Night Corridor

by Joan Hall Hovey

  Down in the grassless yard, male patients endlessly retraced their steps, as they'd done yesterday, and the day before that. Sometimes fights broke out and the burly men in white coats would come running and drag the ranting offender away. A divider, made of the same dull brown fencing that cut them all off from the world outsider, separated the women's yard from the men's. She sometimes took a book outside with her, and read.

  She thought about sitting in the park, reading, and felt better about things. Her mother had taken her to a park once. From time to time images would leap to her mind; her mother's smile, her father's bent head as he read from the Bible, the pale amber light from the lamp fallen on the printed page. Sensations too—the smell of green grass, the warmth of the sun on her face. She wasn't altogether sure if her memories were real or imagined. Perhaps fragments of dreams.

  The strong scent of Lysol broke into her thoughts, overwhelming the egg smell and she turned to see Raina, who had a foul mouth and wore loads of chunky jewelry that always announced her, washing the floor. They used a mop nowadays. When it was Caroline's job she used to scrub the dark green floors on her hands and knees, creeping over shadow-bars when the light was just right. Her knee had swelled double its size and throbbed with pain all the time and the doctor who checked it said she had water on the knee, and drained it and wrapped it with a thick bandage under her special brown stocking. All the patients who were capable were given jobs to do. It was part of the therapy. Some worked in the kitchen, the laundry, or did other jobs, including working in the vegetable garden on the other side of the building, which produced the food they ate. When Caroline could no longer scrub the floors, they put her to work in the kitchen washing dishes where she'd been for the last three years. She liked immersing her hands in the warm suds, and listening to the chatter of the other women that went on around her. She seldom joined in, but it was fine just to listen to them talking and laughing. She often felt like a child among adults, which made her feel safe and comforted.

  But this would be a new kitchen, with new people. Strangers. Her body thrummed with fresh anxiety and fear. Her skin itched. Would her room have a lock? Would other people have the key?

  Now with her worn black suitcase packed and sitting in the lobby, she smiled and said her goodbyes to everyone. Some of the patients laughed and clapped for her.

  Martha Blizzard hugged her, her warm brown eyes swimming in tears. "You're gonna do fine out in the world, Caroline. You a good girl. You were always nice to me and I ain't gonna forget you. I gonna miss you bad, girl. You stay close to Jesus, you hear?"

  "I will, Martha. I'll come see you," she promised, hugging the slight, bony frame and fighting her own tears. Martha held her at arms length and looked hard at her. You could see she was pretty once, now there was a fierceness about her, though her inner beauty shone through. "You get outta here, girl, you stay out. You forget this place. And be careful. I'm not the only one who killed someone, you know. The devil is alive and well on the streets of St. Simeon."

  "The devil? What do you mean, Martha?"

  She gave her head an impatient shake. "Don't pay me no mind. I shouldn't have said nothing. You just be careful, Caroline."

  Martha was a petite black woman who bludgeoned her husband to death with a baseball bat because he beat her when he was drunk, and he was drunk more than he was sober. She weighed about ninety pounds and she was either very strong, or else very mad when she did it, because she always seemed very calm and rational to Caroline. She was also religious and read her Bible every night before bed, though she was never one to preach. Unlike Caroline's father, who had been fervent in his preaching.

  When Martha first came to Bayshore, they said she washed her hands all the time trying to get rid of the invisible blood on them, just like Lady MacBeth. But Caroline didn't believe that was true. Caroline thought she was probably fine once her tormentor was dead.

  Martha's husband was asleep when she brought the bat down, cracking his skull at first strike. "He waved to me before he died," she told Caroline. But Caroline thought that must just been his body reacting to the blow, though she didn't tell that to Martha. Martha said he lived separate from his soul, and in killing him with the bat, she'd rejoined him to his soul and delivered him up to the Lord.

  When Caroline had said her goodbyes to Ella Gaudet this morning, her roommate for the past five years, Ella merely nodded at her, and gathered up her imaginary wool from the skeins in the imaginary basket on the floor. Ella, who had a mole on her chin that sprouted white hair like cat whiskers, was not a talker. She kept to herself, mostly just sitting in that chair in her room, rocking, rocking…creak…creak…creak…hour after hour.

  Once, Caroline told Nurse Addison that it was driving her nuts and they both laughed at the irony of that. She told Caroline that if she could make jokes at her own expense, she was indeed getting better.

  "You ready to take on the world?" Nurse Addison asked now, as if Caroline's thoughts had summoned her. Her voice was filled with cheer and brightness, but it didn't sound quite true to Caroline's ears. "Ready to live by your own rules? The cab will be here in twenty minutes or so."

  A cab. Taking her away. To somewhere.

  "I…Would you go with me, please?" The fear took hold of her, making her head spin, her heart pound.

  The nurse smiled. "I'm afraid I can't do that. But I'll carry your suitcase to the cab. How's that?" After a pause, she added, "There's a trunk that belongs to you, Caroline. It was sent here after your parents died. I believe there are photograph albums inside, personal effects. That sort of thing. The doctor thought it would be too difficult for you to deal with at the time, but I think you'll be okay with it now. We'll be sending that along to your new address."

  A different kind of fear welled in her throat, making it hard to speak. "That's okay. You can just leave it here for me."

  The nurse let on she didn't hear her and handed her a squat brass key. She was trying to be cheerful. Happy for Caroline. Caroline could see that. "And this too," she said, reaching into her uniform pocket and producing a small blue book with gold lettering. "This is a bank book. You have two-thousand dollars in the bank, Caroline. Your parents left it to you. It's not a fortune, but it'll be a nice little cushion for you if you're careful with it. Don't let anyone else have them. They are yours. Your private property."

  She fought back the fear, forced her voice calm. "I won't let anyone have them." She tucked the bank book and the key to the trunk inside the zipper pocket. "Thank you for the new purse, Nurse Addison. I really like it. The leather is so soft and the blue goes with my suit." Someone had donated the suit, which was practically new and fit her perfectly.

  "And your eyes," the nurse teased lightly. "It goes with your eyes, too. You're very welcome, Caroline. And you already thanked me for the purse a dozen times. But I'm glad you like it."

  "I do. I love it."

  "You'll be fine, kiddo. Got everything?" She slipped the shoulder bag off Caroline's shoulder. "Okay if I double-check? I'm like a mother hen, aren't I? But I worry."

  "Sure. I'm glad you're like a mother hen."

  Laughing, the nurse took a quick look inside the bag. "You've got your case—five crisp twenties. Your meds. These are mild," she said, holding up the small bottle of pills. "Enough to help you sleep, if you need to take one. "Or if you're feeling stressed. Maybe you won't even need them."

  But they both knew that wasn't likely.

  "Good. Good to go, then," Nurse Addison said, dropping Caroline's meds back into the new blue bag. She stood back to appraise her. "Well, almost."

  Taking a comb out of the bag, she fussed a little with Caroline's brown, wavy hair, newly washed and shining, then she took out her lipstick and touched a bit of coral to her cheeks, blending it with her fingertips. "Perfect. You just needed a bit of color."

  Caroline stood passively, allowing herself to be fussed over. She wished she could just stand here and let herself be fussed with into eternity, even
though she was perfectly capable of brushing her own hair and applying rouge to her own cheeks, and they both knew it.

  Nurse Addison was taller than Caroline, square-shouldered, with a laugh that sounded like music. She could be tough if she had to be, but gentle too. She really cared about the patients. Most of the attendants were kind and caring, but Caroline had also known others who were devious and cruel, and made the patients sicker than they were when they came in. She didn't like to think too much about it. It was not so bad in here now though.

  "Your cab's here, honey."

  She could only nod as she preceded Lynne through the big doors. She would not have been able to speak past the thickening in her throat.

  Lynne gave the taxi driver directions and waved goodbye to Caroline, whose face reflected the fear of a child set adrift on an ice flow. She'll drown, Lynne thought, as the dark cab rolled slowly down the narrow paved road like a car in a funeral procession. Despite the blush she'd added, Caroline's face was ghostly pale in the back window. When her hand rose in a small wave, Lynne's heart contracted.

  No way in hell is she going to make it out there on her own. I should have given her my home phone number. She'd thought of it. But her phone would be ringing off the wall if she gave every patient who was discharged from here her phone number. Joe would end up leaving her out of self-preservation. She couldn't be held responsible for what happened to patients after they left her care, could she? She was already stressed, what with her mom being diagnosed with Alzheimer's. For that reason, she was glad to be retiring. Her mother needed her now. Mom, always so vibrant, so mentally sharp, now often seemed confused and vague. One didn't have to be a psychiatrist to know that she was terrified. The fear was in her eyes. She knew what was happening to her. The phone call earlier was from a neighbor who happened to look out the window and spotted her mother wandering in the middle of the road and rushed out to bring her back home.

  I have decision to make, Lynne thought. But not yet. Dear God, please not yet.

  The taxi was gone now, and Caroline with it. Even Lynne's own personal sorrows were not enough to allay her fears for the child-woman who had just been cut loose from all that was familiar to her.

  I'll check on her, she promised herself as she envisioned the lost teenager she'd been when she was admitted. She's much better now, Lynne told herself. She wouldn't have recommended her for release if she didn't believed that.

  Escaping the chill morning air, she went back inside the building. It seemed so quiet here now. There were far fewer patients, so fewer staff. The place was emptying fast since the bureaucrats decided to close it down.

  Three

  "Pretty fall day," the cab driver said over his shoulder, and Caroline jumped at the sound of his voice and turned around in the seat. She'd been looking out the back window, watching the prison-like structure of Bayshore Mental Institution, gray and sprawling against the cornflower blue of the sky, grow smaller and smaller. The man's voice had startled her. But for Doctor Rosen, no man had spoken to her in a very long time.

  The cab driver's shoulders were wide in a maroon blazer of some soft material. His hair was a mass of gray curls and he wore dark sunglasses; she could see them in the rearview mirror. She couldn't see his eyes but knew he was looking at her, waiting for her response.

  She must say something. It wasn't like he'd asked her some difficult or personal question, only commented on the weather. Speak up, Dr. Rosen had told her. Hearing your own voice strong in your ears will give you confidence.

  "Yes," she said. "Yes, it's very lovely."

  She settled back in the blue-gray plush seat, enjoying its soft, luxurious feel. The car smelled of new leather, pleasant and mildly reminiscent of something that nudged the edge of her mind. Ah yes, William's leather jacket. William's leather jacket. So long ago.

  Outside her window, the maple trees flashed by in shades of gold and rust and scarlet, bright as in a Technicolor movie. A few leaves borne on the wind, danced past her eyes.

  "You been away a while?" the cab driver asked.

  "Yes. Nine years."

  His head turned slightly in her direction. He shook his head. "Long time."

  She said nothing. Folded her hands on her lap. Then she unclasped them and ran her fingertips along the plush arm rest.

  "You like music?" the cab driver asked from the front seat.

  "Yes, sometimes. I like Frank Sinatra. And Ella Fitzgerald."

  "Ya got good taste, kid. Didn't figure anyone young as you would even remember the great ones."

  She felt warmed by his approval, and began to enjoy the drive as he switched on the radio and turned the dial until he found a station that was playing blues. She liked that. And jazz, too.

  Martha Blizzard had some old LPs in her room and would sometimes play them for her: Ella Fitzgerald, B.B. King, Louis Armstrong's recording of Blueberry Hill and others. She even had an old record by Billie Holiday. It had a crack in it and skipped, but Martha would just give it a little tap and it would play fine again. Caroline could feel that music deep down inside herself and sometimes it made her want to cry. But it made her feel good too in a strange way. Like Billie Holiday did. Like she was singing your blues too. Like she knew all about them, even better than you did yourself.

  "Ain't Frankie," the cab driver said, "But not too bad, eh?"

  "It's nice. Thank you." She didn't know the tune, not one she'd heard before. A man singing about a lost love. She knew all about that.

  "My pleasure. I most always listen to music when I'm driving," he said. "Some people don't like it though, so I turn it off."

  "I do. I like it."

  He nodded again, seemed to smile to himself.

  They drove past the park, and the sight of it tugged at an old memory. A woman was sitting on the green-painted bench watching two little red-haired boys running about in the grass. Yes, there was the fountain Nurse Addison told her about. The smell of grass on a certain summer's day suddenly rose up in her senses, overriding the leather smell of the car.

  The cab slowed as they passed a small crowd of people spilling into the street. Two policemen were directing traffic. Yellow police tape was stretched across the mouth of an alley across from the park. Like a scene in a movie.

  "What happened?" Caroline asked the driver, continuing to stare out the back window even after they left the scene.

  "You sure you want to know?"

  She turned around in the seat. "Yes, please."

  He gave a brief nod. "Guess they wouldn't have let you out if you weren't up to hearing bad news," he said. "Plenty of it around." He hesitated. Then, "Young woman murdered. Body dumped in that alley there. It's the second murder in a month. The first was a nurse on her way home from working her shift at the hospital. Too late to be walking alone. Poor kid. There's talk about all those nuts being let out of Bay…sorry, Miss, I didn't mean you. No offense intended."

  "It's okay. I don't mind."

  He raised his dark-glasses and peered at her in the rearview mirror. "I got it on good authority both those girls had dark hair and blue eyes," he said. "Like you, Miss. Not trying to scare you or nothin' like that, but you wanna take care."

  Four

  The landlady was standing in the window when the cab pulled up at the curb and the young woman in a blue suit, stepped out. She looks a little lost, Greta thought. Poor little thing. She let the curtain drop back into place and hurried as fast as her heavy limp would allow, to greet her newest tenant.

  Widowed for the last twelve years, she had learned to adapt to most situations, knew how to take care of herself. This house, which she had purchased with her deceased husband's life insurance, provided her with a decent living. She had a soft spot for strays, as long as they paid their rent on time and didn't give her any problem. And this one looked harmless enough.

  She opened the door wide, a smile on her face. "You must be Caroline. I'm Greta Bannister, the landlady. Please, come inside. My, they didn't tell me what a p
retty little thing you are. You hardly look no more than sixteen."

  "I'm twenty-six," Caroline said quickly, panicked that the woman might not let her stay because she wasn't of age. She had no place else to go. Unzipping her blue bag, she rummaged in it for the wallet that held her birth certificate. "I have my papers," she said anxiously.

  "No, dear, settle down now, please. I know how old you are. My goodness, I was paying you a compliment. Never mind. Come in, the wind is kicking up; you'll blow away. A beautiful fall day, though. Supposed to rain tomorrow. Already starting to cloud over. I'll make us a cup of tea and then I'll show you to your room. It's on the second floor."

  She closed the door behind Caroline, turned the lock with a sharp click. "The washroom's at the end of the hall, same as on the floors above us. You probably noticed, this is a three-story house. Oh, I'm rambling, aren't I and keeping you standing here in the hallway. Come along. Just leave your bag in the hallway for now. Harold will bring it up later."