; here was Son.

She hadn’t flinched—hadn’t allowed herself to flinch, to be more precise.  “It’s essential to show trust and prove your love,” numerous counselors had implored upon her.  She whipped her face on her sleeve.  Pushing herself up, she walked back to the kitchen, the skin along her spine tingling, expecting at any moment a blow from behind. 

She picked up the telephone and stabbed her finger into the first number and then whirled the dial over, willing the small, acerbic movements to bleed frustration from her: she could not, would not, let this receiver to betray any sign of frustration in her. 

“Hi.  This is Chora.  Sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to check if you were just about on your way yet.  No, no.  Everything’s fine.  Yes.  OK.  See you at seven?  Thanks.  Bye.”

Behind her, Treivor had remained seated on the living room floor, and was now listening to the half-conversation.  He had failed, but all he could so was try again.  He looked over at the hulking, gray Machine in the corner—The Machine Tulips.  Microphones poised on the ends of booms like T-Rex arms stretched out for his return.  He flicked the power switch.  Lights blinked, things clinked; the Machine whirled into life.  He took his seat and settled his chin onto the rest in front of him.  Padded clamps nestled firmly against his temples.  The microphones inched to within a finger’s width from the corners of his mouth.  A bell sounded, indicating all was well and that he could speak whenever he wanted.  Even though he was only ten, the irony of this was not lost on him. 

He, chin jutting out, unable to move, uncomfortable, uncertain, desperate for the message to be received, remembering all the previous attempts now stored in his mother’s chest, spoke slowly, carefully and as clearly as he could.

Holding the boy’s head in its hands, The Machine Tulips listened.

**********

Chora knew this about the babysitter: her name was Jennifer, she was twenty-two and a graduate student in Developmental Child Psychology and, according to the doctors recommending her, knew Treivor’s case backwards and forwards.

Chora invited her in and asked her to sit on the sofa.  Jennifer complimented all the photos of Chora and Treivor.  Chora pushed a green, plastic bowl of candies across the coffee table towards her.

“No thanks,” said the younger, plumper Jennifer.  She pulled a manila folder from her knapsack.  “The doctors said you’d probably want to ask me a few questions?”

“Well,” Chora said, moving the bowl back towards the middle of the table, “what exactly do you know about Treivor’s condition.  For example, do you know when it started?”

“As far as anyone has been able to determine, it’s congenital.  That means he was born with it,” she added.

Chora gave her a brittle smile.  “I know what that means, thank you.  Now, do you know the cause of it?”

“No one does.  No one’s been able to determine a physical source for the impairment.  Recently, a few researchers have suggested that ht cause might be something other than physical, but…”

“Meaning psychological?”

“No.  Not exactly.  To be honest, I don’t buy their explanation—or, rather, their lack of explanation.”

Chora feigned surprise.  “So, you think they will find the source, and the cure?”

“Of course.  No matter how complex it may be, the brain is nothing more than an intricate electrical system, and as a system it is mappable.  Once we have that map, the brain’s secrets will be brought to light.”  Like a schoolgirl divulging a secret crush, Jennifer blushed so that the color of her cheeks almost matching the red of her hair. 

Chora gestured towards The Machine Tulips.  “Let’s see what you know about that then.  I need to check it before I go out, anyway.  You can help me.”

Chora wiggled the printer-cable connections, pulled out the ribbon and replaced it with a new one. 

“Did they tell you much about it?” Chora asked as she refilled the paper tray.

“Not a lot, to be honest.  I’ve looked at a few schematics and diagrams, but computers aren’t really my thing.”

“You’re more of a brain kind of guy, is that it?  Well, look here for a second.”  Chora opened an access panel and pointed inside at the convoluted mass of wires and circuitry.  “This is the correlating unit, or so they tell me.  This is where the two incoming audio feeds,” and now she pointed to the two microphones, “are mixed together—I’m not sure how—and then forwarded as a single signal to the print buffer.”

Jennifer looked at the chin rest and the clamping mechanism.  “Is it true that he can’t move at all during the recording process?” she asked incredulously. 

“Too much movement can throw off the timing mechanisms, yes.”

“It must take a lot of self-control,” Jennifer said, sounding concerned.

Chora smirked humorlessly.  “You know why they called it Tulips, then?”

“That’s easy: something in your son cuts the words he wishes to speak in half and then emits the two halves simultaneously from either side of his mouth.”

Chora nodded for her continue.

“When the doctors discovered this around the time your son was five, they dubbed the condition Tulips to indicate both the symptoms and the resulting phonetic ambiguity.”

“Something in Treivor…yes, that’s one way of putting it.  Well done.”

“Thank you.”

“Last question: Why can’t he use sign language or writing?”

“Several attempts were made, but whatever it is that cuts his words in half also prevents his body from coordinating physical sign production.  Whenever he tries to sign or write, he looks like he’s suffering convulsions.  Sorry.  I saw a video at the university.”

“Don’t worry about.  You’re right.  I’ll go bring Treivor out so you two can meet.”

When Chora returned with Treivor trailing slowly behind, Jennifer stuck out her hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Trevor.”

Treivor shrunk back.

“His name’s Treivor,” Chora corrected, “with an I.”

“Really?  I’m sorry.  I can’t even hear the difference.”

“No one seems to.  Don’t worry.  Come on, Treivor, shake Jennifer’s hand.”

Treivor did so, grudgingly, grunted, and then hurried back to his room.

“Sorry about that,” Chora said after he’d closed the door.  “He’s shy.”

Jennifer smiled.  “Well, yeah, it’s because he can’t speak.”

Chora’s eyes hardened but her tone remained conversational.  “Really?  And what do you mean by that?”

Jennifer stammered: “Obviously it’s difficult for him, not being able to speak as other people do.  It’s got to cause…problems,” she ended lamely in the force of the other woman’s angry stare.

Chora stepped closer, easily towering over Jennifer.

“There’s something I want you to understand here: Don’t try and tell me what’s going on in my son’s head, okay?”  Jennifer opened her mouth to answer, but Chora continued over her: “I’ve had years of doctors trying to tell me how Treivor feels.  I’ve got this huge damn machine here for tell me, goddamn it, what he’s trying to say.  And you know what?  Not one of these things has managed to help.  Keep your comments to yourself and we’ll get along just fine.  Understand?”

Jennifer nodded.

“Also,” Chora said, leaning closer and lowering her voice, “I know you’re here to spy on me, you little bitch.”

“Spy on you?” Jennifer echoed weakly.

“Yes.  I know you all think I can’t handle Treivor.  But I can.  I’m his mother.  No one is going to take him away from me.  You got that?  And if you try anything funny here, girl,” now she was whispering, nose-to-nose with wide-eyed Jennifer, “I will kick your fat ass down those stairs and I will not stop kicking you no matter what you say or how you beg, because that might not be what’s really going on inside that little head of yours.  You understand me?”

“Yes,” Jennifer croaked. 

“Good,” Chora said, smiling and straightening up.  “Now, I’ve got to go.  First date in ten years—but I’m sure you knew that.  Make yourself comfortable.  Watch TV and help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.  Emergency numbers are on kitchen wall if you need them.”

**********

Chora and Jennifer sat in the leather-bound chairs of the hospital administrator’s office and, after having exchanged brief greetings, didn’t look at each other. 

“Go ahead, Jennifer,” the administrator, a fiftyish woman with horn-rimmed glasses, “we don’t have any secrets here.”

Jennifer detailed her complaint about Chora’s behavior two nights before, ignoring as best she could the sucking, angry silence beside her.

The doctor listened politely and then asked: “What would you like us to do, Jennifer?  She is his mother.  So she’s a little protective—”

“A little?  Protective I can understand.  I get protective.  But we’re talking about something close to psychotic here: she accused me of being a spy and threatened me with physical violence at our first meeting.”

“And you’re sure that you didn’t do anything that might’ve caused her to feel defensive?”

Jennifer chewed her lip as if in thought.  “I just said that The Machine Tulips had probably caused Trevor to be a little shy.”

The doctor smiled.  “You didn’t think Chora might be sensitive about that?”

No one spoke for a long moment.  Jennifer broke the silence: “Ignoring this is a mistake,” she warned.

“Don’t worry about that.  Our biggest question here today is: Will you go back?”

Jennifer nodded.  Chora looked over at her, a little surprised. 

The doctor smiled.  “Very good.  We wouldn’t want to give up on that thesis, would we?  Now, if you could just close the door on your way out?”

“There you go,” the doctor said after Jennifer had closed the door behind her.

Chora chose not to answer.  Instead, she crossed her arms and sheathed herself in a frosty demeanor. 

The doctor picked up a letter from her desk and pretended to scan it.

“You know we can’t have this, Chora.”

“It’s not your choice.”

The doctor shifted more papers.  Chora saw that many came from Treivor’s file, some of them actual printouts from The Machine Tulips.  Everything was written down somewhere.  They even had her confession that she almost froze herself and Treivor to death by turning off the heater in that first, terrible winter after he’d been born and her husband had disappeared.  Those had been the days of desperation, with no one to speak to and no one to help the seventeen year-old girl recently abandoned by her husband.  She’d babbled so many things in those days, babbled anything she could to get help from anyone: the police, the welfare office, the food banks and child services.  And then the doctors arrived and offered her hope, just as things were going from bad to worse.  Of course she’d signed on every dotted line.

“I’m afraid we could make it our choice, but no one wants to see it come to that.”

“What do you want?” Chora asked. 

The doctor put down the papers and smiled.  She had a beautiful smile.  “The same as you: we want what’s best for Trevor.”

“His name’s Treivor.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you won’t separate us?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then fuck off.”

**********

A few weeks later, Jennifer was back in Chora’s living room, sitting in the recliner this time as Chora, Treivor seated next to her, explained where she’d be for the evening and when to expect her back.  Chora had been surprised to note that Treivor even smiled at Jennifer this time, fleeting through it was.

“Alright, that’s it then,” Chora said with forced nonchalance as she stood up.  “I guess I’ll be going now.”

At these words, Treivor suddenly squealed and grappled her about the waist.  Chora shoved him back onto the couch.

He launched himself up, yanked a piece of paper from his pocket and shoved it into her face.

[do not want you to go][want to stay with you]

Chora shook her head.  Treivor grabbed the sleeve of her dress and pulled.  The thin material ripped easily, exposing one cup of the black lace bra underneath.  Chora slapped him hard.  Hand on reddened cheek, Treivor glared at his mother. 

Chora broke eye contact and shot a look at Jennifer.  She hadn’t moved.  Treivor darted to his room and slammed the door shut in a rattle of cheap plywood.

“I’ll, uh, get you a glass of water,” Jennifer said and hurried to the kitchen.

Chora was still standing there in a kind of angry daze, having not even moved to cover herself, when Treivor reemerged, baseball bat dangling from his right hand and rubbing against the carpet as he approached.  His movements were slow and cautious, his eyes locked on hers.  The bat’s tip thunked heavily against the edge of the coffee table as he took the final steps to stand in front of her. 

They stood there watching each other, in the frozen tableau of silent understanding. 

He hefted the bat above his head, grabbed it by both hands, and then swung it down in a vicious two-handed swing.  Chora didn’t even flinch. 

Bang!  Metal dented and wires bust forth as one of the access panels caved in.  Snap!  Off came the microphone booms.  Treivor tossed the bat aside and wrenched at the broken boom.  He grunted, hissed and spit as he attacked.  He kicked, hit, slapped and scratched the Machine.  Wires trailed like ligaments, feel free and formed a pile at his feet.  Chora didn’t move. 

“What are you doing?” Jennifer yelled, rushing across the room.

Treivor dropped as if he’d been shot.  He collapsed on top of the wires and then began writhing and rolling over them, yelping as sparks flew and thin trails of smoke rose from around him. 

Treivor grabbed his arm, receiving a couple of small shocks in return, and pulled Treivor free of the wires.  She ordered Chora to call an ambulance.  Treivor lay there amongst the wires, blank-faced and unmoving, just staring up at Jennifer’s face. 

**********

“We are requesting the return of all pages produced by The Machine Tulips.”

“I don’t see why.  You have copies.”

The doctor jerked a piece of paper from the file and slid it across the desk to Chora.

“You see your signature there at the bottom?  This is the contract you signed, granting us total ownership of all productions of The Machine Tulips.”

Chora looked at the paper.  It was only a copy—they’d already learned about her quick hands.  Somewhere waited an original with her signature on it, a stand in for the woman she’d been when she’d agreed to the hospital’s conditions. 

They want to take him away, was all she could think.

“This institution invested large sums in the development of The Machine Tulips.  Those words may have come from your son, but their translation and comprehension is possible only due to our efforts and ingenuity.  We feel, therefore, that they are our property.  And now we feel the time has come to protect our property.”

“If I refuse?”

“well, no one wants to see this revert to legal action.”

“And what if I do?”

“Then you’ll find you don’t have a leg to stand on, frankly.  You signed the contracts.”

“You didn’t really leave me any alternative, did you?  Either sign or never speak to my son.  Wasn’t that it?”

“No one said that.”

“You didn’t need to.  And now you want to take him from me.”

The doctor sighed. 

“No one is talking about taking your son from you, Chora.  We just want those pages.  As for The Machine Tulips: at this time, we see no reason to permanently remove the Machine from your home, but given the damage inflicted by Trevor’s outburst it is uncertain when reinstallation can be affected.”

At this time, Chora heard the unspoken threat.

The doctor continued: “Trevor will be observed more closely during his subsequent sessions and the best care and assistance will be given you at your home.  In the meantime you will hand over all papers produced by The Machine Tulips.  The Board will then examine your situation and decide if the current arrangement is best for Trevor’s well-being.”


“Will you let me keep my son?” Chora asked.

“For the last time, Chora, no one is talking about taking your son from you.  I personally don’t think you have anything to worry about on that point, but of course we shall see.  You understand that the key is your behavior?  But don’t worry.  I’m sure everything will work out for the best in the end.” 

**********

Treivor stumbled as Chora nudged him through the door.  In the kitchen, she mixed herself a whiskey and coke.  While the cool heat of the drink seeped down to coax the writhing anger in her belly to uncoil, she thought of what the hospital was threatening her with and she thought of the papers in the chest in her bedroom, all the pages of things Treivor had ever said to her, precious beyond measure.

And then Treivor was standing there in the kitchen doorway, startling her with the silence of his approach.  His peaceful, angelic face bore a smile.  She could see the scrap of paper in his hand and knew that it must’ve come from the chest.  He offered it to her, gentle this time, almost pleading in his hesitancy.  She took it and read: ][love you

Son came closer and looked up into the downturned face.  He reached up to her…and screamed.  Mother clenched the scrap of paper tighter as years of pent-up tears trickled forth and sprinkled against the upturned, screaming face below.