by Ken Kesey
I'VE GIVEN WHAT HAPPENED next a good lot of thought, and I've come around to thinking that it was bound to be and would have happened in one way or another, at this time or that, even if Mr. Turkle had got McMurphy and the two girls up and off the ward like was planned. The Big Nurse would have found out some way what had gone on, maybe just by the look on Billy's face, and she'd have done the same as she did whether McMurphy was still around or not. And Billy would have done what he did, and McMurphy would have heard about it and come back.
Would have had to come back, because he could no more have sat around outside the hospital, playing poker in Carson City or Reno or someplace, and let the Big Nurse have the last move and get the last play, than he could have let her get by with it right under his nose. It was like he'd signed on for the whole game and there wasn't any way of him breaking his contract.
As soon as we started getting out of bed and circulating around the ward, the story of what had taken place was spreading in a brush fire of low talk. "They had a what?" asked the ones who hadn't been in on it. "A whore? In the dorm? Jesus." Not only a whore, the others told them, but a drunken blast to boot. McMurphy was planning to sneak her out before the day crew came on but he didn't wake up. "Now what kind of crock are you giving us?" No crock. It's every word gospel. I was in on it.
Those who had been in on the night started telling about it with a kind of quiet pride and wonder, the way people tell about seeing a big hotel fire or a dam bursting--very solemn and respectful because the casualties aren't even counted yet--but the longer the telling went on, the less solemn the fellows got. Everytime the Big Nurse and her hustling black boys turned up something new, such as the empty bottle of cough sirup or the fleet of wheelchairs parked at the end of the hall like empty rides in an amusement park, it brought another part of the night back sudden and clear to be told to the guys who weren't in on it and to be savored by the guys who were. Everybody had been herded into the day room by the black boys, Chronics and Acutes alike, milling together in excited confusion. The two old Vegetables sat sunk in their bedding, snapping their eyes and their gums. Everybody was still in pajamas and slippers except McMurphy and the girl; she was dressed, except for her shoes and the nylon stockings, which now hung over her shoulder, and he was in his black shorts with the white whales. They were sitting together on a sofa, holding hands. The girl had dozed off again, and McMurphy was leaning against her with a satisfied and sleepy grin.
Our solemn worry was giving way, in spite of us, to joy and humor. When the nurse found the pile of pills Harding had sprinkled on Sefelt and the girl, we started to pop and snort to keep from laughing, and by the time they found Mr. Turkle in the linen room and led him out blinking and groaning, tangled in a hundred yards of torn sheet like a mummy with a hangover, we were roaring. The Big Nurse took our good humor without so much as a trace of her little pasted smile; every laugh was being forced right down her throat till it looked as if any minute she'd blow up like a bladder.
McMurphy draped one bare leg over the edge of the sofa and pulled his cap down to keep the light from hurting his reddened eyes, and he kept licking out a tongue that looked like it had been shellacked by that cough syrup. He looked sick and terrifically tired, and he kept pressing the heels of his hands against his temples and yawning, but as bad as he seemed to feel he still held his grin and once or twice went so far as to laugh out loud at some of the things the nurse kept turning up.
When the nurse went in to call the Main Building to report Mr. Turkle's resignation, Turkle and the girl Sandy took the opportunity to unlock that screen again and wave good-by to all and go loping off across the grounds, stumbling and slipping on the wet, sun-sparkled grass.
"He didn't lock it back up," Harding said to McMurphy. "Go on. Go on after them!"
McMurphy groaned and opened one eye bloody as a hatching egg. "You kidding me? I couldn't even get my head through that window, let alone my whole body."
"My friend, I don't believe you fully comprehend--"
"Harding, goddam you and your big words; all I fully comprehend this morning is I'm still half drunk. And sick. Matter of fact, I think you're still drunk too. Chief, how about you; are you still drunk?"
I said that my nose and cheeks didn't have any feeling in them yet, if this could be taken to mean anything.
McMurphy nodded once and closed his eyes again; he laced his hands across his chest and slid down in his chair, his chin settling into his collar. He smacked his lips and smiled as if he were napping. "Man," he said, "everybody is still drunk."
Harding was still concerned. He kept on about how the best thing for McMurphy to do was get dressed, quickly, while old Angel of Mercy was in there calling the doctor again to report the atrocities she had uncovered, but McMurphy maintained that there wasn't anything to get so excited about; he wasn't any worse off than before, was he? "I've took their best punch," he said. Harding threw up his hands and went off, predicting doom.
One of the black boys saw the screen was unlocked and locked it and went into the Nurses' Station for the big flat ledger, came back out running his finger down the roll and lipping the names he read out loud as he sighted the men that matched up with them. The roll is listed alphabetically backwards to throw people off, so he didn't get to the Bs rill right at the last. He looked around the day room without taking his finger from that last name in the ledger.
"Bibbit. Where's Billy Bibbit?" His eyes were big. He was thinking Billy'd slipped out right under his nose and would he ever catch it. "Who saw Billy Bibbit go, you damn goons?"
This set people to remembering just where Billy was; there were whispers and laughing again.
The black boy went back into the station, and we saw him telling the nurse. She smashed the phone down in the cradle and came out the door with the black boy hot after her; a lock of her hair had broken loose from beneath her white cap and fell across her face like wet ashes. She was sweating between her eyebrows and under her nose. She demanded we tell her where the Eloper had gone. She was answered with a chorus of laughter, and her eyes went around the men.
"So? He's not gone, is he? Harding, he's still here--on the ward, isn't he? Tell me. Sefelt, tell me!"
She darted the eyes out with every word, stabbing at the men's faces, but the men were immune to her poison. Their eyes met hers; their grins mocked the old confident smile she had lost.
"Washington! Warren! Come with me for room check."
We rose and followed as the three of them went along, unlocking the lab, the tub room, the doctor's office.... Scanlon covered his grin with his knotty hand and whispered, "Hey, ain't it gonna be some joke on ol' Billy." We all nodded. "And Billy's not the only one it's gonna be a joke on, now that I think about it; remember who's in there?"
The nurse reached the door of the Seclusion Room at the end of the hall. We pushed up close to see, crowding and craning to peep over the Big Nurse and the two black boys as she unlocked it and swung it open. It was dark in the windowless room. There was a squeak and a scuffle in the dark, and the nurse reached out, flicked the light down on Billy and the girl where they were blinking up from that mattress on the floor like two owls from a nest. The nurse ignored the howl of laughter behind her.
"William Bibbit!" She tried so hard to sound cold and stern. "William ... Bibbit!"
"Good morning, Miss Ratched," Billy said, not even making any move to get up and button his pajamas. He took the girl's hand in his and grinned. "This is Candy."
The nurse's tongue clucked in her bony throat. "Oh, Billy Billy Billy--I'm so ashamed for you."
Billy wasn't awake enough to respond much to her shaming, and the girl was fussing around looking under the mattress for her nylons, moving slow and warm-looking after sleep. Every so often she would stop her dreamy fumbling and look up and smile at the icy figure of the nurse standing there with her arms crossed, then feel to see if her sweater was buttoned, and go back to tugging for her nylon caught between the mattress and the tile
floor. They both moved like fat cats full of warm milk, lazy in the sun; I guessed they were still fairly drunk too.
"Oh, Billy," the nurse said, like she was so disappointed she might break down and cry. "A woman like this. A cheap! Low! Painted--"
"Courtesan?" Harding suggested. "Jezebel?" The nurse turned and tried to nail him with her eyes, but he just went on. "Not Jezebel? No?" He scratched his head in thought. "How about Salome? She's notoriously evil. Perhaps 'dame' is the word you want. Well, I'm just trying to help."
She swung back to Billy. He was concentrating on getting to his feet. He rolled over and came to his knees, butt in the air like a cow getting up, then pushed up on his hands, then came to one foot, then the other, and straightened. He looked pleased with his success, as if he wasn't even aware of us crowding at the door teasing him and hoorahing him.
The loud talk and laughter swirled around the nurse. She looked from Billy and the girl to the bunch of us behind her. The enamel-and-plastic face was caving in. She shut her eyes and strained to calm her trembling, concentrating. She knew this was it, her back to the wall. When her eyes opened again, they were very small and still.
"What worries me, Billy," she said--I could hear the change in her voice--"is how your poor mother is going to take this."
She got the response she was after. Billy flinched and put his hand to his cheek like he'd been burned with acid.
"Mrs. Bibbit's always been so proud of your discretion. I know she has. This is going to disturb her terribly. You know how she is when she gets disturbed, Billy; you know how ill the poor woman can become. She's very sensitive. Especially concerning her son. She always spoke so proudly of you. She al--"
"Nuh! Nuh!" His mouth was working. He shook his head, begging her. "You d-don't n-n-need!"
"Billy Billy Billy," she said. "Your mother and I are old friends."
"No!" he cried. His voice scraped the white, bare walls of the Seclusion Room. He lifted his chin so he was shouting at the moon of light in the ceiling. "N-n-no!"
We'd stopped laughing. We watched Billy folding into the floor, head going back, knees coming forward. He rubbed his hand up and down that green pant leg. He was shaking his head in panic like a kid that's been promised a whipping just as soon as a willow is cut. The nurse touched his shoulder to comfort him. The touch shook him like a blow.
"Billy, I don't want her to believe something like this of you--but what am I to think?"
"Duh-duh-don't t-tell, M-M-M-Miss Ratched. Duh-duh-duh--"
"Billy, I have to tell. I hate to believe you would behave like this, but, really, what else can I think? I find you alone, on a mattress, with this sort of woman."
"No! I d-d-didn't. I was--" His hand went to his cheek again and stuck there. "She did."
"Billy, this girl could not have pulled you in here forcibly." She shook her head. "Understand, I would like to believe something else--for your poor mother's sake."
The hand pulled down his cheek, raking long red marks. "She d-did." He looked around him. "And M-M-McMurphy! He did. And Harding! And the-the-the rest! They t-t-teased me, called me things!"
Now his face was fastened to hers. He didn't look to one side or the other, but only straight ahead at her face, like there was a spiraling light there instead of features, a hypnotizing swirl of cream white and blue and orange. He swallowed and waited for her to say something, but she wouldn't; her skill, her fantastic mechanical power flooded back into her, analyzing the situation and reporting to her that all she had to do was keep quiet.
"They m-m-made me! Please, M-Miss Ratched, they may-may-MAY--!"
She checked her beam, and Billy's face pitched downward, sobbing with relief. She put a hand on his neck and drew his cheek to her starched breast, stroking his shoulder while she turned a slow, contemptuous look across the bunch of us.
"It's all right, Billy. It's all right. No one else is going to harm you. It's all right. I'll explain to your mother."
She continued to glare at us as she spoke. It was strange to hear that voice, soft and soothing and warm as a pillow, coming out of a face hard as porcelain.
"All right, Billy. Come along with me. You can wait over here in the doctor's office. There's no reason for you to be submitted to sitting out in the day room with these ... friends of yours."
She led him into the office, stroking his bowed head and saying, "Poor boy, poor little boy," while we faded back down the hall silently and sat down in the day room without looking at one another or speaking. McMurphy was the last one to take a seat.
The Chronics across the way had stopped milling around and were settling into their slots. I looked at McMurphy out of the corner of my eye, trying not to be obvious about it. He was in his chair in the corner, resting a second before he came out for the next round--in a long line of next rounds. The thing he was fighting, you couldn't whip it for good. All you could do was keep on whipping it, till you couldn't come out any more and somebody else had to take your place.
There was more phoning going on in the Nurses' Station and a number of authorities showing up for a tour of the evidence. When the doctor himself finally came in, every one of these people gave him a look like the whole thing had been planned by him, or at least condoned and authorized. He was white and shaky under their eyes. You could see he'd already heard about most of what had gone on here, on his ward, but the Big Nurse outlined it for him again, in slow, loud details so we could hear it too. Hear it in the proper way, this time, solemnly, with no whispering or giggling while she talked. The doctor nodded and fiddled with his glasses, batting eyes so watery I thought he must be splashing her. She finished by telling him about Billy and the tragic experience we had put the poor boy through.
"I left him in your office. Judging from his present state, I suggest you see him right away. He's been through a terrible ordeal. I shudder to think of the damage that must have been done to the poor boy."
She waited until the doctor shuddered too.
"I think you should go see if you can speak with him. He needs a lot of sympathy. He's in a pitiful state."
The doctor nodded again and walked off toward his office. We watched him go.
"Mack," Scanlon said. "Listen--you don't think any of us are being taken in by this crap, do you? It's bad, but we know where the blame lies--we ain't blaming you."
"No," I said, "none of us blame you." And wished I'd had my tongue pulled out as soon as I saw the way he looked at me.
He closed his eyes and relaxed. Waiting, it looked like. Harding got up and walked over to him and had just opened his mouth to say something when the doctor's voice screaming down the hall smashed a common horror and realization onto everybody's face.
"Nurse!" he yelled. "Good lord, nurse!"
She ran, and the three black boys ran, down the hall to where the doctor was still calling. But not a patient got up. We knew there wasn't anything for us to do now but just sit tight and wait for her to come to the day room to tell us what we all had known was one of the things that was bound to happen.
She walked straight to McMurphy.
"He cut his throat," she said. She waited, hoping he would say something. He wouldn't look up. "He opened the doctor's desk and found some instruments and cut his throat. The poor miserable, misunderstood boy killed himself. He's there now, in the doctor's chair, with his throat cut."
She waited again. But he still wouldn't look up.
"First Charles Cheswick and now William Bibbit! I hope you're finally satisfied. Playing with human lives--gambling with human lives--as if you thought yourself to be a God!"
She turned and walked into the Nurses' Station and closed the door behind her, leaving a shrill, killing-cold sound ringing in the tubes of light over our heads.
First I had a quick thought to try to stop him, talk him into taking what he'd already won and let her have the last round, but another, bigger thought wiped the first thought away completely. I suddenly realized with a crystal certainty that neither I
nor any of the half-score of us could stop him. That Harding's arguing or my grabbing him from behind, or old Colonel Matterson's teaching or Scanlon's griping, or all of us together couldn't rise up and stop him.
We couldn't stop him because we were the ones making him do it. It wasn't the nurse that was forcing him, it was our need that was making him push himself slowly up from sitting, his big hands driving down on the leather chair arms, pushing him up, rising and standing like one of those moving-picture zombies, obeying orders beamed at him from forty masters. It was us that had been making him go on for weeks, keeping him standing long after his feet and legs had given out, weeks of making him wink and grin and laugh and go on with his act long after his humor had been parched dry between two electrodes.
We made him stand and hitch up his black shorts like they were horsehide chaps, and push back his cap with one finger like it was a ten-gallon Stetson, slow, mechanical gestures--and when he walked across the floor you could hear the iron in his bare heels ring sparks out of the tile.
Only at the last--after he'd smashed through that glass door, her face swinging around, with terror forever ruining any other look she might ever try to use again, screaming when he grabbed for her and ripped her uniform all the way down the front, screaming again when the two nippled circles started from her chest and swelled out and out, bigger than anybody had ever even imagined, warm and pink in the light--only at the last, after the officials realized that the three black boys weren't going to do anything but stand and watch and they would have to beat him off without their help, doctors and supervisors and nurses prying those heavy red fingers out of the white flesh of her throat as if they were her neck bones, jerking him backward off of her with a loud heave of breath, only then did he show any sign that he might be anything other than a sane, willful, dogged man performing a hard duty that finally just had to be done, like it or not.
He gave a cry. At the last, falling backward, his face appearing to us for a second upside down before he was smothered on the floor by a pile of white uniforms, he let himself cry out:
A sound of cornered-animal fear and hate and surrender and defiance, that if you ever trailed coon or cougar or lynx is like the last sound the treed and shot and falling animal makes as the dogs get him, when he finally doesn't care any more about anything but himself and his dying.
