by Lesley Kagen
With his wavy dark hair and wide shoulders, Sally Maniachi bore a strong resemblance to Aunt Jane May’s favorite boxer Rocky Marciano, only he liked to eat more than fight. I’d seen folks sitting next to him at church change pews because they found his ever-present pungent aroma off-putting, but the girls and I thought that on the off chance a vampire did show up in the hideout and our crucifix didn’t do the trick, we’d run next door and his garlic breath would be our saving grace.
Of course, I was quite fond of Sally and grateful to him and his twin sister, Sophia, for taking Frankie in and pretending to be her relatives. And when the church spinsters and that group of Germans grew suspicious of the little newcomer to town, I greatly admired how he shut them up by writing a check for a new church roof because, “Nothing talks louder than money, girls.” And what a kind and understanding employer he was. On a night I was restless and thirsty in the hideout, I was on my way back to the house to get a glass of lemonade when I heard some whimpering coming from the Maniachis’ backyard. I thought Sophia might’ve fallen out of her wheelchair and needed help, but when I looked around the bushes, I could see that Sally was letting Dell cry on his shoulder, probably about how much she could use a new vacuum cleaner because he gave her a Hoover 800 a few days later that she really loved.
After Uncle Sally spotted us the night of the emergency meeting, he smiled and waved enthusiastically with both of his arms, which is how he always greeted us. Like we’d just disembarked from a cruise ship that’d docked in Sicily and he was a tour guide who couldn’t wait to show us a good time. He’d usually shout at us, “Ciao, bambinas,” in his booming voice, but if he did so that night my family was sure to hear, so Frankie had to act fast. She locked eyes with Sally and ran her finger across her throat—Italian sign language for “Keep your mouth shut or you’ll be taking a long walk off a short pier.” Of course, we hated to see his welcoming face turn into a wounded one, but we knew he’d do as Frankie asked because he adored her, and if there was anyone in Summit who appreciated the importance of a well-kept secret more than we did, we were looking at him.
But we weren’t home free yet.
When the church bells announced that if you intended to attend the meeting at the town hall, you better get on the stick, we had been crouching behind those prickly bushes for a good fifteen minutes. When God passed out patience, Viv and her tiny bladder must’ve been in the bathroom. She was growing more restless and testy by the minute. Frankie was doing her best to keep her occupied with a game of cat’s cradle, but Viv had been on such a losing streak that when the string slipped off her fingers, I was sure she’d lose one more thing—her awful temper. If she went off on Frankie, she would give away our hiding spot, and it looked like she was about to do just that when we heard voices on the other side of the hedge, and a few moments later, the doors of the sheriff’s county car slammed shut and the engine roared to life.
Soon as Doc, the sheriff, and Aunt Jane May were halfway down Honeywell Street, we shouted “Arrividerci” to Uncle Sally, promised we’d come mangia with him and Sophia real soon, and ran across the backyard of my house at full speed, praying the whole time that we’d make it to the town hall before my family did.
After Frankie, Viv, and I hopped over the stepping stones behind the hideout, we ran down an alley, jumped the Wellners’ fence, sped down Main Street, and arrived at the square in the nick of time. Seconds after we concealed ourselves behind one of our favorite downtown observation points—the storage shed adjacent to the town hall—the sheriff pulled into his reserved spot in front of the building.
The hall was primarily used for government meetings, beauty pageants, holiday plays, and whatnot, but there was no jockeying for position or buzz of anticipation that night. Parents who’d been planning on distracting themselves from the punishing heat by sitting out on their front porch steps and talking about the Milwaukee Braves’ winning season with a cold bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon were not happily chatting or stepping lively. They were shuffling along the sidewalk and milling outside the front doors of the town hall looking so lifeless that my first panicked thought was that the search the girls and I had done around town for pods incubating soulless aliens after we’d seen The Invasion of the Body Snatchers hadn’t been thorough enough.
The next part of Viv’s plan called for us to hurry to the spot that we’d watch the meeting from. Considering the split-second timing it’d take to beat my family to their seats, we probably should’ve called the whole thing off, but with the lives of so many people we cared about at stake, the girls and I had no choice but to put our guts where our hearts were.
“One for the money,” I said, and Viv piped in, “Two for the show,” and after Frankie capped off our call to action with “Three to get ready,” our voices rose together in a quiet but determined “Go, Tree Musketeers, go,” and we took off toward the town hall.
Chapter Seven
Children weren’t always seen and not heard in those days—mostly we weren’t seen or heard—so we weren’t concerned that our presence outside of the town hall that night would be noted by anyone other than Doc, Uncle Walt, and Aunt Jane May. We knew our neighbors would be far too preoccupied with their heat discomfiture and the provocative topic of the evening to pay us a lick of attention.
When we skirted past them and reached the door we planned to enter the building through, I was surprised to find it locked, but that wouldn’t stop us either.
After we’d seen Vincent Price doing his dirty work in the House of Wax, we got the idea to at least try to get a peek inside the locked basement room at Broadhurst that we’d begun calling the Chamber of Horrors after the one in the movie. To facilitate that goal, Viv had donned Frankie’s Girl Scout uniform—she set hers on fire and toasted marshmallows over it after she’d been kicked out of Troop 333—and paid the town locksmith a visit at his shop on Ivy Street to convince him that she was working to earn something she’d called a “Disaster Badge.” She explained to former Eagle Scout Ed Gracker that she knew how to use a tourniquet on deep wounds and suck poison out of a snake bite, but she needed him to provide her with the means to get into a locked building that’d gone up in flames so she could save anyone trapped inside. Ed was a good egg, but not the brightest, none of the Grackers were, and he was certainly no match for a kid who’d grow up to be an Emmy-winning actress. He ended up cutting Viv not one key but three that day, and she never left the hideout without them in her pocket or hanging around her neck. “Because,” she said with a sly grin as she slipped one of them into the lock on the town hall door the night of the emergency meeting, “it always pays to be prepared.”
Frankie went first to get the lay of the land. When she returned a few minutes later and gave Viv and me the okay sign, we tip-toed inside, concealed ourselves behind the maroon velvet curtain at the back of the stage, and gingerly moved along the wall until we reached the metal ladder that led up to the catwalk.
It was the ideal spot to watch the meeting from. Angled enough that we could see anyone on the stage, as well as the audience, but I could’ve kicked myself for not bringing our binoculars along. I would’ve liked to get a closer look at a couple of faces. Knowing how someone felt about the issues to be discussed that night might come in handy at a later date, I thought.
Peacekeeping Uncle Walt, who was expected to show up at all town functions, was the first to walk onto the stage and take a seat below us. Next came my father. Doc was not involved in the inner workings of the town, but he often tended to the physical needs of the patients at Broadhurst and was thought of as an expert at dealing with emergencies of all kinds. One of the other empty chairs was reserved for Mayor Kibler, and I thought the other must be for Dr. Cruikshank’s assistant, Nurse Holloway.
The girls and I were shiny with sweat and smelled as coppery as pennies held in a fist too long, and the crowd below wasn’t faring much better. The wimpy breeze created by the fans set around the windowless room wasn’t making much of a dent
in the temperature or the cigarette smoke that billowed like ghosts above their heads. The gals in their pastel shirtwaist dresses were fanning themselves or powdering their noses, but their husbands were acting like letting on that the heat was getting to them would make the hair on their chests fall out.
Unlike town gatherings like the Fourth of July parade and the County Fair, this was not a mixed group. Just as Father Casey had informed his parishioners of the meeting that morning, I was sure Reverend Archie had told his congregation at Emmanuel Baptist. I was equally sure they didn’t shout back at him, “Hallelujah.” It troubled me that Mud Towners never showed up at these types of events, so I asked Jimbo about it. “Us givin’ our opinions to those in charge is ’bout as useful as throwin’ a T-bone to a toothless dog,” is what he told me.
Far as I could tell, the only other kids at the meeting were the Jessop brothers and surely not willingly. They were probably forced to accompany their mother because everyone in town knew how wild those boys were, which, of course, meant that Viv found Petey and Pauly irresistible. “Double your pleasure, double your fun,” she’d say with a cat-bird smile whenever we ran into them.
I didn’t think Viv had spotted the Jessop boys, but in case she did, I cautioned her. “If you got anything to say, keep your voice down or someone on the stage might hear you.”
Frankie leaned across me and whispered more firmly to Viv, “Settle down. This board’s a lot wigglier than when we were up here for the Miss Firecracker contest. If you go antsy, we could fall off. Pretend you got polio.”
I’d usually say “Ditto” when Frankie issued a warning to Viv to sit still, but I couldn’t blame her for being excited that night. I was barely able to contain myself either. We’d never seen the head of the mental hospital in the flesh, only heard stories about Dr. Cruikshank from Jimbo, Albie, and Bigger Dolores. I’d also recently heard something about the psychiatrist from someone I respected and trusted above all others: my father.
Shortly after the heat wave started, I’d awoken in the middle of a night that was so suffocating and oppressive that I made my way down to the kitchen to stick my head into the refrigerator for a breath of fresh air. St. Thom’s bells had just struck twelve, so I thought Doc and Aunt Jane were asleep, but when I came down the stairs, I heard the tail end of a conversation they were having at the kitchen table. “Arthur Cruikshank calls his treatments innovative, but to my way of thinking,” my father said in a world-weary way that was unusual for him, “some of them do not adhere to the Hippocratic oath.”
A physician promised to “first, do no harm” and it sounded like Doc thought that Cruikshank was falling down on the job. I didn’t know if he was referring to the cattle prods, straitjackets, hot baths, and powerful medications some of the patients at the hospital could be subjected to, or if he meant something else. I was dying to waltz into the kitchen and ask him, but even if I’d had the guts to, he wouldn’t have told me. My father took patient confidentiality as seriously as a priest took the confessional vow of silence.
Once everyone at the emergency meeting found a chair or section of wall to lean against, the president of the Ladies Auxiliary made a grand entrance to applause led by her followers, who were looking at her like they had first-row seats to the Second Coming of Christ.
“Good evening, everyone,” Mrs. Mulrooney announced into the microphone. “I’ll be acting as your moderator tonight because Mayor Kibler is unable to join us.” She pivoted and pointed toward the empty chair next to Doc. “He’s indisposed.” She followed that up with a “Tsk, tsk” that made it clear what she really meant: Bud has gone so far over the hill that he’s forgotten about this very important meeting. Isn’t it just so sad when someone’s arteries go hard on them? When the next election rolls around, vote for me!
Viv whispered to us, “Indisposed? Disposed of is more like it.” She made a disgusted snort. “I thought I heard scratching inside the storage shed when we were hidin’ behind it. Mulrooney outweighs the mayor by a good fifty pounds. I bet she locked him in there. We better swing by after the meeting and make sure he’s still alive.”
“So, without further ado,” Mrs. Mulrooney continued, “I’d like to introduce you to our speaker this evening, Doctor Arthur J. Cruikshank.” I couldn’t see if she rolled her eyes, but she made it sound like the psychiatrist was akin to a snake oil salesman and anyone in the audience who fell for his spiel must’ve been born yesterday. “Accompanying him this evening is his assistant and head nurse at the institution, Miss Ruth Holloway.”
When the two of them walked onto the stage, I was surprised by how different they looked from the way I’d been picturing them.
Doctor Cruikshank was around my father’s age but didn’t have anywhere near his stature or good looks. His face ran long, with features too closely spaced together, and his bushy black mustache didn’t match the fringe of brown hair that ran around his head like the bric-a-brac Aunt Jane May sewed onto throw pillows to give them more pizzazz.
And Nurse Holloway didn’t look nearly as bad as the stories we’d heard about her. She wasn’t going to win any beauty contests, but she wouldn’t leave with the booby prize either. I thought she probably didn’t attend these kinds of meetings very often because she was wearing a garish flowered dress that’d be more suitable for a garden party when she took the empty seat next to Uncle Walt.
Dr. Cruikshank nodded at Mrs. Mulrooney, then stepped up to the microphone and said, “Thank you for attending on an evening I’m sure you’d rather be spending somewhere else.” There was a smattering of laughter from the audience, but it was guilty sounding because they were courteous people who felt uncomfortable for putting him in the hot seat. “In the interest of moving things along, I’d like to immediately address your concerns about Wallace Hopper.” He paused to survey the crowd. “As some of you might have heard, he will be transferred from Milwaukee County Hospital to Broadhurst in the upcoming week.”
When the room erupted in angry mumbles, the sheriff sprang to his feet to remind everyone to mind their manners, which must’ve pained him considering how much he disliked Dr. Cruikshank.
“I understand your concerns, but I assure you, Mister Hopper poses no danger to your children’s safety,” the psychiatrist hurried to say. “We’ll take every precaution to keep him secured behind—”
“Stop right there,” Mr. Willis, owner of the Rivoli Theatre and father of four young girls said as he leapt out of his chair. “We’ve heard you allow patients to run free in a yard, and if you think you’re going to keep that child killer secured behind that wrought-iron fence, I’ve got news for you. My grandfather built that fence. It’s decorative—nothing more than a boundary marker. Hopper would have no problem scaling it.”
While the owner of the Rivoli Theatre was partially correct—Frankie, Viv, and I had climbed that fence many times—he had to calm down. He was huffing and too red in the face, not good signs for a man with a heart condition.
Of course, Mr. Willis’s health concerns weren’t public knowledge, but when you’re the child of a physician you don’t get to see all that often, and when you do he doesn’t talk to you much, you might resort to drastic measures. When I stumbled across the key to Doc’s file cabinet Aunt Jane May had hidden under a lamp in his study, I felt grateful for the opportunity to learn more about him and his work. My prayers had been answered is how I chose to think about my snooping.
“Patients with criminal histories like Mister Hopper’s are not allowed access to the recreation yard,” Cruikshank told Mr. Willis in a soothing voice that reminded me of the commercial pitchman who made cheddar cheese sound like caviar during the Kraft Television Theatre. “The hospital has the legal responsibility to keep him confined in a locked cell on the third floor and behind—”
Like a special effect in one of our horror movies signaling impending doom, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered a few times and settled at half power, and the fan blades neared to a stop.
A
ll the heads in the room swiveled off the psychiatrist toward Lance Howard, who was slouching against a doorjamb to the left of the stage. He used to operate the Camelot Ferris wheel at the traveling carnival that was part of the County Fair, but he was fired last summer. Our kind-hearted mayor felt sorry for him and gave him a job maintaining the town buildings and grounds, and Dr. Cruikshank had hired him to do the same kind of work at Broadhurst. The kids in town liked the handyman because he’d pass out saltwater taffy, but not the girls and me. He made Frankie’s and my skin crawl, but Viv was particularly put off by “Sir Lancelot,” which was Howard’s carnie handle and what he wanted all of us to keep calling him. Whenever we’d ride past him mowing the park grass or see him working around the mental hospital, Viv would grimace and say, “Sir Lancelot, my foot,” because he didn’t look anything like a knight in shining armor. He looked like all those carnival roustabouts did. Like sacks of bones in need of a dentist and a sly look etched on their faces that made you think they couldn’t wait to close the carnival down for the night so they could get busy doing what good-hearted men had no idea existed.
“Mister Howard?” Mrs. Mulrooney called over to him. “The lights? Could you check the fuse box?”
He was cleaning his fingernails, and when he slowly drew his eyes up to the fluorescents like he hadn’t noticed they were on the blink, the absolute worst happened. He and I locked eyes. I couldn’t imagine the awfulness that’d ensue if he pointed up at the catwalk and shouted the alarm, but all he did was wink at me. I was so relieved that I thought one kind deed deserved another. Instead of turning our backs on him the next time he waved us over, I’d call him Sir Lancelot, take a piece of his taffy, and make sure the girls did as well.
While the crowd waited for Lance Howard to return from the basement with a verdict about the lights, they talked among themselves. Dr. Cruikshank used the pause in the proceedings to pour himself a glass of water and confer with Nurse Holloway, and Doc and Uncle Walt put their heads together. I searched the faces below for Aunt Jane May’s. I was curious to see how the meeting was affecting her, because she never said much about the Broadhurst patients other than calling them “those poor, tortured souls” and telling Frankie, Viv, and me to “leave them be.”
