by Robert Bloch
Allowing Josh to lean much of his ungainly bulk on him—God, he smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a week!—
Craig guided the slightly taller man up the lane to the entrance. There was only one conceivable hitch: Daniel Florry, the man who’d “agreed” to admit Joshua, was a highly curious bird who had never had any experience in dealing with severe mental illness. Florry was neither a psychiatrist nor a psychologist, and he liked to pry. He’d agreed to hire a guard for the wing, but the man wouldn’t begin work at once. Most of Colindale’s employees were nurses, women, and no GP was scheduled to come by for days. If Craig’s estimate of Joshua’s deterioration since Mom and ol’ Doctor Ben died was accurate—if Josh was hearing his “voices” more than in the past and on the verge of experiencing violent urges—he was big enough to wreak a hell of a lot of havoc. Josh’s one pastime was squeezing two rubber balls he toted everywhere, and his hands were hams.
But Craig had explained those things more than once and they were Dan Florry’s concern after this afternoon, not his. He had paid the son of a bitch enough to do the worrying for ten men anyway!
“Could you hold the door for me?”
Craig, startled, glanced down. Just as the heavy door slammed shut behind him and Joshua, a sweet-faced old woman so thin she could not have weighed over ninety pounds wheeled her chair up to the two men. She fixed eyes as clear as a newly man-made lake upon their faces and waited.
“I’m trying to get out of here,” she explained as if neither Craig nor Josh had seen an aged, wheelchair-bound person. She was humoring them, obviously. “That door is just too much for me.”
Josh’s walnut eyes widened behind the opaque lenses of his glasses. Bobbing his big head in enormous assent, he promptly hurled his bulk against the door, pressed it back, and finished with a Halloween pumpkin’s smile. His periodic frailty had left him once more. “There you go!” he said in his customary friendly tones—the same bright accents he’d once used to tell Craig that he had destroyed all of Craig’s notes for a term paper. The identically amiable voice in which he’d notified Craig that their mother wasn’t alive anymore.
But by then Craig knew that his older brother adopted the accents of a mildly retarded person whenever he wished to escape correction for some senseless deed one of his damned voices commanded him to perform. Or simply to hide himself behind a dolt’s image while he strove to figure something out—frequently with the exacting planning that was Craig’s own. The difference was that Joshua based his reasoning on absolute fantasy, not on facts. Whatever he was planning might very well cause irreparable harm. He’d gotten by with that smile-faced, little-boy act all of their mother’s life and it was a sound bet that Josh would wind up their father’s life in the same fashion. Which galled Craig Addams badly, because brother dear was a psycho—not an idiot. And he was cunning as a trapped bear.
Maybe he hadn’t managed to graduate even from grade school, but Josh Addams’s IQ was as normal as their dead mother’s apple pie. Not spectacular, but normal.
“Thank you, dear,” the old lady with the watery eyes said as she started past the beaming Josh and through the carefully opened door.
“Hold it,” a man’s voice called. “Don’t let Mrs. Lockerbee out—please!”
Craig saw administrator Dan Florry, the frat friend who’d agreed to his brother coming to live at Colindale, rushing toward them, wigwagging his arms above his head.
Promptly, Josh began shoving Mrs. Lockerbee and her wheelchair out onto the sidewalk. Both of them, Craig noted, were grinning hugely.
It took the concerted efforts of Florry, Craig Addams, and a woman nurse to recapture the old lady and wheel her back inside, Josh doing his shame-faced act for his brother and the benefit of the administrator. Craig glared at Josh once, then ignored him. The elder Addams might “hear” a voice commanding him to do anything at all but he never ran away.
“You sons of bitches,” Mrs. Lockerbee spat with great clarity. The nurse, a black woman with a name tag that read gloria, was wrestling the wheelchair around to face a different way. “Bastards!”
Dan Florry gave her a sidelong glance and added a smile that was pure public relations. Even when he and Craig were fraternity brothers up East, Dan had borne a proximate resemblance to Senator Ted Kennedy. Now in his forties with distinguished gray at the temples and a paunch even his three-piece suit couldn’t conceal, the resemblance was stronger—except that Florry stood several inches under six feet. “Mrs. Lockerbee is one of our perpetual escapees,” he said, offering a plump hand. “They prey mercilessly on visitors to open the door, help them make their getaways.”
“You mean,” Craig said in surprise, “there are more like her here?”
“Oh yes.” Florry straightened a natty silk tie. “Mrs. Lockerbee is the ringleader.”
“You son of a bitch!” the woman with the blue eyes shouted as Gloria, the picture of nonchalance and cool, pushed her up a long hallway. “Eat shit! Eat shit!”
“I’d have thought,” Craig said carefully, “that people like Mrs. Lockerbee would be. . .well, confined.” He shifted his gaze toward Josh. “It’s important for my brother simply to be left alone, undisturbed.”
“We keep better track of them than you think,” Florry said. He motioned for the brothers to follow. Then he led them into a different corridor. “They start out in what we call Skilled where nurses like Gloria must check regularly on their whereabouts, then collect them before they succeed in breaking out.” He showed pearly teeth. “It takes hours for some of them to reach an exit because of their wheelchairs, so we’ve never yet failed to bring ’em back alive.”
“All that way for nothing,” Joshua said. “That’s sad.”
The administrator hesitated in the corridor to size up his new patient as if noticing Josh for the first time. It was an old trick of Dan’s, Craig knew. Sane or insane, somebody meeting Florry was first impressed by how busy he was, second by the statesmanlike crinkled eyes and thin-lipped, crooked smile. “You must be Joshua, Craig’s brother.”
“Yes,” Josh agreed with a nod, “I must be.” He stared down at Florry’s extended hand for a moment before taking just the fingertips with utmost caution.
“I guess you’ll be staying with us for a while.” Dan’s smile obstinately spread.
“Yes, I must be,” Josh said, squeezing Florry’s fingers together with considerable pressure. And that, Craig knew, was an old trick of his brother’s. “I must stay forever.”
“Josh,” Craig said quickly, taking hold of a shoulder that was only an inch higher than his own but twice its size, turning Josh so that he’d release his clutch on Dan Florry’s fingers, “that’s not what Dad and I said. We explained that you’ll have to stay here only until Dad is better.”
“I know that’s what you and Dad told me.” Josh continued at his somewhat limping stride up the hallway, unaided. “But that isn’t what they say.”
Craig saw Florry’s brows raise. He looked around inquisitively, then hurried after Josh. “What are ‘they,’ Mr. Addams? Can we discuss them?”
“Dan,” Craig hissed, “that’s not necessary.” The arrangements he had made with Florry and Colindale were for his brother to be housed and fed, to get his standard medication and all the attention needed for his personal care.
Since Dr. Larkin’s accidental death around the time of Mom’s passing, Josh had received no additional counseling. There had been no change in his medication. Dan Florry didn’t know the history, and he didn’t need to know it. Doctor Ben had explained decades ago that Joshua was incurable. After Dad’s terminal illness began, Craig had convinced him that nothing was to be gained by constantly plaguing Josh with tests or by running up more bills. Aunt Dorothy had imagined that Craig was trying to save Dad’s money for himself, but there wasn’t a word of truth in it.
Because Craig was a success and Dad didn’t have a dime left. It was merely common sense not to throw good money after bad. Josh was a lost cause. It was
that simple.
“I’d like to get some idea of what I’m dealing with,” Florry whispered hastily. Josh was still lurching up the hall alone, ignoring Dan’s question as if it weren’t worth the consideration. “If I’m going to help him—”
“You aren’t.” Craig drew himself erect, clasping his hands before him in a posture his juries had frequently seen. “Let me be clear: You have nothing to ‘deal with’ where Josh is concerned, nothing. You’re to leave him alone.”
“Nothing?” Florry said. “Craig, that’s your brother.”
“I know,” Craig continued, “and I know much more about the human mind than you do.” He saw the startled expression on Florry’s Kennedyesque face and nodded. “I don’t mean that derogatorily, I mean it as a fact. Everything that could be done for Josh was done years in the past. I really don’t want you going near him.”
“How dare you!” Florry flounced from foot to foot. “This is an institution for people who need help—”
“It’s a standard old folks’ home, Daniel, and you’re not a doctor. You’re an administrator.” Craig patted his forearm. “I know the law. It’s illegal for you to ‘deal with’ your residents remedially. Josh is here to live out his life; nothing more.”
The color in Florry’s face deepened. “It was I who permitted your brother to be admitted.” He spoke tightly. “And just because we pledged together in college. Let me remind you that you have no medical credentials either.” His pudgy jaw tightened. “I could arrange for your brother’s instant release. Are you aware of that?”
“I’m sure you could,” Craig said. Outwardly detached, he trailed after his brother’s dwindling figure. “But that wouldn’t erase the evidence of our transaction—which I keep in the safe in my office. There’s a bit more to it than old school ties.” Jogging lightly, he saw that Dan was keeping pace. “There are the Colindale forms we both signed, my canceled check. . .with your signature.”
“I don’t see why you’re taking this tack.” Florry peered narrowly at his old acquaintance. “You know, Addams, I’m damned if I see any sign on your part of strong feelings for Josh. Now that I think about it, you were always a cold bastard.”
A tic appeared at Craig’s temple. He rarely lost his temper but the son of a bitch was practically asking Craig why he’d brought Josh there or what he hoped to get out of it. Not that that would matter once Josh was actually in his rooms; not after tonight. “Dan, Dr. Larkin signed my brother’s commitment papers years ago. Just last week our father also signed them.” Joshua looked tired, drained, as they caught up. “Now that Dad is dying, I have Josh’s power of attorney. I’ve done nothing remotely illegal.”
Abruptly, Florry stopped walking. “What sort of man are you?” he asked softly.
“The rare kind,” Craig answered, taking Josh’s arm. “Who lives life without wasting sentiment, knows what he wants and goes after it—legally. Dan, don’t try to dope out my motives. You don’t have a good enough background in psychology for that.”
Pleased with his own performance while he longed to slaughter this interfering poseur of a man where he stood, gaping, Craig smiled coolly and helped his brother locate his suite in the plain but immaculate new wing of the institution.
Nobody had ever understood his views on Josh, apart from Josh himself. Those views, that honesty, were the only things they shared in common except for their terminally ill father. It was all they had between them. It had been enough until tonight. It would be for another few hours.
Joshua’s quarters—a small front room partitioned from a bedroom with a bed, chest of drawers and a TV, plus a miniature bathroom with a wash basin and shower facilities—were in readiness. Spartan but adequate, new and livable. Remembering the handful of good times he’d shared with the older man, Craig elected to spend a few minutes in private with Josh. He even gave thought to telling Joshie what he meant to do after leaving Colindale.
But the tall and muscular Josh was feeling wan. His periods of animation inevitably fled without warning, just as all his other phases began suddenly, electrically. Leaving on the topcoat Mom had bought for him some years back, Josh was clambering up on the neatly made bed, lying flat on his back and working two red rubber balls between his strong, startlingly nimble fingers. Noiselessly, turning, turning. With the coat and a new pair of brown shoes Craig had brought him just that day, Josh resembled a mammoth child who’d been sent to his room. Or a construct, the batteries for which had run down.
More than a decade ago Craig had wondered if Josh’s condition might not be further complicated by manic-depressive tendencies or, if not that, something like catatonia. He was sometimes cheerful and cooperative in doing something but he was often dejected. He ranged from excitability and madness to extended periods when he was almost as inactive, as inert, as a person sunk deep into a catatonic state.
Craig had broached his curiosity to Larkin, Josh had been in earshot and sighed, “Wouldn’t you guys get blue if you were crazy and sort of knew it? Wouldn’t you get extra-special happy when things were okay a while and you didn’t think anyone was going to kill you?”
Ben, a fool all his life, had agreed, sided with the psycho. He had sworn that Joshua, sometimes exhibited greater perception or clarity of thought, more “uncluttered penetration” than others. And yet Josh went on lapsing into his phases, listening to his damned voices reminding him that “some folks aren’t nice, and they kill people, they really do.” When he had looked so much older than Craig during their teens, that had bothered the younger brother more than he’d ever let on. But Ben-the-incompetent went on promising them, “We’ll get a handle on all this someday.”
Wrong again. No one had ever attached a handle to Josh or Craig Addams. It occurred to the latter as he waited for Joshua to say something that Doctor Ben’s death hadn’t occurred too soon for any of his patients.
“I’m leaving now.” He rose, deciding things were okay. Fine. “Do what the fools in this place say to do and you’ll be. . .just fine.”
“That’s true, yes.” Joshua wasn’t looking at him.
“Just ignore Florry. He’d never understand.”
“I will.” Then Josh fell silent for a time. His stare, Craig observed, was centered on the drawn curtains. “Did you know there are bars behind those drapes? Isn’t that a fine idea, Creggie? ’Cause no one can come get me, with bars there—except people already inside this place.”
“That’s true too, Josh,” Craig said, lifting a brow. He tried not to ask the question leaping to mind but hesitated near the door, unable to prevent himself from posing it. “You got into bed almost immediately after we entered this room,” he said. “You haven’t looked behind the drapes.”
“There you go,” Josh said noncommittally.
“Then,” Craig continued, “how do you know bars are behind the curtains?”
Josh didn’t reply at once. His expression, if anything, went momentarily more blank. “You don’t want to know, Creggie,” he murmured finally.
Do I? Craig wondered. “Yes, I do,” he said aloud.
“No, not really.” Josh closed his eyes, turned them into slits. He held his long arms over his prone body and the rubber balls in his fingers looked squeezed flat.
“Damn it, Joshua,” Craig swore, his own hands working, “I do want to know.”
“They,” said Josh. His big head bobbed ponderously. Then he centered his gaze on the acoustical tile ceiling as though other information might be divulged from that source if he concentrated hard enough. “They said.” At last, he turned his head to peer at Craig. “And I know I’ll be real fine here because it’s quiet. I can hear what the voices say better when it’s really quiet.” There was spittle clinging just under his lower lip but he was smiling. “They’ll tell me lots of secrets now, Creggie.”
“Goodbye, Josh,” his brother said, and left.
He can’t hear shit from them! And there isn’t any ‘them’ anyway, Craig thought as he headed back down the long h
allway. His feet informed him when he had moved onto different, older carpeting that he was back in the older part of Colindale. All anybody like Josh imagined he heard at first was a deep, thunderlike rumble. That was what all the literature claimed. It’s what every psycho hears, Craig reminded himself. Then it got louder, happened with greater frequency until the psychos themselves filled in insane, often murderous messages. There’s nothing for him to discover, to learn, Craig thought, walking more rapidly. There were no secrets he was going to find out; none.
An old woman—another dotty old lady—was perched in a wheelchair at the front door of the institution. It was almost night now and her hands were folded in her lap in a waiting posture and there was no sound coming from the residential street. The chair fitted her perfectly, like aluminum clothing. It seemed molded to the contours of her thin form.
“Sir,” she beckoned Craig, haltingly. “Would you mind terribly holding the door for me? I just can’t get through that heavy door in my wheelchair.”
Craig glanced down. She had no shoes on her twiglike feet and her veins ran blue like streams that were drying up. Outside Colindale it was autumn, drizzling rain. He would have adored to help her but it was too risky.
“Eat shit,” he said and barged through the door.
Pop dwelt in the same frame house he’d occupied when Mom died. It was a shell over a pea but nobody was playing a game, making a gamble, except Craig.
Driving along Winthrop was like slipping into a distantly remembered hallway, half expecting to find oneself at the end. It was like narrowing down into a world that both continued to exist in some inexplicable, rudimentary way, as corpses in graves existed and might periodically twitch without notice, and did not exist at all. Memory lane, but it’s straight down, Craig thought, spotting the familiar house.
The ghost inside, however, wouldn’t be his. The ghost Craig saw every time he entered the house was that of Josh Addams.
He’d haunted it long before Craig picked him out of the shell and put him into the nuthouse.
