by Robin Winter
Only occasionally did Wilton hear a jet, or some small plane. Distant. None of them came near. Not yet. But she waited and listened. Maybe her attention kept them from the skies. There's power in listening. Wilton had always known that.
She remembered the trembling of a jet around her. She remembered night lights, the red and orange wavering flare of torches reflected off the runway in the jungle. The hollow bowl of night tipped to spill from God's black hands.
American airport lights shone blue, rich blue against tarmac, and they never failed. The long runways spun smooth ribbons across gentle flats, clean, wiped of dangers. Never had she seen the splash of fire ripple crazy on an American runway, nor heard American voices screech fear, or vent the speechless shrill of burning skin—not here. Not yet.
The distant engines thrumming through clouds and space. One long, long night and she could travel to the singing land. Could lean on the seat back, looking at the window, waiting while the magic jet took her home. White moon on jet's wing, black airless night. If she went from this place, she could find her way. If God forgave. Every night she tested the door, pressed the clean glass at the windows, measured the spaces between the smooth cold bars. The doctor watched and she knew it, but she could not help herself.
Yes, the doctor knew how she looked for the jets. How she listened, all hours, maybe even in her sleep. Planes promised no threats. Now the doctor asked her questions about the jets. Wilton could not bear it if one should come down low, and he asked why. As if he could not know. As if knowing were a matter of choice.
Chapter 98: Lindsey
August 1971
Lagos, Western Region, Nigeria
Oroko came into Lindsey's office. News about Gilman? She saw him gesture to David, who left. Oroko waited for the door to close, straightening his spectacles.
"Ojorome hired two new men," Oroko said.
Lindsey touched the Daily Times newspaper on her desk and glanced again at Oroko. Oroko waxed prosperous in her service. He didn't flaunt his money, still dressed with conservatism. She supposed he was putting his money aside for the day when she lost her influence. She knew that he didn't spend freely on an extended family. No obvious chain of mistresses. Unusual. She wondered why. Most men had long complex obligations back in the village. Sandy would have known.
"Do you have plans for what you're going to do if something happens to me?" she said, surprised at her own sudden mood of mischief.
Oroko barely twitched.
"Ojorome has hired two new men," he said again, in precisely the same intonation.
Oh, so that's not a question to ask your bodyguard. Lindsey turned the Daily Times over and opened it to the third page, bypassing the short article that denounced the employment of foreigners in government offices.
"Who's Ojorome paying at the Times office?" she said, pointing out the photo of Ojorome, smiling in his European business suit.
"William Asuka. A venial man."
"With many debts, I suppose. Extended obligations."
Oroko nodded.
"Where does Ojorome obtain his money?"
"His father was wealthy. I think these foreign businessmen give Ojorome money for promises. Ojorome claims he can make Lindsey Kinner agree to exclusive arrangements for distribution and expansion of trade goods."
"He has no discretion," Lindsey said.
She sensed that Oroko felt pleased. His diction delighted her sometimes. She'd never asked Sandy or Wilton much about him—he'd always kept his origins secret. She respected that. He must come from one of the minority tribes, fluent though he was in Yoruba, Hausa and Igbo.
"So tell me, why did Ojorome hire two new men?"
His mouth thinned as though in disgust.
"I think that they are hired to kill you."
"To kill me?" She looked at him. "Only two?"
"Do not believe there is no danger."
"No," Lindsey said, "even the best bodyguard can't guarantee safety. Though you come close."
When Oroko spoke again, she heard anxiety in his voice. It moved her.
"I hired for you the best men of this state, men whom I can bind, but Ojorome has brought his from another country."
"Where?"
"I am investigating."
He sounded as though he were confessing a failure.
"Possibly Cameroon."
"Thank you, Oroko." Lindsey smiled, more gratitude for his conversation and his company than for his information, but Oroko reacted oddly.
"Madam, when did you last send a contribution to the Sisters of Charity?"
She straightened and with her surprise guilt swept in.
"I have forgotten them. I…Thank you, Oroko. I appreciate the reminder."
But Oroko didn't leave.
"Have you been to see your doctor?"
"What?" He had never asked her anything so personal before. He might kill for her, but she had never encouraged…
"You have the look of fever on you," he said. "It is in the eyes. You forget things. You have the feeling of a person thinking of other things than where she is and what she is doing."
"I'll take some Aralen," she said. Yes, she felt tired beyond sense. He could be right. She didn't take her malarial doses regularly. They made her nauseous. Sandy used to be the one who made sure she popped that revolting thick white pill every Sunday before church. It used to make her car-sick. She stared at Oroko, warning him with her expression that she would take no more advice.
"Ojorome?" Oroko asked with a curious inflection.
She understood what permission he asked and Lindsey wavered. Removing Ojorome would relieve the situation. Oroko would arrange it all. She thought of Ojorome, his plotting sweaty face, his suit and friends borrowed from another culture, with pity. He seemed so small.
"No, Oroko," she said in the face of his disapproval, "not this time. Or at least not yet. In the long run the enemy with a face is easy to knife. That will suffice."
"It is a mistake," he said.
Chapter 99: Gilman
September 1971
Massachusetts, USA
Gilman drove along the maple and birch-bordered highway in her green Volvo, eyes itching with tiredness. She blinked against the glare of afternoon sunlight, shrugging to alleviate the tension of her shoulder muscles. Two more miles and she'd be at Lowenstein's hospital.
The days in America lost distinction in her mind. How predictable and tame the flowers were, how cautiously colored and fragile compared to Africa's. Only the dandelions had flair, and a few of the trees changing color. No warmth outside except the miserly light of a sun diluted. The food seemed heavy and flavorless, no matter how she ladled on chili sauces or ketchup. She couldn't bear the TV any more. She always felt its noise covered the sound of careful steps in her apartment, though there was never anyone there.
She couldn't take pleasure in having every drug and instrument readily available. When she first reentered an American hospital, she'd been bewildered by luxury. She noticed the looks her nurses occasionally exchanged—looks of masked laughter at her surprised pleasure in supplies. Gilman became used to their superior attitude, but she avoided other doctors and their complaints.
Now boredom crept upon her. Her field was tropical medicine, and the rare tourist case at Bellevue wasn't enough. She was plagued by the nagging suspicion that she was superfluous. She loved the adrenaline rush of the emergency room yet a simple fact niggled. Any accredited doctor could do her job.
At first she'd wondered at her swift recovery from the civil war and the loss of Tom Jantor. It seemed almost unnatural. Now she knew her private civil war would live with her a long time. It's hard to think when you're running, so she kept running.
Lowenstein told her that she overworked. Easy for him to say. But extra hours made it possible to sleep. Kept her off the cigarettes. Better than brooding over her fumbling efforts to reach Wilton, or all the things of the past she should have done differently.
"Dr. Gilman."
Lowenstein sounded unusually businesslike when she stopped by his office. He seemed preoccupied. "I'd like to talk with you as soon as you've been to see Wilton. Oh, and she's had a bit of a setback today, so don't expect much."
Gilman paused, torn between demanding what he meant, and wanting to get the meeting with Wilton over. Then she nodded. After all, if Wilton were tired, she shouldn't delay.
Today Wilton sat quiet. She almost looked normal if you didn't see her hands or how thin her face was. She looked out of the window at the green outdoors, never moving to accept Gilman's presence. Gilman made small talk, saying words that could have no importance to Wilton.
"It's hard going to the grocery store," she heard herself saying. "I get the teenager from downstairs, Robby, to get me basics. When I go into those stores and look at the goddamn food it makes me want to grab, and then I get nauseous. All the colors and plastic and so much of everything. I love macaroni and cheese, can't get used to salads again. I keep thinking about amoebic dysentery when I see raw fruit and veggies."
She swallowed. As though smitten with inspiration, out came more words, in almost the same even tone.
"Damn you, you kept telling us we were special and we weren't. We weren't special enough. You meant us to move mountains and cause rivers to flow and make the world green and people happy. You praised us and hooked us on your special drug of power and hope. You made us feel like we meant something, but we were just crap like everything else. And whatever your plan was, it failed. Wilton, it fucking failed, and everyone died and you didn't stop it—you ran away inside so I couldn't even touch you, and now you've left me alone standing here with my mouth full of puke and so alone I could die."
Wilton hadn't moved. Gilman got up and moved back to the door, buzzing to get the attendant to let her out. Go before she said anything else. She felt words that wanted to get out like a black tide behind her lips seething at the edge of release.
Gilman emerged from the housing block. She knew she had to check in. Lowenstein couldn't be expecting her "professional opinion tonight." She was no professional.
Lowenstein waited for her in his office. She found him at his desk, the television monitor on the table at his side humming. Seeing her, he nodded at the armchair by his bookcase and gestured at the two tumblers with ice and Scotch.
Chapter 100: Gilman
September 1971
Massachussetts, USA
"Have you ever wondered about Wilton's muscle tone?"
"What?" Gilman said.
"Watch this." Lowenstein pushed the play button and a grainy recording began on the television monitor. Gilman felt a surge of outrage and fear.
"You've been spying on her. And on me?"
"This is a psychiatric institution." Lowenstein's voice sounded tired, and she realized that he'd expected her to blow up. That cautioned her. She forced a swallow of whiskey down her dry throat.
"Gilman, look at her. Getting out of bed. Walking to the window, testing the frame, the screening, the bars. Look at her coordination, her balance. There she goes—you can see why our rooms don't have the hinges accessible on doors. Watch your friend Wilton prove that she isn't the shell shock patient you described."
"Then what is she?"
"Traumatic stress, yes. Loss of contact with reality, sure. Flashbacks—I'll admit those. Maybe hallucinations."
Gilman punched the Stop button on the monitor.
"I don't need to see any more. I hate you intruding on her privacy. That's not what I brought her for."
"No?" Lowenstein flexed his big hands. "I thought you always opined psychoanalysis was the ultimate intrusion. Or did you think it was a clever game of shells and that maybe your friend could beat me at it? What did you really want when you gave her to me, Gilman? A happy doll of your old friend with no surprises? Or maybe you thought I could take you both back in time to your innocence? Fast rewind to a better time and send you out to a happy maiden aunt existence together that made all the rest of what's happened to both of you fade away? Doesn't work like that, my friend."
"I wanted you to cure her." Gilman felt the angry tears well up. God, anything but that. Stop it. Stop.
"Did you? Then tell me why you object to my obtaining necessary data? Your friend's malingering. I don't know how long she's been doing it. She reacts to you like you're her inciting event, but for a calculated reason. When you get right down to it, Doctor Gilman, your Wilton has died. She's denied herself any kind of life that we've offered. Obstructed every effort at hypnosis. Maybe you can imagine why, but that's not my job. Mine is to find out without excuse or favor."
Gilman fought back tears, but panic made her shake. Lowenstein mustn't see. The room was dark, the table between them, thank God.
"No fairy tales, Doctor," he said. "Full-fledged sociopathic personality disorder with paranoia. Alternatively schizophreniform disorder, if we're lucky, possibly with a psychotic episode or episodes. Complicated by malingering and a soup pot of medications administered under insufficient supervision during her time at the state hospital. God knows that's an old story."
"A diagnosis, that's good," Gilman said. "Isn't it?"
"Yes, but it only goes so far. It's the nicest interpretation I can offer, but think—you may be dealing with a full-fledged schizophrenic, and there are other possibilities. Some things we can treat, or ameliorate, but I don't have to tell you we can't fix everything. Now we're going in to see her together."
"Wilton, you have to help us," Gilman said. No change in Wilton's slack face, her cupped hands upturned in her lap. Gilman looked at Lowenstein, begging for intervention.
"You're here to recover," Gilman said. "Dr. Lowenstein is your psychiatrist. But he can't do it without you. We know you're faking symptoms, and you're good at it, but you've…been seen moving about the room under your own power. We believe you can talk. So talk to me, Wilton. Please. Why are you doing this? Surely you can tell me? I can't help if I don't understand."
As smoothly as though she had never been any other way, Wilton turned her head and met Gilman's gaze, her pupils narrowing in focus. She said nothing.
"You can see me," Gilman choked, joy bursting up. "You're okay, Wilton."
She held herself back from rushing forward. Wilton never liked to be touched. Lowenstein remained by the door.
"Welcome back, Wilton."
Wilton's unnerving silence and stare continued.
"I have so much to tell you. I've wanted to talk…" Gilman tried to go on, but she stumbled to a stop. An inimical stare, wasn't that what books called it? Where had she read that?
"Don't you know who I am? It's me…"
"Say no name." Wilton's voice sounded rusty, faint and then loud as if she didn't have volume control. But Gilman could hear and understand the words.
"Leave."
Lowenstein's hand caught Gilman's shoulder. A hard grab—it hurt.
"Doctor," he said.
"I'm Gilman. Your friend. Remember?"
She heard the buzzer go off. Wilton came out of her chair in a rush, hands reaching, her mouth open on a snarl as if she would bite. Lowenstein hurled Gilman behind him against the wall. He hit Wilton, a punch to the shoulder, the hard movement of his right arm brutal and Gilman ducked behind him, as if she could duck for Wilton.
Wilton went back, rolling on the floor as if she'd practiced, her momentum bringing her up onto her feet once more for another rush. Everything so slow, so interminable, even to the door springing open and Lowenstein's male nurses catching hold of Wilton in mid-spring.
Once held, she stopped trying, went limp in their hands. A small helpless shape in their supporting fists, silent. Wilton closed her eyes and Gilman could only imagine in that moment that Wilton had deleted them from her existence, denying their presence.
Lowenstein pushed Gilman to the door. She regained her balance and walked out. She could hear him giving directions for a sedative.
"So Doctor," he said. "What's your diagnosis?"
&n
bsp; "I'm sorry." She'd bitten the inside of her cheek and she tested the salty cut with her tongue. "I couldn't shut up, could I?"
"Apparently." He took an ice cube from his half-melted drink and wrapped it in a napkin before he applied it to his knuckles. "Didn't know for sure how stupid that was, going in without backup. Stupid. Of all people I should know better."
As if Wilton were a wild animal.
"She's dangerous," Lowenstein said. "Maybe especially so to you. Directions from God are the very devil to undo, if you'll pardon the expression."
Gilman giggled. It sounded weak. He smiled like a person who regrets his joke.
"We can't go on like this," he said. "You will have to let go. Let Wilton go. I can't work with her if she's waiting for you to come back. Lying in wait."
Gilman couldn't reply. In the roil of her feelings, she felt dull gratitude to him for ripping off the bandage quickly.
"I suggest you travel. How involved are you with your position at the hospital?"
"I'm fine." She felt too discouraged to fight. She was no good to anyone. But why in hell had Lowenstein chosen to hit her with this when she was so tired. It wasn't fair. Oh, fuck. I'm always this tired.
"You hired me as a professional. If you choose to take your friend from my care, I won't be angry. You identify with her. But it remains my professional opinion..."
"You leave my personal choices out of it." She was proud of keeping her voice low and even. "Let's stick to Wilton. I entrusted you with her care. That hasn't changed. But I'm not your patient. Don't get confused between the two of us."
Lowenstein looked at her, then he nodded. "Then you stopped me just in the nick of time. I would have said that I thought your reluctance to undertake professional psychiatric consultation immature, as if you thought your personal humanity so extraordinary that its secrets were worth protecting at the price of your life and happiness. We're all alike, I would have said, under the skin, and personal pride doesn't justify the waste of our potential service to others. I see you move through acts of compassion and you feel no comfort in them. That's a waste."
