by Hank Janson
Maybe it would have been different if mother had given Frisk half or even three-quarters of what she owned, on condition he left her. But she didn’t. She held on grimly to her property, telling herself her husband had left it for her.
It was when Frisk had been in our house six months that the doctor arrived. He was a tall, thin, hawk-nosed man with a bald head and a pronounced stoop. He had one very blue eye that was out of focus and constantly watering. The other eye was greyish-green.
Frisk called him ‘Doc Morgan.’ Despite mother’s protests, he moved in, occupied one of the spare bedrooms, which he littered with cheroot stubs. He flung them on the floor casually, not always bothering to extinguish them. Other changes took place. The coloured maid was dismissed and replaced by a younger girl, who lived on the premises. I understood only in later years why that coloured girl was always laughing and mocking mother, and why mother avoided speaking to her if possible, walked past her with eyes averted.
It was shortly after Doc Morgan arrived that mother began to be ill. She didn’t look ill, but Frisk told her she was ill. So did Doc Morgan. They said she should take things easy, not worry too much. I was just a kid, but I remembered funny things that happened. One day mother, would be looking for her purse. She couldn’t find it anywhere. The next day, I’d find it in the chicken-coop, or maybe the coloured maid would find it in the gas-oven.
These kinda things happened frequently. And all the time, Doc Morgan and Frisk were telling mother she shouldn’t worry, said she should rest, lie down and not upset herself. I remember the time mother was in the lounge, asking Frisk if he had seen her glasses. He looked at her, puzzled. ‘But you just took them outside with you, my dear.’
‘I haven’t worn them all day,’ she told him.
Frisk looked at Doc Morgan. Morgan shrugged his stooped shoulders. ‘You shouldn’t get so excited, Mrs Frisk,’ he said gently.
She stared at him. She sounded desperate. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ she asked.
Frisk said bluntly: ‘You’ve been wearing your glasses all morning. Just ten minutes ago, you took them off, put them in the spectacle case and went out to the kitchen with them.’
She stared at him, pressed her hand to her head. ‘But I haven’t …’ she began faintly.
Doc Morgan leaned forward slightly. His one good eye was fastened on her, intently. ‘What was that, Mrs Frisk?’’
She looked at him with wild, desperate eyes. ‘I just don’t know what I could have done with them,’ she gasped. She hurried out of the room, nervously fumbling for her handkerchief in her apron pocket. That kinda thing was happening day after day, Mother not remembering, hiding things away where she couldn’t find them.
It was three months later when Dr Manders arrived from Chicago. I knew there was something special going on, because I was kept out of the way. Frisk and the two doctors talked alone together for a long time. While they were talking, my mother was very upset, crying all the time. Afterwards, Frisk came out, and she went to see the two doctors by herself. Frisk caught sight of me, beckoned me over, wagged his finger at me solemnly. ‘Listen, boy,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to understand, your mother’s ill. You mustn’t worry her. D’you understand?’
I scowled at him. ‘You made her ill,’ I said. I had no logical reason for saying it. I just felt it, deep down in my childish mind. For a moment his face hardened, then his kindly smile shone out. He fumbled in his pocket. ‘Here’s a dollar,’ he said. ‘Go buy yourself some sweets.’
I was just a kid. A dollar was all the dough in the world. I forgot everything in my hurry to get to the candy store.
When I got back, mother was upstairs in her bedroom. I was told she wasn’t to be disturbed, must have complete rest. All her meals were taken to her room by the coloured maid, by Frisk or by one of the two doctors. The bedroom door was always locked.
The next day, the workmen arrived. It was all excitement to me. I didn’t understand, didn’t try to understand why the small, bare room at the top of the house should be fitted with bars, chains stapled to the walls and the door reinforced and fitted with a grille. I never saw mother for another fortnight. Many times I rattled her bedroom door but got no reply. Once, after she’d been served with a meal, I was able to creep up the stairs, look through the keyhole. I could see mother lying in bed. She looked terribly white and pale. Dr Morgan was bending over her. He had a hypodermic and was injecting her arm.
But a fortnight later, Doc Morgan and Doc Manders solemnly took me into the dining-room. They closed the door carefully, regarded me very seriously. Morgan fixed me with his one good eye, looked down his nose and said: ‘Young man, you’ve got to be brave.’
I swallowed. ‘What’s happened to Mum?’ I pleaded. ‘What are you doing to her?’
Manders turned away, coughed. Morgan’s one good eye stared at me levelly. ‘D’you know what insane means, my boy?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Insane!’
The word frightened me. It conjured up pictures of raving lunatics snapping iron shackles, rending flesh with bare teeth and striking out with maniacal strength. I nodded dumbly, the shadow of apprehension creeping over me.
He shook his head sadly. ‘You must be brave, my boy,’ he said. ‘Your mother is ... insane!’
I didn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. I sobbed hysterically, punched at him, fought to get out of the room and to get up to mother’s bedroom. But they held me, tried to reason with me, and finally locked me in my bedroom to cry into the long, long night.
That was when it became a hideous reality. My mother, insane! That was the reason for the room at the top of the house to which she was transferred. I was never allowed to see her. A door was built halfway up the final flight to the attic. Only the doctors and Frisk had the key of that door and could go beyond it. The weeks passed, and I was tortured by the desire to see Mother, and afraid of what I would see when I did see her.
Many times I hovered on the stairs, watched as Frisk or one of the doctors opened that door, carefully locking it behind them before disappearing into the upper regions of the house. Time and again, I pleaded to be allowed to see Mother. Always it was the same answer. It was better for me not to see her.
The weeks passed into months. Almost eighteen months had elapsed since Frisk had married mother. Eighteen months of hell and misery.
Then I got my opportunity. It was a Saturday afternoon. The key of that door was kept by Frisk in his vest pocket. He and the two doctors had been playing cards, smoking heavily and drinking too much. Finally the game broke up, Dr Morgan went up to his room and Frisk and Manders fell asleep in their chairs.
I had the courage of desperation. I crept into the room on my hands and knees, crept alongside Frisk’s chair, and with trembling fingers fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, my heart leaping wildly as I found the key.
I hardly dared to breathe as I crept up the stairs, fitted the key in the lock and felt it open. Then there was nothing to stop me. Yet, having got so far, I was afraid. I crept up the stairs, stood staring for long minutes at the sturdy wooden door behind which I knew she imprisoned.
I found the courage to open the door. At first, it seemed like the room was empty. It was filthy, smelled abominably. In the far corner, beneath the window, a bundle of rags moved and stirred. There was something horrible about the way it moved. I would have turned and run had fear not taken the strength from my legs. The bundle moved again, so that now I could see it was a living person. It scrambled to its feet and, as I stared horror-stricken, a weak voice croaked, ‘Lee. My boy!’
There was a chain around her waist that allowed her practically no movement. The single garment she wore, like her hair, was so matted with the filth of her own excrement, in which she was forced to lie, that it was indistinguishable from any other part of her body. She knelt there, arms outstretched towards me, and only her burning eyes were recognisable.
‘Lee,’ she sobbed. ‘My boy,’ she cried. ‘Come to me.’
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Often have I regretted what I did then. But I was just kid. She was my mother, and I knew it. But she was repulsive and horrible. The yearning inside me was oppressed by her revolting aspect.
‘What are they doing to you, Mum?’ I asked timidly.
‘Come to me, Lee,’ she pleaded.
I took only a coupla paces towards her. The smell was worse the nearer I got. ‘What are they doing to you?’ I asked again.
She musta seen the expression on my face and understood. She asked, quickly: ‘How did you get up here?’
‘I stole the key,’ I said. ‘They wouldn’t let me come.’
‘They don’t know you’re here, then?’
I shook my head.
‘Be a good boy, Lee,’ she said, panting with excitement. ‘Go to the police-station. You know where it is. Tell them what you’ve seen. Tell them I’m imprisoned. Say they’re trying to drive me crazy. Will you do that, Lee? Will you go at once?’
I stared at her in amazement. ‘You mean it isn’t true? You’re not really ill?’
‘Believe me, Lee,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘It’s a trick. They’re trying to drive me mad. John wants to get control of my property. He can do that if they drive me mad.’ Her voice was suddenly angry. ‘That’s what they’re doing, Lee. They’re trying to drive me mad. I can’t hold on much longer.’
I was just a kid. ‘You mean, go to the police-station?’ I said, appalled.
‘That’s right, Lee,’ she urged. Her eyes were suddenly shining with hope. ‘Go right away. Tell them exactly what you’ve seen. And hurry. Hurry.’
I hurried. I crept down the stairs, fastened the door behind me, dropped the Yale key on the floor outside the lounge, where Frisk would be sure to find it and think he had dropped it accidentally. Then I set off for the police-station, running as fast as I knew how. Mother had told me to hurry.
I can’t say I blamed the cops. What was I? A kid, not yet twelve years of age. I ran breathless into the police-station, stammered out some wild, incredible story of my mother being chained up in a locked room.
At first they tried to send me away. Then, when I became insistent, they got annoyed. When they saw I wasn’t afraid of their threats to lock me in a cell if I didn’t stop telling lies, the desk sergeant shrugged his shoulders wearily. ‘Okay, Flartery,’ he said. ‘Take the kid home. Find out what it’s about.’
Now I had the hefty, protecting bulk of Flartery beside me, I couldn’t get home fast enough. I kept hurrying ahead, urging him to hurry. He acted like he didn’t hear me, walked slowly and ponderously, his keen eyes watching the traffic, the hawkers, the loitering bookmaker’s runners and everybody except me.
Finally we did get home. He looked at the long drive leading up towards the house. ‘This where you live, kid?’ he asked, doubtfully. I could tell he thought I was lying.
‘This is the place,’ I said urgently. ‘Hurry.’
He reached out, rested his hand on my shoulder. He didn’t do it in a friendly way, rather as though to make sure I didn’t run away. We walked up the drive together, his slow, ponderous tread grinding the gravel loudly.
It was Frisk who opened the door. I was watching him triumphantly. I saw the momentary flash of surprise in his face when he saw the cop had his hand on my shoulder. Then he was smooth, slick and courteous. ‘Good evening, officer. Is there … trouble?’ He broke off, looked at me meaningfully.
The cop’s fingers tightened on my shoulder. ‘D’you know this boy?’
Frisk took so long looking at me, I thought he was going to deny he knew me. Finally he said wearily: ‘What is it this time, officer?’
The way he said ‘this time’ implied I was always in trouble. The cop breathed heavily. ‘You’re his father?’
‘Step-father,’ corrected Frisk politely.
The cop said: ‘Could I see his mother. Have a talk with her?’
Frisk said: ‘Good lord!’ abruptly, and raised his eyes to heaven. Then he heaved a deep sigh. ‘Don’t tell me he’s come to you with that story.’
The cop stared at him. ‘You know about it’
Frisk tut-tutted and shook his head despairingly. ‘I can’t make up my mind whether he’s stupid or deliberately malicious.’
The cop said, obstinately: ‘I’d like to see his mother. He says she’s chained up.’ Then his face and tone softened. ‘Not that we believe him, of course. But it’s our duty to check these things.’
‘Naturally,’ said Frisk easily. He widened the door, called aloud: ‘Dr Morgan. Can you come here a moment?’
Dr Morgan musta been behind the door listening. He appeared promptly. ‘Trouble, Mr Frisk?’ he asked.
Frisk’s voice implied he was unutterably weary of me. ‘The boy again,’ he said. ‘The same story.’
Dr Morgan gave me a long, thoughtful stare. ‘I warned you, Mr Frisk,’ he said. ‘The boy needs special treatment.’
I wrenched myself away from the cop, pushed past Frisk and Morgan. Having succeeded so far, I was desperate to prove myself. I yelled to the cop: ‘It’s this way. Up these stairs. Come and see for yourself.’
The cop remained standing on the doorstep like his feet were rooted there. I was almost crying with frustration. ‘You’ve gotta come,’ I pleaded. ‘This way. Come with me. You can see for yourself.’ I was halfway to the staircase now.
Frisk’s voice cut through my words with sudden loud and dominating fury. ‘Come back here, boy. Don’t you dare disobey your instructions. I won’t have you worrying your mother.’
Dr Manders appeared suddenly, manoeuvred around behind me, caught me by the shoulders and held me tight. His voice was gentle, although his grip on my shoulders was steely. ‘You must be a good boy,’ he reasoned. ‘You don’t want to make your mother worse.’
Morgan said quickly: ‘Perhaps I had better make the position clear, officer. My name is Morgan.’ He paused for effect. ‘Dr Morgan.’ He gestured towards me. ‘This is my colleague, Dr Manders. We’ve been called in by Mr Frisk. We shall be staying here as long as her condition is critical.’
The cop asked: ‘You mean his mother’s ill?’
Doc Morgan nodded. ‘The boy’s at an impressionable age. We can’t expect him to understand these things. His mother’s in a bad nervous state, requires absolute rest. We’re in constant attention upon her. The boy’s mischievous and troublesome. He’s a great worry to her, and for own sake we keep him away from her.’ He sighed, shrugged his shoulders. ‘I regret it’s no good explaining to him our reasons. He’s very obstinate.’
The cop looked embarrassed. You could almost hear his mind ticking as he figured things out. Finally he asked: ‘You’re Doc Morgan?’
‘That’s right.’
The cop looked towards me. ‘And you’re Dr Manders?’
Manders nodded over me. ‘D. Morgan called me in on this case,’ he said smoothly. ‘A most interesting case. A rare type of nervous phenomenon. The patient requires absolute rest and constant medical attention. That way, she may pull through.’
The cop swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘But you see, we have to do our duty, and when that kid …’
Manders said, smoothly: ‘Of course, officer. We quite understand.’ He looked across at Morgan. ‘I don’t think it will be wise,’ he doubted. ‘But if the officer would like to see Mrs Frisk …’
Morgan looked doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t advise it. But if the officer feels his duty …’
The cop said quickly: ‘I can take you gentlemen’s word for it.’ His forefinger eased his collar. He got suddenly angry. ‘It’s that damned kid,’ he said. ‘Turned the station upside down.’
Frisk said, smoothly: ‘We shall take the necessary steps, officer. I don’t think you will be bothered with him anymore.’
The cop glared at me ferociously. ‘You oughta be ashamed of yourself,’ he snarled. ‘Your poor mother lying ill and you causing all this trouble. Just let me see you down the station again, and the sergeant will
give you the taste of a cell.’
Frisk said quickly: ‘I would heartily support you, officer. I shall do my best to make sure he does not bother you again. But if it should occur,’ he paused meaningfully, ‘two or three hours in a cell might convince him it’s painful to continually tell lies and cause trouble.’
The cop said, evenly: ‘He’s your son. And if that’s what you want, we’ll do it like a shot.’
Doc Morgan said: ‘His parents have been too lenient with him. He’s had too much of his own way. I think your suggestion would be admirable.’
Frisk said: ‘I’m sorry about the trouble you’ve been caused, officer.’ He moved closer to him, paper rustled, and the cop’s face became smiling and contented. He saluted, said goodnight politely, and as he closed the door behind him, Frisk mopped his forehead.
‘Jeepers. That was close!’
Morgan looked at Manders. ‘You got me sweating blood,’ he said. ‘If he’d wanted to see her, we’d have been finished.’
Manders said, smoothly: ‘If he’d insisted, we could have gone up first, found the patient too dangerously ill.’
Frisk said, with sudden vehemence: ‘It’s going on too long. It’s too dangerous. How’s she managing to hold out?’
She’s a strong-willed woman,’ said Morgan. ‘But she’s gotta crack any time now. Nobody could stand up to that treatment long.’
Manders said, warningly: ‘The kid!’
They all looked at me then. Frisk’s, Morgan’s and Manders’ eyes piercing into my brain. I was suddenly terrified.
‘Telling lies, eh?’ said Frisk, and his eyes narrowed.
‘Have to teach him a lesson,’ said Morgan.
They both moved towards me. I struggled, tried to squirm away from them. And then they carried me, screaming, fighting and kicking, upstairs to my bedroom. My memory of what happened afterwards is enveloped in a red haze of pain and fever. They were three full-grown men. I was a child. They stripped me, held me down and took turns to whip me with a leather strap; I guess they belted me near to death, because I was delirious, enmeshed in wild, nightmare dreams as my body writhed in eternal fire. There were flashes of consciousness when it was morning or night, and one or other of them was forcing food into my mouth. I guess it would have been too dangerous if I’d died on them.
