Experimenting with Juliet

Juliet had never seen her father so cross.

“What were you thinking?” He paced the room. “Why didn’t you wear safety glasses?”

“I forgot.” She watched him rub the back of his neck, a sure sign he was vexed.

“You could have been badly scared or lost an eye,” Beezie said.

Her father stopped pacing and plunged his hands deep in the pockets of his brown cords. “How could you be so careless?”

She had been playing in his study, which was more like a chemistry laboratory. Giddy from solvent fumes, she reached for one bottle after another, pouring different chemicals into a beaker, enthralled by the colour changes and hissing effervescence. The bubbling intensified until a mini-explosion shattered the beaker.  

“Come with me, sweetie. Let’s leave the Professor in peace.” Beezie took her hand and led her away. “A cup of hot milk is what you need after such a shock.”

Juliet pulled her hand free and looked back. Her father sat at his desk. He caught her eye and turned away.

“Come along.” Beezie grabbed her elbow.  

Juliet had no brothers or sisters. Her mother died in childbirth and Beezie, an unmarried cousin, came to stay as a live-in nanny cum housekeeper. She had bulging eyes and a gaping mouth, which reminded Juliet of the carp in the window of the fishmonger.

“Hot milk, and I’ll let you read one of my magazines.”

Words fascinated Juliet, how they sounded and what they meant. Her father often read out clues from crosswords. She loved it when he made up his own clues. Her favourite was gegs.

“Gegs, the answer has nine letters…. scrambled.”

She had listened carefully as he explained the clue, then squealed her delight. “Scrambled gegs.”

George Prausnitz, her father’s closest friend, was a regular visitor and often joined in the game.

“Juliet, here’s a clue for you - the answer has five letters. Dis or dat duck.” He said it in a silly voice. “Any idea?”

Juliet shook her head.

“Why, it’s eider.”

Prausnitz listed words he said you should know if you wanted to complete a crossword. “Visceral, psyche, sangfroid and tawdry.”

Juliet repeated the words and asked, “What do they mean?”

“Visceral is emotional, psyche refers to the mind, sangfroid is self-control and tawdry, well that’s just vulgar.

“Sangfroid can never be visceral,” she said.

Prausnitz ruffled her hair. “Aren’t you the precocious girl?”

On trips into town with Beezie, Juliet pointed at signs and asked questions. “What’s a dry riser inlet?” or “Why does it say No Entry?”

“I’ve no idea,” Beezie always replied. “You must ask the Professor.”

Approaching a line of guesthouses, she played her guessing game.

“The next three will be: vacancy, no vacancy, vacancy.”

“Come along Juliet, stop delaying.”

Beezie never had time for games.

Juliet liked to sit in the study and listen to conversations between her father and Prausnitz. She kept very quiet and watched their faces as they spoke.

“University research is a grubby business.” Her father grimaced and shook his head. “All that seems to matter are proposals and budgets.”

Prausnitz smiled. “I believe that’s what they call the bottom line.”

“Where does it leave scholarship and knowledge?” The Professor leaned forward in his chair. “A system governed by money is intellectually bankrupt.”

Prausnitz wagged his finger, his eyes crinkling. “They’ll label you old-school.”

“The new breed probably think I pre-date the old-school.”

During the summer holidays, Juliet moped around the house looking for things to do. She started a wasp mausoleum, collecting the shrivelled bodies of dead wasps from window ledges and dusty corners and arranging them in one of her father’s display cases. When she ran out of wasps, she added bluebottles, ants and beetles.

Over breakfast, Beezie complained to her father.

“All those dead insects. It’s an unhealthy way for a young girl to spend her time.”

He put down his newspaper and turned to Juliet.

“You should have a pet. It would help you develop a sense of responsibility. What do you think?”

“I’d love a pet.”

The Professor brought home a goldfish. Juliet jumped up and down, waving her arms, overjoyed by the new addition to the household.

“Calm, calm.” He raised his hand like he was stopping traffic. “Take it easy. You must decide a name for the goldfish.”

“It looks like Beezie.”

“You can’t call the fish Beezie.”

“Then, I’ll call it Goldie.”

Juliet worried that Goldie was bored in its bowl. She added miniature pieces of furniture and figurines from her old doll’s house.

“Can Goldie see in colour?” she asked her father.

“More than likely.”

Searching his study, she found a container of nickel nitrate. She added some to the water and a little more until Goldie swam in a lovely emerald green sea.

The following morning, Beezie waited for her at the foot of the stairs.

“You silly girl. You’ve poisoned the goldfish. The Professor has had to flush it down the toilet.”

Juliet tiptoed into the kitchen and saw the empty bowl on the dresser.

Later, she stood behind the door of the study and listened to her father tell Prausnitz what had happened.

“Your daughter seems to have inherited your flair for experimentation.”

Juliet heard the amusement in Prausnitz’ voice, and was relieved that her father didn’t seem angry with her. She sat on the floor, hugged her knees, and continued listening.

“How is your research going?” Prausnitz asked.

“It’s coming along, no thanks to the dullards I have as PhD students.”

“What is it you want to achieve?”

“Scientific knowledge. What greater purpose can there be?”

“Have you tested any of these compounds?”

“If only I could but where am I to find suitable subjects? My students aren’t even good for that.”

“Not even as guinea pigs?” Prausnitz laughed. “You set very high standards.” 

Juliet bided her time before asking Beezie if she could have another goldfish.

“No more pets. You had your chance.” Beezie turned away. “And don’t bother the Professor. Go outside and play.”

Juliet sat on the garden bench and pulled needles from a pine branch. She perked up when she saw her father leave the house and come towards her.

“I’ve been looking for you.” He sat across from her. “How would you like to help me?”

“Yes, please.”

“It must be our secret.” He raised a finger to his lips. “You can’t tell Beezie or Prausnitz. Is that clear?”

She gave him her biggest smile.

“Your help will be crucial in a major scientific discovery.”

“A discovery,” she repeated and clapped her hands.

“This is a matter of science,” he said, his face serious. “If you are to assist me, you must act like an adult.”

Two weeks later, she sat on a straight-back chair in his study. The Professor placed a bowl of porridge and a spoon on the desk.

“Stop jiggling your legs. Listen carefully and follow my instructions.”

He took a scarf from his pocket and tied it so it covered her eyes.

“This is to ensure that you concentrate fully on what you taste.”

She felt his hand, heavy on her shoulder, and the spoon pressing against her lips.  

“Can you describe the taste? Take your time.”

“It’s cold and yucky.”

She could hear him take a deep breath. 

“Another mouthful,” he said.

She opened her mouth.

“And one more spoon, measurements must be made in triplicate to avoid error.”

Juliet accepted her third helping of cold porridge.

“Now, sit still. I’m going to give you something to drink. Swallow it slowly.”

The liquid tingled on her tongue, a bitter taste that caught in her throat, causing her to gag. He put his hand over her mouth.

“Don’t spit it out for God’s sake.”

She struggled against him, and then settled.

“You’ve been a very good girl. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She wiped her mouth and said nothing.

“Stay there and don’t touch that scarf.”

She heard him sit at the desk and open his notebook.

“Let’s see… fifty milligrams, two molar…. phosphine complex…. should block the amiloride receptor.”

The sound of writing, then the scrape of the chair as he stood up.

“Let’s try again. The experiment will soon be over.”

She forced down the mushy porridge, a second and third spoonful.

“Does it taste different?” he asked.

She shook her head and pulled off the scarf.

“Are you sure? Can you taste anything else?”

“No. I hate it.”

Juliet sought refuge in the kitchen where Beezie was weighing butter and flour.

“I don’t feel well.”

“What’s wrong, my little angel?” Beezie hunkered down, her fishy appearance exaggerated by concern. “You do look a little peaky.”

Juliet flopped onto a chair and rested her head on the table.

“I know just what you need,” Beezie said cheerily. “A slice of chocolate cake and a glass of milk.”

Juliet pushed the cake around the plate before taking a bite. “It’s salty and horrible.”

“That cake is not salty.” Beezie crossed her arms. “It’s made from a recipe that’s been in our family for generations.”

Juliet took a mouthful of milk and spat it back into the glass. The milk tasted awful, like salty water. Everything was horrible.

That evening, Juliet lay in bed and squeezed her stuffed rabbit for comfort. She heard a knock on the door, looked up and saw her father smiling at her.

“Well done, the experiment is a resounding success and it’s because of you.”

“But everything is salty and horrible.” 

“And that’s good, the complex worked. Can’t you see that?”

“Beezie’s chocolate cake is salty.”

“We can easily rectify that and have everything taste sweet.”

She sat up. “Really?”

“Of course. To celebrate, you can have chips for supper.”

Great news, she loved chips but Beezie never served them. Juliet cheered and waved her bunny in the air.  

After that, she saw little of her father, who spent long hours at the university.

“It will take weeks to synthesise the complex to activate the heterodimer sweet receptors,” he told her. “I only wish my students were as helpful as you.”

Juliet basked in the glow of his praise.

When the Professor was finally ready, she sat on the same chair in his study.

“No porridge today,” he said, “and we can dispense with the blindfold.”

He handed her a small beaker that contained a clear liquid. She sipped the acrid solution as her father nodded his encouragement.

“We should give the complex time to work.”

While he read his notes, Juliet leafed through chemistry journals she took from the book shelves.

She resumed her place on the chair. He gave her a saltine cracker, which she broke in two and crunched.

“How does that taste?”

“Sweet, it’s so sweet,” she said through masticated cracker. “Lovely and sweet.”

Next, he handed her a teaspoon heaped with salt. She tipped it onto her tongue, closed her mouth and wagged her head from side to side.

“So sweet.”

As sweet as seeing the joy on her father’s face.

“Smell,” he said. “That’s the next sense to tackle. We can start next week. There will have to be some trial and error as the olfactory receptors have limited selectivity. Prepare yourself.”

Juliet prepared herself, and did exactly what he asked but her enthusiasm waned after repeated exposure to vials of thiol and mercaptan with their scent of sulphur and rotten eggs.

He reached into his box of smells. “Breakthroughs in research don’t come without some cost.” 

“It’s horrid,” she protested but he held her head steady and wafted another vial under her scrunched nose.

“Just one more, that’s all I ask.” He chose one of the sample bottles. “I’m certain this complex will work.”

Juliet swallowed the chemical. He unscrewed a vial and put it under her nose. There was nothing to smell. He took a whiff and recoiled in disgust.

“It’s a result, the tridentate ligand has suppressed the olfactory sites.” He made some entries in his notebook. “Let’s try some mercaptan to establish the effect.”

“You said that was the last one.” Juliet pushed out her lower lip. “You promised.”

He looked at the wall clock. “Come with me.”

They went to the basement where Beezie had her rooms. It was Sunday, Beezie’s day of rest after a lunchtime feast of cabbage and bacon drowned in horseradish sauce.

“Quiet, don’t make any noise.”

Juliet edged along behind her father. Beezie emerged from the downstairs toilet. When she had gone, he pushed Juliet inside.

“Count to twenty,” he said before shutting the door.

The cistern gurgled as it refilled. Juliet began counting. On twenty, she opened the door and found her father standing with his back against the wall, breathing through his mouth. He frogmarched her upstairs.

“What did you smell in that hellish toilet?”

“Nothing.”

He rubbed his hands together and laughed. “Beezie’s rancid gases and you smelt nothing.”

Caught up in his euphoria, Juliet danced a jig. “Rancid gases, rancid gases.”

He lifted her in the air, and she soared. Twirling around and around, they sang in unison. “Rancid gases, rancid gases.”

Each evening, Juliet waited on the front steps to greet her father when he returned from the university. She visited his study at nine o’clock, before bedtime.

“A toast.” He clinked his glass of whisky against her glass of milk. “To our collaboration.”

“I want to help again.”

“You must wait.”

She didn’t want to wait, waiting was boring. He told her she must be patient.

“You can never rush science.”

At last, it was time for another experiment.

“We’ll come back to sight and sound,” he said. “I want to get on to touch.”

These tests produced immediate results, strange responses to Juliet’s probing fingers. Ice cubes felt warm, her father’s shiny desk as rough as sandpaper.

“Describe the texture,” he instructed as she rubbed her hand along the curtains.

“It’s pebbly, like the outside of the house.”

What she saw was not what she touched. She caressed the sisal front-door mat, as soft and silky as the dresses in her mother’s wardrobe.

Juliet didn’t want the tests to end.

“More, more,” she cried.

“Stop. It’s not a game. Go and help Beezie. I have work to do.”

In the kitchen, she went through the drawers. The cheese grater felt warm and furry against her cheek.  

“What are you doing?” Beezie took the grater from her. “You’ve cut yourself.”

“But it’s so nice and furry.”

After disinfecting Juliet’s cuts, Beezie brought her to the Professor.

“Look what she’s done.”

“A misunderstanding,” he said. “I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.”

When Beezie left, he began pacing the room.

“That’s it, no more experiments.”

“But I want to help,” Juliet pleaded. “You said I was a big help.”

“There’s nothing left to test. The best way you can help is by being quiet. I have a lot of thinking to do.”

She could still be with him, bring him coffee, sharpen his pencils and keep him company. He read or wrote, covering pages in formulas. She curled up on a leather settee and watched. Sometimes, he did his thinking aloud.

“The nervous system is nothing more than a sequence of chemical reactions. Imagine being able to orchestrate those reactions, manipulate neurons and direct the flow of information to the brain.”

When he offered her the beaker of liquid, she swallowed it without hesitation.

“The iron centres in this complex should catalyse neurotransmitter release. It will make you smarter.”

He handed her a page with a list of names: William, Otto, Melvin, Max, Dorothy and many others.

“Memorise these names.”

She repeated the names in her head, going down the column three times.

“Good, now go and play and come back in an hour.”

“Do you feel any different?” he asked when she returned.

“Not really.”  

“Can you give me those names in the order they appeared.”

“William, Otto….” She closed her eyes and tried to picture the page.

“Yes, next name?”

She shook her head, not wanting to give the wrong answer.

As she left the study, Juliet felt light-headed and dizzy and leaned against the wall in the hallway. Her cheeks burned. A prickly heat spread down her arms. She went into the kitchen for water, took a glass from the sink and filled it from the tap.

“Don’t drink from that dirty glass.”

Why was Beezie always picking on her? She threw the glass on the floor, took a plate from the drainer and flung it at Beezie’s stupid fish face.

“Leave me alone.”

She threw more plates and Beezie cowered in a corner. Her father appeared in the doorway, his eyes hard, his mouth a thin line. He grabbed her arms and she kicked and squirmed to get out of his grasp. 

The next thing she knew, she was lying in bed. Her head throbbed and she sweated profusely. Then, her body went cold, her stomach heaving. Bezzie held a basin under her chin.

“Bring it up sweetie. You’ll feel better.”

She retched. Hot sour liquid came through her mouth and nose, waves and waves of sickness, her stomach so sore. She fell back onto the pillows.

“That’s better, now rest.” Beezie's voice seemed miles away.

She lay, half-asleep and half-aware of muffled sounds. At some point, her father entered the room and she heard him speak, his voice hushed.

“We must do nothing to upset her.”

Juliet stayed in bed for a week. Beezie nursed her through stomach cramps, headaches and nausea. Once she managed to keep down food, Beezie fed her soup, spooned it into her mouth and dabbed her chin with a napkin. She asked about her father.

“He looks in every evening when you’re asleep.”

As a treat, Beezie took her on a holiday to the seaside. Juliet enjoyed splashing in the water, pony rides, ice cream and candyfloss on the esplanade. Her father met them at the train station when they returned.

“You’re looking much brighter.” He smiled but not a proper smile, not like before.

There was no more mention of experiments. Beezie urged her to leave the Professor alone but Juliet still went to the study and listened to his conversation with Prausnitz.

“So, how is your work on those compounds progressing?”

“It’s not progressing, it’s come to a full stop.”

Juliet watched her father’s sad face, the tired way he rubbed his neck.

Beezie found him, slumped over his desk. Sudden cardiac arrest was the official cause of death. He had been pushing himself too hard, if not at the university, then closeted in his study for hours on end. Juliet cried for days and when her tears dried, she was morose and listless.

At the funeral, she gripped Beezie’s hand and stared at the coffin. Prausnitz offered his condolences. “Whatever you need,” he told Beezie, “don’t hesitate to ask.”

He placed his hands on Juliet’s shoulders. “Your father was a great scientist. You must never forget that.”

She remained silent. It was a secret and she had promised not to tell Beezie or Prausnitz.

All Juliet ever wanted was to help her father. That was why she took the solution from the chemicals cabinet. She only added a little to the glass of whisky he took each evening in his study. Only a few drops. He had told her it would make you smarter and all she wanted was to help him.

Author’s Biography

Mark Keane has taught for many years in universities in North America and the UK. Recent short story fiction has appeared in Granfalloon, Terror House, upstreet, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Liquid Imagination, Superpresent, Into the Void, Night Picnic, Firewords, Dog and Vile Short Fiction, the Dark Lane and What Monsters Do for Love anthologies, and Best Indie Speculative Fiction 2021. He lives in Edinburgh (Scotland).