supplicium post mortem

© Casey Morgan 1995

Sunday evening at the Lewises’. Casey and Mark were still sore from their Regulars, Mark especially because he’d gotten more than the usual caning for a naughtier than usual week. It was 7pm and time for what Mrs. Lewis called ‘the weekly cleaning.’ Dr. Lewis was downstairs in the children’s bathroom with Mark, and Casey, since she was the baby, was upstairs in the Lewises’ bathroom, with Mrs. Lewis. It was always this way. Dr. Lewis had lit the grate and gotten out some towels. Mrs. Lewis was arranging things in the sitting room which adjoined her bathroom. Mark was obediently taking off his shorts, underpants, jumper, and shoes, leaving only socks and shirt. Casey, more reluctantly, was undressing upstairs. She hated weekly cleaning, even though she usually felt better afterwards.

Dr. and Mrs. Lewis were firm believers in the benefits of Lavage. Mrs. Lewis, particularly, felt that most illness could be traced to the influences of an unhealthy colon. Both had had Victorian upbringings, so both considered weekly cleaning as normal a routine as, say, taking a bath, or sweeping out the hall.

Upstairs in the sitting room, Mrs. Lewis was waiting for her charge to stop dawdling. “All right, Casey, come over here,”  she said, with that mixture of no-nonsense and indulgence she reserved for this child. Casey slouched over to the rug and towel set before the fire and sat cross-legged, as if a game of checkers was in store. Mrs. Lewis pursed her lips. “Lie down.” Casey did, looking uneasy. “And we’ll have these off, please,” she said, hooking her fingers into the waistband of Casey’s underpants. “Turn over… come on Casey, quit stalling.” As ever Mrs. Lewis conveyed warmth and firmness.

Downstairs Dr. Lewis was just letting loose the clasp. Mark heard the water whoosh through the hose, but felt nothing, except the coldness in his body melting into warmth. Dr. Lewis was in the middle of giving his opinion of the morning’s sermon. Mark had just said he thought the bit about roses being made for enjoyment was a bit much (loathing, as he did, the Flowers & Lambs side of Christianity). Dr. Lewis had listened, with interest, to Mark’s critique, then added that although the imagery had irritated him, it subsequently had caused him to reconsider. That afternoon, while Mrs. Lewis had been administering Regulars, Dr. Lewis had gone into the garden and sat. He had no more fondness for lambs than Mark, but he did see, that afternoon, abruptly, what was growing in his garden.And it led him to think of what was growing inside his house. And he wept, that afternoon, thinking of the things he had not enjoyed because he had been gripped with fear–of not working hard enough, not earning enough money, not doing enough. And he thought of Mark and Casey, and the idea that they might have come to him for enjoyment, for love, rather than simple rescue. That Duty could be masking the purpose of the guardianship, that perhaps they had come to rescue him, from a busy, ordered, dry life–this idea altered him. And while he turned the water on and off, as Mark requested (it being difficult for him to take it all at once), he tried to tell some of this to the boy. And as Mark listened, his thoughts began to soften.

*    *    *    *    *

As usual, Mark took his cleaning with more fuss than Casey, but finished sooner. He thought Dr. Lewis’ introspective mood might make him persuadable. “Couldn’t I have my bath in the morning,” Mark asked as the taps ran, “like I always do? It’s a waste, don’t you think, two baths in one day?” Mark was ever stoic, but his caning had cut, and he preferred, if he had the choice, not to sit in hot water that night.

“All right, young Casey, into the tub.” Casey settled under the bubbles. Her favorite part of Sunday had arrived and she was easily obedient. Mrs. Lewis left her and went back into the sitting room, to continue reading.

“A good bath is never a waste,” Dr. Lewis said to Mark. “In you get.”

*    *    *    *    *    *

An hour later Mark and Casey were in their room, night-shirts on, teeth brushed, arguing over what the story was to be that night. Dr. Lewis came in from the bathroom, carrying their glasses of water. “Has democracy prevailed?”

“Mark wants to hear Stalky, again,” Casey said, getting into bed, “but we still haven’t finished The Secret Garden.” Vomit sounds emanated from Mark’s pillow.

“Who’s turn is it?”

“Mine,” Casey insisted.

“Secret Garden it is, then.” Dr. Lewis sat between their two beds, on the edge of Casey’s. When he gave the whackings, Mrs. Lewis did the reading and sat on Mark’s bed. So everything was fair.

Except Mark was grouching. He lay on his back, hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.

“Well…” Casey hesitated. Her stomach churned. “Let’s have Stalky instead,” she said. “An Unsavory Interlude.” And she handed Dr. Lewis the red book.

*    *    *    *    *

11.15 pm–lights well out, except for Casey’s torch, which flickered over the walls of the bedroom. “Still sore?”

“Bit.”

And Casey was on his bed, torch in hand, inspecting the marks. “Since when does she do five-bar-gates?”

“Guess she had a lesson.” Mark sucked in his breath as Casey poked.

They proceeded this way for ten minutes, breaking into giggles when Mark did his imitation of the Rector extolling the virtues of roses.

Then–they had heard nothing–lights glared, and Dr. Lewis stood in the doorway. The children froze in innocent tableau.

“I thought so,” he said. Then, as Mark pulled up the covers and Casey hopped off his bed: “No, stay as you are, Mark.  Casey, wait by the side of your bed.”

Without a pause, Dr. Lewis took the Slipper from his dressing gown and stood next to Mark’s bed. His hand gently on the back of the boy’s neck, Dr. Lewis administered a brisk slippering to the unprotected backside. Mark yelped. “It’s time for sleeping,” he said, “not for fooling about.”

“Yes, sir,”  Mark answered.

Dr. Lewis pulled the night-shirt into place, tucked Mark into bed, then went and sat in the middle of Casey’s bed.

“Stand here,” he pointed. Casey crossed to his side with an injured expression. “Over you go.”

“I’m too old!”

“You are not too old, Casey, to be put across my knee,” he said taking the back of the neck and pulling her into place. “Feet up on the bed.  Hold still.” Then, taking flipping up the tails of her night-shirt, and surveying the remnants of Mrs. Lewis’ strapping, he slippered her, exactly has he had slippered Mark. Casey shook, but did not yelp.

“Into bed and no more noise,” he said when Casey had got up again. She dove under the blankets and put them over her head. Dr. Lewis sat down next to her and pulled them away.

“Come on, Casey,” he said, taking her into his arms and hugging her. Mark felt hot. She’d started crying again, as she always did when Dr. Lewis took her and held her. Mark looked away as she hacked up sobs. He felt useless. And jealous–why couldn’t he cry?

*    *    *    *    *    *

11.55 pm–lights all out. Casey feels happy; Mark is wrapped around her. And Mark, too, feels content, and safe, because even though he is holding her, she has taken his arms and is pulling him tight, like a coat, like skin. And she’s holding his finger, “Like Jigsaw.” And she’s whispering to him, her voice like ether, putting things right, telling those cells in his shoulder blade that they can stop fighting, that it’s safe to sleep, that he is loved. Mark’s chest hurts for bursting, but after a time her prattle–about what he’d forget by morning–relieves. His favorite sound, her voice. The last thing he hears before falling into sleep.

[For intro to this story, see here. Also, read Mark's companion piece here.]