Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Harley Quinn, Mad Hatter, Joker or Scarecrow. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the quoted poem used in this chapter. That one belongs to Edwin Arlington Robinson ("Miniver Cheevy"),
Some Saturday morning cartoon featuring two rabbits blared on the television screen. Harley sat cross-legged on the couch. She let out a shrill screech of laughter when the girl bunny threw a pie into the boy bunny's face. Jervis smiled- not at the cartoon (he detested the animation, so uncouth in comparison to the illustrations of John Tenniel)- but rather at the blonde woman. She was like a kid at the matinee. An engaging child, Jervis thought. But so terribly, utterly confused. He admittedly was fond of Miss Quinn. But no, he did not harbor romantic feels for her. She was only a child, a delusional and confused little girl hopelessly in love. The Joker had escaped Arkham weeks ago and Harley patiently waited for him to come back for her, talking continuously about her ever faithful "Puddin'." Jervis knew enough about the Joker to realize that he probably would come back for Harley, but only when it was convenient for him. In other words, when he had some diabolical scheme planned and needed her assistance. And that dismantled child would gladly throw herself into his arms and willingly put herself in danger just to make him happy.
The other inmates told tales about how the Joker had brainwashed Harley Quinzel years ago. They said that she was once a psychiatrist and an upstanding citizen. That is, until the Joker warped her mind. Jervis shook his head, appalled by the slight similarity between him and the Joker. Yes, it was true that he had brainwashed Alice, but he did it for her, for them. He never would have harmed her. He had sacrificed everything for Alice: his career, his freedom, even his mind.
Perhaps that was why he was so sympathetic towards Miss Quinn. She too forfeited her freedom and her sanity. And in exchanged she served as the Joker's minion. Poor child, Jervis thought. She really does love the Joker. If only she knew that she was nothing more than a disposable glove to him.
Jervis reframed from letting his views be known. Better to let Miss Quinn live in a world of fantasy than break that poor thing's heart.
But the worst part- the very worst part- was the fact that even that treacherous, unworthy clown possessed something that he, Jervis, could only dream off: a woman's unquestionable love. And the Joker didn't even have the decency to appreciate it.
Jervis shook his head, clearing away his jealous thoughts as took his customary seat at the small table. He set up the chessboard and looked around for Jonathan as soon as all pieces were in their proper place. There weren't that many people in the room. A middle-aged man sat in the middle of the floor with his arms wrapped around his bunched up legs as he rocked back and forth, muttering incoherently. The poetry-spouting inmate stood near the window with her forehead resting against the glass and Harley was still staring up at the black-and-white television set. Jonathon was at the other side of the room, reading an old battered copy of Stephen King's It. He thumbed through the pages with a look of sheer boredom, making it look about as thrilling as reading a telephone book. Jervis was amazed that the book had not yet been confiscated.
A guard stood in front of Jonathon just as he was thinking this. "Alright, Johnny Boy. What are you doing?"
"It's called reading, O Brainless One. Let me enlighten you. This-" Jonathon held up the novel "-is called a book. It's filled with all twenty-six letters of the alphabet- You do know that there are twenty-six, right? These letters are assembled into something that we call words. And then the words are arranged to form sen-ten-ces."
The guard did not seem to appreciate the sarcasm. "All right, Crane. If you're going to give me backtalk, you can return to your cell."
Jonathon casually rose and tossed the book aside. "I ought to take up writing. I certainly can do better than that amateur." Jonathan paused by the table as the guard escorted him out, his eyes briefly resting on the chessboard. "Perhaps tomorrow?"
"Very well," Jervis agreed.
Jonathon turned to the guard. "Come along, Cretin." They left the recreation room.
Jervis looked disappointedly down at the chessboard.
"I'll play," a voice offered.
The young woman at the window advanced towards the seat that Jonathon normally occupied. Ever the gentleman, Jervis rose. It was, after all, customary to stand in a lady's presence. He moved quickly, too quickly, and almost knocked the chair over in his haste. "Do sit down."
She sat, but immediately hopped up again with a startled "Oh!" That was followed with, "By Poe's writing desk!" The woman reached into her back pocket, pulling out a toy mouse. "I forgot I had this silly thing. I hope I didn't break it just now." She wound up the crank; the mechanical mouse zoomed about the table, running over the chessboard. "Good, good. At least it still works and- Sorry about that!" The mechanical toy had collided into the row of pawns. "Sorry…" She hastily lifted up the toy, turned it upside down and waited for the little wheels to stop winding.
Jervis picked up the toppled pieces, glad for an excuse to avoid looking at her. "No, no, don't apologize. I do like mice- Such amusing little creatures." He began to ramble and could feel his face turn hot as he jabbered. "I-I had four of them once. I always considered them more as pets than test subjects. I used to be a scientist," he added needlessly.
Jervis had long ago developed the habit of evading women. Whenever he did talk to a female, he would instinctively allow his eyelids to drop. It was better that way. Better than seeing disdain and annoyance in their faces. Jervis knew that he was not a handsome man. Nor was he an exciting one. There were some things he never did outgrow. He used be that way with Alice until he summoned up the gall to look up at her sweet, cheerful face. And now that this young woman was absorbed in tinkering with her toy mouse, Jervis allowed himself to freely examine her. She possessed a simple prettiness, not too glamourous and not too alluring, but natural. She lacked the delicate facial features for hers were slightly on the blunt side. Dark coffee-brown hair and tea-colored eyes. Large eyes, which gave the impression of a fawn-like innocence due to their size and color. He recalled seeing her the first time she was escorted down the corridor that housed the Rouge Gallery. How long has it been since that day? Five weeks? Six weeks? She had attended many therapy sessions since then and Jervis had noticed that she was becoming less and less fidgety with each passing day. And a lot more self-assured. And once she had stopped slouching, Jervis could see that she was moderately tall.
"It seems like a former life, doesn't it?" the woman said quietly. Her hands were cupped protectively around the windup mouse as if it was a living, breathing thing that need to be kept warm. "It's hard to believe that I was once a cook at a tearoom. Not as impressive as being a scientist, I admit." The corners of her lips twitched upwards. "What's your name?"
"How dreadfully rude of me. Jervis Tetch, at your service."
There was a flash of recognition. "You're the…" Her voice trailed off.
"The Mad Hatter," he finished for her. "The one who kidnapped people by using a mind control device. And I believe that you're the one who beat your fiancée with a walking stick?" Jervis did not mean for his words to sound so accusing. He added gently, "I'm sure your actions were justified." She did not respond. "Please, forgive me for prying, Miss… Oh, dear… It seems that I know your crimes, but not your name."
"Harriet March." She proceeded to mumble. "Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn…" The woman then stopped after the first stanza. "Oh, there I go again. And I told Leland that I would stop doing that." The woman raised her fingers to her temple. "Silently count to ten when I'm agitated, that's what she suggested. Count to ten." She shut her eyes, her fingers twitching as she used them to tally the seconds. Her eyes immediately reopened.
Jervis grinned at both her name and at her rabbitty habits. The twitching and hopping. Plus, the nibbling, he noted as she began to chew her fingernails.
How appropriate. The Mad Hatter, the March Hare and (he glanced down at the toy) the dormouse all sitting at the same table!
Harriet subsequently tilted her head engagingly to the side. "I should thank you for not questioning my motives. You cannot imagine how many times people around here ask me why I did what I did. Even Leland wants to know and keeps hinting around." She carelessly shrugged her shoulders. "Suppose we change the subject. I came over here to play chess. I'm not very good, I'm afraid."
She prodded a pawn forward by two spaces. Jervis immediately moved his knight. Harriet was right when she said that she was unskilled. And she certainly did try, bless her. It did not take long for Jervis to have her king cornered by a bishop and a rook, and, since his pawn made it to the opposite end of the chessboard, he was able to retrieve his queen. Harriet saw that she was trapped and forfeited, laying the white king down in defeat.
Jervis did not bother resetting the pieces. He was surprisingly at ease around her, finding her quaintness slightly comforting. "How often do you have therapy?" He, of course, knew the answer: every Monday, Friday and Saturday at ten o'clock sharp. How many times had he seen her escorted to Dr. Leland's office? It was pathetic really, that he had nothing better to do than watch the people who passed by his cell.
"About three times a week," she answered. "Always the same. Leland with her notepad. Writing, writing and writing some more. There's an armed guard always with us now, because of the incident, I suppose."
"Incident?" Jervis echoed.
"Oh…" Her long face became flamingo-pink. "It's something I'm not proud of, but, well, another inmate started the whole thing. Leland explained to me that this inmate- I think her name is Berti- has the habit of picking on newcomers. A typical playground bully. Anyway, Leland said that I had every right to defend myself, only I went a tad overboard. I was positively disgusted with myself at the time, but now… Now I'm kind of glad that it happened. The other inmates treat me with respect now. It's frightening, knowing that I'm capable of such violence."
That explains why she is so self-assured now, Jervis thought and he said out loud, "It gave you a sense of power, didn't it?"
"It did," Harriet answered reluctantly, "and I know that's wrong of me. I'm really trying to get better. Leland says that I'm making progress. I don't remember if it was on my second or third session when I confessed that I pretended to be like Edmond Dantes from The Count of Monte Cristo. Pretending just made Arkham seem more bearable. Leland explained that I was using books to escape from reality, that I was confusing fact with fiction. She said that I shouldn't think of Arkham as a prison. Kind of hard, if you ask me, especially with them lurking around." The woman gestured towards an a nearby guard. "But she gave me things to read. Not fiction, however. Biology textbooks, histories, and, for some unknown reason, something titled The Art of Toy Making. Leland suggested that I find some hobbies for myself. Things to occupy my time when I'm released into the real world, I suppose, and she signed me up for a whole bunch of therapy classes. I made this-" she pointed to the mechanical mouse "-in an Arts and Crafts."
"May I?" He held out his hand.
"Oh, yes, of course." She gave him the toy to examine. It was nothing more than a system of gears, quite unimpressive. But, Jervis reminded himself, not everyone can be a genius. He attempted to give it back to Harriet; she declined.
"No, you keep it." She smiled. Jervis saw that her front teeth were rather large. It didn't bother him; her defects made him less insecure about his own.
"March!" One of the guards shouted. "It's ten minutes to ten. Time for your session with Dr. Leland."
Harriet stood. So did Jervis. Had they not been in an asylum, he would have accompanied her like a proper gentleman. But this was Arkham and he could only watch as an armed guard followed behind her. Jervis sat down again once Harriet had left. A charming girl, he thought, but she was certainly no Alice.
"Ya know, her problem ain't that unusual."
Jervis jolted and turned towards the couch. For some unknown reason, he felt guilty, like he was caught doing something wrong. Jervis saw that Harley was no longer watching television; she was instead grinning like a Cheshire Cat. "Just how long have you been listening, Miss Quinn?"
"Since Tiny Toons ended. Nothin' on but the news. I hate the news. Unless Mistah J's on it, of course."
"Of course," Jervis muttered. "Now what were you saying about Miss Harriet?"
"That her problem ain't unusual. Used'ta hear about cases like it. People who do nothin' but read all the time. And I mean nothin'! They don't even sleep. Soon they get things all messed up. Can't tell what's real and what's not. Like the windmill guy."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The screwball who chased after windmills cause he thought they were giants or somethin'" She stood up and began to turn the television dial, stopping at another cartoon show featuring an obese, stripped cat. "And they think I'm a whacko."
Author's note: The line "I hate the news" is something I, um, borrowed from Who Framed Roger Rabbit.
I would also like to mention that there are a few references to Alice's Adventures in Wonderland throughout this story, but they're very, very subtle. (The obese, stripped cat isn't the Cheshire Cat. Harley's watching Garfield and Friends.)
I would also like to thank Eskimo-Otter and KMN91 for their reviews. I really appreciate it! Thank you so much!