The Madman's Tale (67 page)

Francis walked down the corridor and into the dayroom, looking across past the disjointed knots of patients toward the Ping-Pong table. An old man in striped nightclothes and a cardigan buttoned up to his throat, although it was hot in the room, had taken up a paddle and was swinging it, as if he were playing a game, but there was no opponent on the other side, nor did he have a ball, so that the game was played in silence. The old man seemed intent, concentrating on each point, anticipating each return from the imaginary foe, and had a determined look, as if the score was in balance.

The dayroom was quiet, except for the muted sound of the two televisions, where announcers’ and soap opera actors’ voices mingled freely with the mutterings of patients who conversed primarily with themselves. Occasionally a newspaper or magazine would be slapped down on a table, and every so often a patient would inadvertently slide into the space occupied by another, which would prompt some words. But for a place that could see explosions, the dayroom was quiet. It was a little bit, Francis thought, as if the loss of Cleo’s bulk and presence had stifled some of the usual anxiety in the room. Death as a tranquilizer. It was all an illusion, he thought, because he could sense tension and fear throughout. Something had happened that made all of them feel at risk.

Francis dropped himself into an overstuffed and lumpy chair and wondered
how he had arrived at where he was. He could feel his own heart racing, because he thought that he alone understood what had taken place the night before. He hoped that Peter would return, so that he could share the observations, but he was no longer sure that Peter would believe them.

One of his voices whispered
You’re all alone. You always have been. You always will be
. And he didn’t bother to try internally to argue or deny the sentiments.

Then another voice, equally soft, as if trying to keep from being heard in the area beyond his head, added
No, there’s someone searching for you, Francis
.

He knew who this was.

Francis wasn’t precisely sure how he knew the Angel was stalking him. But he was persuaded that this was the case. For a second he looked around, to see if he could spot someone watching him, but the trouble with the mental hospital was that everyone watched one another and ignored one another at more or less the same time.

Francis rose abruptly. He knew one thing: He had to find the Angel before the Angel came for him.

He started to walk toward the dayroom door, when he spotted Big Black. An idea occurred to him and he called after the attendant. “Mister Moses?”

The huge man turned. “What is it, C-Bird? Bad day today. Don’t go and ask for something I can’t give you.”

“Mister Moses, when are the release hearings scheduled?”

Big Black looked sideways at Francis. “There’s a bunch for this afternoon. Right after lunch.”

“I need to go.”

“You what?”

“I need to watch those hearings.”

“Whatever for?”

Francis couldn’t quite articulate what he was really thinking, so instead he responded, “Because I want to get out of here, and if I can watch what other people do in a release hearing, maybe it will help me not make the same mistakes.”

Big Black lifted an eyebrow. “Well, C-Bird,” he said, “that makes some sense. Don’t know that I’ve ever had anyone else ever ask for that before.”

“It would help me,” Francis said.

The attendant looked doubtful, but then he shrugged. He lowered his voice. “I don’t know that I’m believing you fully on this, C-Bird. But tell you what. You promise no trouble, and I’ll take you over and you can sit with me and watch. This might be breaking some rule. I don’t know. But seems to me that all sorts of rules been broke today.”

Francis breathed out.

A portrait was forming in his imagination, and this was an important brushstroke.

Light gray clouds were cluttering the sky, and a sickly, humid heat filled the midmorning air as Lucy Jones, Peter in handcuffs, and Little Black walked slowly across the hospital grounds. She could feel the rain that was an hour or two off. For the first few yards, the three were quiet; even their footsteps against the black macadam pathway seemed muffled against the thickening heat and darkening skies. Little Black wiped a hand across his forehead, glanced at the sweat that had accumulated there, and said, “Damn, but you sure can feel summer coming about,” which was true. They took a few more steps, when Peter the Fireman abruptly stopped.

“Summer?” he said. He looked up, as if searching the heavens for some sunlight and blue skies, but they were obscured. But whatever he was seeking wasn’t in the steamy air around them. “Mister Moses, what’s happening?”

Little Black also stopped and eyed Peter curiously. “What do you mean ‘What’s happening?’” he asked.

“Like, in the world. In the United States. In Boston or Springfield. Are the Red Sox playing well? Are the hostages still in Iran? Are there demonstrations? Speeches? Editorials? Is the economy good? What’s happening to the stock market? What’s the number one movie?”

Little Black shook his head. “You ought to be asking Newsman these questions. He’s the one with all the headlines.”

Peter looked around. His eyes fixed on the mental hospital walls. “People think those are to keep all of us in,” he said slowly. “But that’s not what really happens. Those walls keep the world out.” Peter shook his head. “It’s like being on an island. Or like being one of those Japanese soldiers stuck in the jungle who were never told the war was over and who thought year after year, that they were just doing their duty, fighting on for their emperor. We’re stuck in some
Twilight Zone
time warp, where everything just passes us by. Earthquakes. Hurricanes. Upheavals of all sorts, man-made and natural.”

Lucy thought Peter was absolutely right, but still hesitated before speaking. “You’re making a point?”

“Yes. Of course. In the land of locked doors, who would be king?”

Lucy nodded. “The man with the keys.”

“So,” Peter said, “how do you set a trap for a man who can open any door?”

Lucy thought for a moment. “You need to make him open the door where you can expect him.”

“Right,” Peter said. “So, what door would that be?”

He looked over at Little Black, who shrugged. But Lucy plunged deep into
thought, and then inhaled sharply, as if the thought that came to her had been astonishing, maybe even shocking. “We know one door he opened up,” she said. “It was the door that brought me here.”

“Which door do you mean?”

“Where was Short Blond when he came for her?”

“Alone in the Amherst Building nursing station late at night.”

“Then that’s where I should be,” Lucy said.

B
y midday it had started to rain, an erratic drizzle, interrupted frequently by stronger downpours, or even the occasional overly optimistic light break that spoke of clearing, but which soon enough was swept aside by another line of dark showers. Francis had hurried along at Big Black’s side, dashing between the dampness and sticky humidity, almost hoping that the attendant’s huge bulk would carve a path through the gloomy weather, and that he could remain dry in the big man’s wake. It was the sort of day, he thought, that suggested unchecked epidemic and rampant disease: hot, oppressive, sultry, and wet. Almost tropical in character, as if the usual conservative dry New England world of the state hospital had been suddenly overtaken by some alien, bizarre rain forest sensibility. It was weather, Francis thought, that was every bit as out of place and insane as all of them. Even the light breeze that swept rain puddles from the asphalt sidewalks had an otherworldly thickness to it.

As was the custom in the hospital, the release hearings were held in the administration building, inside the modestly sized staff lunchroom, which was reconfigured for the occasion into a pseudocourtroom. It had a thrown together, makeshift quality to it. There were tables for the hearing officers and for the patient advocates. Uncomfortable steel folding chairs had been arranged in rows for the hospital inmates and their families. A desk was provided for a stenographer and a seat for witnesses. The room was crowded, but not to overfilling, and what few words being spoken were whispered. Francis and Big
Black slid into chairs in a row at the back. At first, Francis imagined the air in the room was stifling, then, upon reflection, thought perhaps it was less the air, than it was the cloud of eager hopes and helplessness that filled the space.

Presiding over the hearing was a retired district court judge from Springfield. He was gray-haired, overweight, and florid, taken to making large gestures with his hands. He had a gavel which he banged every so often for no apparent reason, and he wore a slightly frayed black robe that had probably seen better days and more important cases some years in his past. To his right was a psychiatrist from the state Department of Mental Health, a young woman with thick eyeglasses, who kept shuffling through files and papers, as if unable to find just precisely the right one, and to his left a lawyer from the local district attorney’s office, who lounged in his seat, with a young man’s bored eyes, clearly having lost some office pool which led to the assignment at the hospital. At one table, there was another young lawyer, wiry-haired, wearing an ill-fitting suit, slightly more eager and open-eyed, who served as the patients’ representative, and across from him, various members of the hospital staff. It was all designed to give an official flavor to the proceedings, to couch decisions in conjoined medical and legal terms. It had the veneer of authenticity, of responsibility, of system and attentiveness, as if every case being heard had been carefully examined, properly vetted, and thoroughly assessed before being presented, when Francis immediately understood the exact opposite was the truth.

Francis felt a world of despair within him. As he looked around the room, he realized that the critical element of the release hearings had to be the families sitting quietly, waiting for the name of their son or daughter or niece or nephew or even mother or father to be called out. Without them, no one got released. Even if the initial orders putting them in Western State had long since expired, absent someone willing on the outside to take responsibility, the gate to the hospital remained closed. Francis could not help but wonder how he would be able to persuade his parents to open their door to him again, when they would not even come to the hospital to visit.

Inside his head, a voice insisted
They will never love you enough to come here and ask for you to be returned to them
…

And then another, speaking quickly, saying
Francis, you must find a different way to prove you’re not crazy
.

He nodded to himself, understanding that what he hid from Mister Evil and Gulp-a-pill was crucial. Francis shifted about in his seat and slowly began to survey the people seated about the room. They seemed cut from all sorts of cloths, rough-edged, rough-hewn. Some of the men wore jackets and ties that seemed out of place and he knew that they had dressed up to make a good impression, when, in truth, the opposite was far more likely. The women wore simple dresses and clutched Kleenex, sometimes to dab away tears. Francis
thought there was a great deal of failure loose in the room, and an accordant amount of guilt. More than one face carried the marks of blame, and for a moment he wanted to say
It’s not your fault we turned out the way we did
… but then, he wasn’t at all sure that that was accurate.

He heard the red-faced judge blurt out, “Let’s move on …” as he pounded the gavel sharply two or three times and Francis turned to watch the proceedings.

But before the judge could clear his throat, and the psychiatrist with the files and confused look could read out a name, Francis heard several of his voices all at once.
Why are we here, Francis? We shouldn’t be here at all. We should run, fast. Get away. Go back to Amherst. It’s safe there
…

Francis pivoted first to the right, then the left, assessing the gathered people. None of the patients in the room had noticed him come in, none were staring at him, none were eyeing him with malevolence, hatred, or anger.

He suspected that might change.

And he took a deep breath, for he knew that he was, if he was right, in as much danger right in that moment, surrounded by patients and hospital personnel, and even sitting in Big Black’s shadow, as he’d ever been. Danger because of the man he thought was in that room with him. And danger because of what he was letting loose within himself.

He bit down on his lip and tried to clear his imagination. He told himself to simply be a blank slate, and wait for something to be written upon it. He wondered if his shallow breathing and sweaty forehead, or the clamminess he suddenly felt in the palms of his hands might be observed by Big Black, and with an immense force of will, he insisted to himself:
Be calm
.

And then, he took a deep breath, and inwardly spoke to all his voices:
Everyone needs a way out
.