The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin'

by Lamb, Wally

  The guard let my brother and the two escorts through but stopped me at the door. “Who are you?” he said. He was one of those short, gung-ho types. Late twenties, early thirties, maybe. Robocop.

  “I’m his brother,” I said. As if he couldn’t tell. As if he couldn’t see that by looking at our faces.

  He and Mercado exchanged a look. “Mr. Birdsey was visiting the patient when we arrived for the escort,” Mercado said. “The patient requested that he accompany us.”

  “We thought it might make him less combative,” the other cop added.

  “He’s not combative,” I said. “He’s never hurt anyone in his whole life.”

  Robocop looked down at my brother’s stump, then back at me.

  “Look, this is just a screwup by some secretary or something,” I said. “He should be over at Settle. He’s in the outpatient program over there. He always checks in at Settle after an episode. One call to his doctor and we can get this whole thing straightened out. But he’s not combative. God, he’s about as combative as Bambi.”

  “I run the coffee cart at Settle,” Thomas added. “They need me there first thing in the morning.”

  Robocop told me I could enter the building and accompany my brother during the initial part of the admitting process, but that I couldn’t go with him into the ward itself—couldn’t go any further than the security station. Any calls to the doctor would have to be made in the morning.

  Whatever you say, asshole, I thought to myself. A foot in the door was some kind of progress. Once I got inside, I could talk to somebody on the medical staff.

  Robocop led us down a short corridor: halogen lighting, yellow cinder-block walls. Hatch has a singular smell to it—nothing like the stink over at Settle. Something else. Something sweet and putrid: bad food at the back of the refrigerator. Human rot, I guess. Human decay.

  Another guard joined us when we got to the metal detector. He had a gut hanging off the front of him, a puffy pink alcoholic face. He reeked of cologne.

  The police escorts unlocked Thomas’s restraints and took them off. Thomas mentioned again that he had to go to the toilet. Mercado frisked him and walked him through the metal detector.

  “Did you hear him?” I said. “He has to take a leak.”

  “What’s this?” the fat guard asked me. His chin pointed down at the stuff I was carrying: Thomas’s duffel bag, his Bible.

  “His personal stuff,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like personal stuff: wallet, toothpaste, comb.”

  Fatso took the bag and the Bible away from me. Unzipped the bag and poked around. He was one of those guys who breathes through his nose so that you can hear what work every single breath is for him. He dumped everything out onto a conveyor belt: foot powder, a Bic pen, a tin button that said “Jesus Is the Reason for the Season,” a pair of wingtip shoes with a clip-on necktie coiled inside one of them. It was pathetic: Thomas’s shitty life laid out there like a bunch of groceries at Stop & Shop. Fatso flipped a switch and the belt rolled. Everything passed through one of those X-ray machines like they have at the airport. Big surprise: no hidden daggers, no pipe bomb sewn into the duffel bag lining.

  “You’re going to have to be padded, too,” Robocop told me.

  “Padded? What’s padded?” I was thinking padded cell.

  “Frisked,” Mercado said.

  “Frisk me then,” I told Mercado, leaning myself against the wall the way they’d made my brother do it. “Go ahead. Be my guest.”

  But it was Robocop who did it: a little rougher, a little more thorough in the privacy zones than he needed to be—just in case I didn’t get who was the big man around there. I would have said something to him—asked him while he was feeling me up if he enjoyed his work—but I was in no position to throw darts. Not yet. Not if I was going to get Thomas out of there that night.

  Just when I thought he was done humiliating me, Robocop had me walk through the metal detector. The thing beeped and whistled and he had me fork over my key ring. I passed the second time, but Robocop told me I’d have to pick up my keys on my way out of there because of the little jackknife I keep on the ring. Like I was going to sneak in there and jackknife all the inmates free. What bullshit.

  Robocop told the escorts to put the cuffs back on my brother.

  “Why’s that necessary?” I said. “I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time. He’s taking a U-turn out of here as soon as we get ahold of his doctor. Why does he have to be restrained?”

  He looked at me without answering, his face as blank as the cinder block. Fatso told Thomas his personal items would be cataloged and stored at the security station. That he’d get state issue for his toiletries. That all reading material would have to be approved first by his doctor or the unit lead.

  “Where’s my Bible!” Thomas said. “I want my Bible.”

  “All reading material has to be approved first by his doctor or the unit lead,” Fatso repeated.

  “He can’t have a Bible?” I said. “You guys even have to approve the goddamned word of God?”

  Robocop came forward, close enough so that I could see a chicken pox scar, smell the Juicy Fruit in his mouth. “This is a maximum-security facility, sir,” he said. “There are regulations and procedures. If you have a problem with that, then let us know so you can wait outside instead of accompanying your brother through the rest of the preliminary admit.”

  We glared at each other for a couple of seconds. “I’m not saying I have a problem with it,” I said. “All I’m saying is that it’s a waste of time admitting him. Because as soon as you talk to his doctor, he’s going to tell you this is a mistake.”

  “This way, sir,” he said.

  The security station was around the next corner. Behind the tinted window glass were two more guards, a bank of black-and-white security TVs, an open cabinet with rows of keys and cuffs and Texas belts. Next to the station on one side was a conference room and a couple of offices. On the other side was a john, a utility closet, more offices. The hallway on both sides was blocked off by double-locked steel doors.

  “You got a phone in there?” I asked, nodding toward the security station. “Just tell one of those guys to call Dr. Willis Ehlers and see if Thomas Birdsey is supposed to be here. Call him at home. You guys must have a directory for the doctors, right? Go ahead. He won’t mind.”

  “Dr. Ehlers doesn’t treat patients at Hatch,” Fatso said. “He’s not on staff here.”

  “Fine! That’s my point!” I said. “His patients are over at Settle. Which is exactly where my brother belongs.”

  Robocop leafed through some paperwork clipped to a clipboard. “According to this, he’s been reassigned,” he said.

  “What do you mean, ‘reassigned’? Reassigned by who?”

  “I’m not free to give you that information, sir,” he said. “Either his new doctor will notify you or you can make an appointment and talk to the social worker assigned to his case.”

  “Excuse me,” Thomas said, addressing Robocop. “Do you happen to know a Dr. Ahamed, the assistant superintendent of this entire hospital complex?”

  “Thomas,” I said, “just keep your shirt on. Let me handle this. All right?”

  “Dr. Ahamed?” Robocop said. “Yeah, I know who he is. Why?”

  Thomas’s chin was thrust forward. His whole body was shaking. “Because you’re going to be in big trouble tomorrow morning if Dr. Ahamed goes to his office and doesn’t find his Wall Street Journal and his corn muffin!” He was shouting now, shuddering. “I wouldn’t want to be you when he finds out who’s holding me here against my will!”

  Fatso waved “come here” fingers at one of the guards behind the glass.

  “Take it easy, take it easy,” I told Thomas. I reminded him that he’d lost track of time—that he’d been away from the coffee cart for five days already while he was recuperating at Shanley. “And anyway, I’m sure those two helpers of yours are holding down the fort,” I
said. “What are their names again? I forget.”

  “Bruce and Barbara!” he shouted. “You think they can handle things without me there! That’s a laugh!” Only he wasn’t laughing; he was sobbing.

  “Everything copacetic out here?” the third guard asked, approaching us.

  “Jesus! Jesus!” my brother cried. Fear flashed on his face, and then there was a splattering sound on the concrete floor. Thomas was pissing himself.

  Fatso went to call maintenance.

  “I’m sorry, Dominick,” Thomas said. “I couldn’t help it.” A dark, wet stain covered the front of his pants.

  I told him it was okay. That it happens. That it was no big deal. Then I turned to Robocop. “Here’s the bottom line,” I said. “I’m not leaving until I get him out of here and he’s getting out tonight, understand? So someone had better call the goddamned doctor.”

  Behind the window, Fatso spoke into a phone. “Call my brother’s doctor!” I shouted in at him. “Dr. Willis Ehlers! Please!”

  Robocop told me to keep my voice down. “The doctors are only called in after hours when there’s an emergency,” he told me.

  “This is an emergency,” I said, waving my thumb in the direction of my brother. “This is an emergency in the making. The poor guy isn’t even allowed to take a leak and you think I’m leaving him here with you fucking Nazis?”

  I saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. Saw him look at the other guard. “Sir,” the new guard said, “the patients’ relatives don’t determine what constitutes an emergency. The medical staff does.”

  I told myself to calm down—that busting Robocop’s jaw was a luxury my brother couldn’t afford. I’d probably already sabotaged things with that Nazi comment. “All right,” I said. “Let me just speak to a nurse then. There’s got to be a head nurse on duty, right?”

  “The nurses at Hatch have no contact with family members, sir,” the other guard said. “It’s policy. If you have questions or concerns, you should call tomorrow and make an appointment with the social worker assigned to your brother’s case.”

  “They just called from the unit,” Fatso said. “We ready to rock ‘n’ roll?”

  Robocop nodded. “Tell them to come and get him. We can finish admittance down in the ward. I’ve about had it with the Doublemint Twin here.”

  Fatso talked into his radio. Thomas started mumbling scripture.

  “Mr. Birdsey, he’s going to be admitted to the unit now,” Mercado said. “Come on. We have to go.”

  “But nobody’s listening!” I said. “This whole thing is just some administrative screwup or something. He belongs at Settle.”

  “Look, bud,” the older escort said. “He may belong at Settle, but he sure in hell isn’t going there tonight. Maybe that’s where he’s going first thing tomorrow, but I can guarantee you that tonight he’s staying here.”

  “Come on, Mr. Birdsey,” Mercado said to me. “You can’t do anything until tomorrow. We’ll give you a ride back to Shanley. You parked in the big lot or the one in back?”

  “I’m not going anywhere until we get this thing straightened out!” I said. When he grabbed me by the arm, I yanked it back.

  “They’re nailing me to the cross!” Thomas shouted.

  I ran over to Robocop. “How about that social worker? Is that social worker here?” My heart was pumping like a jackhammer.

  “No, sir, she is not here. Only the unit nurses and the FTSs are here after regular hours.”

  “What are they? What are the FTSs?”

  “Forensic Treatment Specialists,” Fatso answered. He winked at the older of the two escorts. “When I started working here, we called ’em ‘bughouse aides.’ Nowadays everybody’s got a fancy title. Looky here, for instance.”

  He pointed to a guy approaching with a bucket and mop. I knew him: Ralph Drinkwater. “Ralphie here used to be a janitor. Now we call him an ‘operations engineer.’ Right, Ralphie?” Ignoring him, as impassive as ever, Ralph began to mop up my brother’s urine.

  The escort’s chuckle put Fatso in a good mood. “She is here tonight, though, Steve,” he told Robocop. “She came in to catch up on some of her paperwork. I checked her in when you were on dinner break.”

  “Who?” I said. “Who’s here?”

  “Ms. Sheffer.”

  “Who’s that? Who’s Ms. Sheffer?”

  “The social worker for Unit Two.”

  “The social worker’s here? Let me speak to her then!”

  “You can’t,” Robocop said. “It’s after hours. You’ll have to make an appointment like everyone else.”

  The steel doors opened. Two aides approached. This was getting more and more surreal. “Hey, how you doing, Ralph?” I said. “Listen, talk some sense into . . .” He looked right through me.

  “Come on, Mr. Birdsey,” Mercado said. “We’ve got to get going.”

  “Then go then!” I told him. “I’m not going anywhere until I see the social worker!” I turned toward the aides. “Don’t touch him! You just . . . just don’t even touch him!”

  An office door opened; a head poked out from behind it. “Does somebody need to see me?”

  “Not tonight!” Robocop shouted. “He can make an appointment. It can wait.”

  “Is that the social worker? Are you the social worker who—”

  “Tomorrow!” Robocop shouted at her. “Close your door! We got a situation here!”

  “Dominick!” Thomas screamed. The aides had taken hold of him, one guy on each side.

  “Get your hands off of him!” I shouted. Robocop and Mercado and his partner held me back. Fatso and the other guard came running. “Get your fucking hands off of me, you fucking Nazi goons!” I bucked and struggled to get free.

  “Close that door!” Robocop yelled.

  In the middle of the scuffle, I saw the social worker’s door close. Saw the aides unlock the steel doors and hustle my brother into the ward. “They’re nailing me to the cross, Dominick!” Thomas screamed. “They’re nailing me to the cross!”

  The doors slammed shut behind them.

  Robocop wrenched my arm back, slammed me up against the wall. “This one’s crazier than the other one, for Christ’s sake,” he said.

  “Take your motherfucking hands off me!” I screamed, spitting and straining and trying to pull away. Mercado and Fatso and the other escort held me back. The third guard came running out from behind the glass office. Robocop leaned his knee in toward my groin—no pain, just the promise of it. Just the pressure.

  “You get off on this or something?” I said. “Feeling guys up while you’re frisking them? Give you a cheap thrill, does it?”

  He kneed me.

  One hard, quick jerk that dropped me to the floor. I think I blacked out for a minute, and when I came back, it took me a while to realize that the moaning and heaving I heard was coming from me, not my brother. The pain is something I can’t even try to describe.

  That’s when I knew what Thomas was up against. That’s when I felt it for myself: the spike against flesh, the hammer’s piercing thud.

  5

  1958

  Thomas and I are going to the movies with Ma—the Back-to-School Festival of Fun. We’re on the city bus. I get to pull the stop cord when we get to the five-and-ten because Thomas did it last time. The bus won’t stop at the show, only the five-and-ten.

  We have the nice bus driver today—the one who says, “Hey, whaddaya got in there?” and pulls candy out of your ears. Last time we came downtown, we got the grouchy driver with no thumb. Ma thinks maybe he lost it in the war or in a machine. She told me not to look at it if I was afraid of it, but I did look. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to but I did.

  Here’s the five-and-ten. Ma lifts me up and I pull the cord. “See you later, alligator!” the bus driver says when we get off. Ma smiles and puts her hand to her mouth, and Thomas says nothing. From the safety of the sidewalk, I yell, “After a while, crocodile!” The driver laughs. He makes his fingers into
a “V” and slaps the bus doors shut.

  We walk over to the show. There’s a line at the ticket booth. The kids right in front of us are big kids. Wiseguys. “Well, next time, bring your birth certificate then!” the ticket lady yells. It’s the crippled lady. Sometimes she works inside at the candy counter and sometimes she sells the tickets. Her and this other lady switch around. Ma says the crippled lady got polio before they had polio shots. Maybe that’s why she’s always crabby.

  Inside, a bulgy-eyed man rips our tickets and gives Thomas and me our free back-to-school pencil boxes. With his pen, he makes an X on the back of our hands. “One to a customer,” he tells Ma. “I mark them so I can tell if some kid tries to pull a fast one.”

  I want to go all the way down in front, but Ma says no, it will hurt our eyes. She makes us stop halfway. Here’s how we’re sitting: first Thomas, then Ma, then me on the end. “Now, don’t open your pencil boxes,” Ma says.

  The man in charge is called the husher. He has a uniform and a flashlight, and he’s very, very tall. His job is to yell at kids when they put their feet on the seats in front of them. If they answer him back, he shines his flashlight right in their face.

  They show cartoons first: Daffy Duck, Sylvester and Tweety, Road Runner. Beep-beep! Beep-beep! On the radio, they said they were showing ten cartoons, but they don’t. They show eight. I’m only on my eighth finger when the Three Stooges come on.

  Ma doesn’t like the Three Stooges. When Moe pokes his fingers in Larry’s eyes, Ma leans over and whispers, “Don’t you ever try anything like that now.” Her voice in my ear tickles—makes me scrunch up my shoulder. In this one, the Three Stooges are bakers. They just finished decorating this fancy cake for a snotty rich lady, and she’s yelling at them. Then Larry slips and falls back against Curly and Curly bumps into the rich lady and she falls right into the cake! All three of us laugh—Thomas and Ma and me. From this side, you can’t even tell my mother has a funny lip. You can only tell from Thomas’s side.

  There are lots of bad kids here with no mothers or fathers. They’re talking loud and fooling around instead of watching the movie. “I tawt I taw a puddy cat!” one kid keeps yelling out, even though the cartoons are over. Every time he yells it, other kids laugh. Some boys in front have flattened their popcorn boxes and they’re throwing them up in the air. The boxes make shadows on the screen.