I Can Hear the Mourning Dove

by James Bennett

“I don’t understand what you mean.” She pauses and lights a cigarette. Her lighter is pale gold and her fingernail polish is beige.

  “Like the Pygmalion story from the Greeks. He sculpted a statue of a woman and he loved the statue so dearly that a goddess intervened and the statue came to life. If I loved the statue enough, do you think it might come to life?”

  “It makes a good story, but I’ve never seen a statue come to life. I’ve seen people dead inside come to life, though.”

  “Dr. Rowe, please don’t be offended, but why do you smoke cigarettes?”

  “It’s an old habit. I often think of quitting, but I never seem to get the job done. Maybe I don’t have enough character. If the smoke bothers you, I’ll put it out.”

  “No, please, it doesn’t bother me. Besides, if you smoke cigarettes, it shows you’re not perfect. Everyone’s life is so sound except mine.” People who are in control form a line in my brain. DeeDee. Miss Braverman. My mother. Dr. Rowe. Even the Surly People, because they live on such a primitive level, don’t get scrambled or go flat out.

  Dr. Rowe says, “Very few people are as much in control as they seem.”

  The tears are forming in my eyes again, and once again I blink them back. I don’t want to cry and I don’t want to get scrambled. “Dr. Rowe, would you have tea with me sometime?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’d like to have tea, just the two of us. We could have it with milk, if you like it that way. We could have some little biscuits and scones, like the English do.”

  “Do you mean here, when we’re having one of our conferences?”

  “Oh no, it would have to be a completely different environment, a tearoom or a parlor. And we couldn’t talk about my psyche, or things that have to do with a pathological mind. We would talk about art and literature and current events.”

  “I think that sounds nice, Grace. You’re an interesting person to talk to. I think I would enjoy it.”

  Her static is gone. I feel several moments of inner peace, even though the tears are rolling down my cheeks.

  This is a different day, that much I’m sure of. If my dad comes today, we will probably read some Eliot. It’s been so long since we read any of the cat poems.

  Miss Ivey is in front of the set again, gripping her vibrating wrist. The television is so annoying. We got the cookies on Miss Ivey’s birthday, and mine is still intact, beneath my pillow, with a tiny spot of wax in the center where the birthday candle burned down. Miss Ivey didn’t know it was her birthday. She is a catatonic crone. Some day, many years from now, I will also be a catatonic crone.

  I say this to Mrs. Grant and she says, “Nonsense. You will never be any such thing.”

  “How long will Miss Ivey stay here? Won’t they have to find a special place for her?”

  “I don’t know, Grace. It’s a decision I don’t have to make, thank the Good Lord.”

  “Some day, I will be just like her. It’s the only prognosis for my life which stands to reason. When I first knew it, it seemed like such a desperate thought, but not anymore. I think Miss Ivey is in a safe, peaceful zone where no pain or fear or desperation can ever reach her.”

  “That’s not living, though.”

  “Even if you’re right, what’s so great about living?”

  “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk. Go get your shoes on; it’s time for bowling.”

  “I don’t want to go bowling.”

  “You don’t have a choice. Your whole group is going.”

  “Why should I have to go bowling if I hate it?”

  “You know why. Because your group voted to go.”

  “But I didn’t vote to go.”

  “It makes no difference. Your group voted to go, and you go with your group. Now up and at ’em.”

  We go bowling.

  We ride in the hospital van. The sky voice comes: Bowling Alleys are places where Surly People congregate. The forces of darkness may be in your presence.

  Please don’t bother me right now.

  Don’t shrink from your mission. You stand in the legion of light.

  Please go away from me; I never know what to do.

  We arrive at the bowling alley, on the interstate. There are many people inside and they stare at us. Why shouldn’t they? We don’t belong here. Bowling and other sports are for people who are in control and whose lives are sound. It’s absurd for us to come here and pretend. When you’re crazy in the hospital, you pretend and pretend, as if you can be cured, the way a person with an infection can be cured with penicillin.

  Mrs. Grant forces me to wear ugly bowling shoes. She enters our names on a computer screen suspended from the ceiling. Everywhere there are the staring eyes. I hate being this much in touch; just enough to feel disoriented and afraid and humiliated. It would be so much better to be in Miss Ivey’s zone. Her world is safe; it can’t be penetrated. It would be better to slide peacefully into the crimson water and sleep the sleep that never ends.

  There is a new member of our group. He is called Luke. I never saw him before yesterday, but he is clearly one of the Surly People. He is on lockup, so a guard is supervising him here. Sometimes I have seen him playing Frisbee in the courtyard with his lockup guard.

  His every movement is reckless. He launches his bowling ball down the shiny blond lane with such velocity that it scatters the pins in a shattering collision. He would love to smash the pins to bits.

  He leaves our lane and sits with other Surly People in the next lane. He drinks some of their beer and they all smoke cigarettes and laugh loudly. Does he know them, or is there just some brotherhood that connects Surly People wherever they meet? His security guard brings him back and tells him he will have to stay with the group.

  “Whatever you say, Chief.”

  He comes close to me to sit, but I mustn’t look at him. I must never look in his eyes. My heart pounds with fear and I look away. Suddenly, the memory of being molested by the Surly People is so vivid it brings tears to my eyes. I want to go to the bathroom.

  Semper fidelis; this is the time to be on guard.

  Please let me alone; I don’t understand what you expect from me.

  When my turn comes, I am still blinking back the tears; I feel so shaken I want to be skipped.

  “Mrs. Grant, please go on to the next person. I just can’t do it right now.”

  “Sure you can, Grace. All you have to do is roll a bowling ball. And while you’re at it, you might try and have a little fun.”

  Her voice is crackling and I’m short of breath. “Mrs. Grant, I’ll eat everything on my plate, I promise. Anything that’s not flesh, I mean.”

  “Don’t be silly. Take your turn and try to relax.”

  I am standing holding the ball. It is so very, very heavy my arms start to tremble. The bowling lane is pitched like the ridge of a roof or a mountain peak—if I don’t throw the ball precisely down the sharp crease at the center, it will probably roll all the way down to the sea.

  I know that people are staring at me. A thousand eyes, a thousand contemptuous eyes. My whole body is shaking and I can’t hold back the tears. I move forward a step or two and drop the ball feebly to the floor with a thud. It rolls slowly into the gutter and then trickles forward about twenty feet. It comes to a dead stop. I am frozen in place, short of breath and quivering, staring at the motionless ball. The flashbulbs are popping in my brain.

  There’s no telling how much time passes, but it feels like forever. There are bursts of laughter from the nearby Surly People. A repeated beeping is coming from the computer screen above our lane; it is the eye. Even the darkest corner of my brain can’t hide from the eye. It beeps again and again, carving in my brain.

  No one dares to approach the ball; it is forbidden to walk down a bowling lane. There is only the repeated beeping. I am scrambled.

  Then the one called Luke saunters down the lane and picks up the ball. He is total nonchalance and total contempt; a cigarette dangles from his li
ps. He launches the ball the rest of the way. It shatters the pins like a peal of thunder. On his way back he passes close to me; he smells of tobacco and a familiar after-shave. He is like all Surly People; there is nothing in life he respects and nothing can intimidate him.

  I mustn’t look in his eyes. His arm brushes my arm and I am chilled, covered with gooseflesh. I am shaking so that I can’t turn to the right or the left. I will wet my pants and there will be a puddle beneath me, on the shiny blond floor.

  He calls to Mrs. Grant, “What the hell, give her a strike.” His voice is a hailstorm of static as he disappears into the mist.

  “Mrs. Grant, can you help me please?”

  “What is it, Grace? Turn around please.”

  “Can you help me down, Mrs. Grant? Can you help me down from the ridge? Please, I need to find the bathroom.”

  Dr. Rowe wants to know how I’m feeling.

  “I am very, very sick. In plain language, I’m a schizophrenic.”

  “Schizophrenia is not plain language. I think you’re more in touch.”

  “In touch is hospital talk,” I say. “I’m in touch enough to be frightened and get scrambled. But I’m very sick. I’m not going to get better.”

  She smiles at me. “A few days ago, you told me you didn’t want to get better. You said you’d rather stay in the hospital.”

  “I can’t see where the humor lies. My future is over; I’m going to spend the rest of my life one foot in the looney bin and one foot out.”

  “I wasn’t making fun of you, Grace, lighten up.”

  “I see the schizophrenics every day. I study their details. Schizophrenia means your life is over. I’d like to hear you deny that I have it.”

  She says, “Since I can’t think of a better name for it, we’ll go ahead and call it a schizophrenic episode. But it is an episode. I’ll tell you what I’ve told you before: I’ve seen many people recover from such episodes and live completely normal lives. I’ve never told you a lie, have I? Can you trust what I’m telling you?”

  I have to listen to all this through the static. I don’t know why she talks to me like a little child. “I would like very much to trust you,” I say.

  “You are more in touch, whether you like the phrase or not. You’ve been here for two weeks, do you realize that?”

  “The time has no meaning. There are the days and nights. Mrs. Grant tells me the days and I take her word for it.”

  “Has your voice spoken to you lately?”

  “My preparation is not yet complete. The sky voice warns me of the one called Luke.”

  “Does the sky voice speak as your father?”

  “It is my father’s voice. The light comes from above, from the other side. I think the eye and the voice are one.”

  “And who is Luke?”

  “You already know him. He’s a new patient.”

  “I know who you mean. Actually, he’s not new to the hospital, but he’s new to your group.”

  “If you say so. I would never tell you how to do your job, but could you please move him to a different group?”

  “Why?”

  “The sky gives me warnings about him. I wonder if I’ve ever told you about the train?”

  “Yes, you have. What warnings?”

  “The one called Luke is one of the Surly People.”

  “Nonsense. He is a patient here. It’s that simple.”

  The static pops in her voice and a flashbulb breaks in my brain. I say, “The truth is, I don’t want to be in a group. I hate it when they want me to talk in group. Would it be okay if I just worked on crafts instead?”

  “We can’t do it that way, Grace. If you’re in our program, you’re a member of a group. If there’s more to tell about the warnings though, I would like to hear it.”

  “The sky warns me of him. He is one of the Surly People, and it’s no accident that he is here. It’s important for me to keep away from him; can you please move him to a different group?”

  She shakes her head. “You’re suggesting that there’s a link between Luke and the hoodlums who assaulted you.”

  “Not only that but linked also to the evil that permeates the world at all times and everywhere.”

  She goes on, “Grace, let’s get the sheep separated from the goats. What those hoodlums did to you was very cruel, but it wasn’t part of anything that is organized. That event had nothing to do with any person, other than yourself, in this hospital.”

  Her voice is shorting out, I can’t get all the words. She is lecturing me, which I probably deserve, but it makes me feel unworthy. Suddenly, the memory of the Surly People in the hallway is so strong I feel my bones have turned to pudding. The tears are blurring my eyes. The one called DeWayne with his seared eyebrow and his hot breath and the way he tore at my underpants with his horny fingers. It’s safer with Dr. Rowe, but I think I’ve told her too much. The sky won’t like it.

  “One of them had arrows shaved in his head,” I say. “They sprayed swastikas on my science project. They tore at my underwear, I hope they didn’t rape me.” Now the tears are rolling down my cheeks. Dr. Rowe hands me the box of Kleenex.

  She says, “According to our examination, you were not raped, but it was a horrible thing they did to you.”

  “Why do they persecute me, Dr. Rowe? Where does such cruelty come from?”

  “I’m not sure there’s an easy answer for that. Sometimes people are very cruel.”

  The sky won’t like that answer. I could tell her so, but she would just dismiss it. I wipe some of the tears which are still flowing, but at least I’m not sobbing. “I don’t know why anyone would want to rape me,” I say. “I’m not much to look at.”

  Dr. Rowe smiles at me. “I think you’re attractive. You would probably be more attractive if you took more interest in your personal appearance.”

  I think for a moment of the hand clutching at the waistband of my underpants; I can’t imagine what advantage there could be in being more attractive. “Dr. Rowe, are you going to lecture me about shaving my armpits and taking better care of my complexion?”

  “I’d rather not lecture you about anything. I hope you don’t perceive me that way.”

  I think suddenly of DeeDee’s skin and her shining hair. “My friend DeeDee is very beautiful.”

  “I thought you told me you don’t have any friends.”

  “DeeDee is the most open person. She has so much trust. I think she actually likes me.”

  “Why should it surprise you if someone likes you?”

  “Or she did, anyway, before all of this. She feeds the fish in her underwear. Her skin is so tan and smooth. Sometimes I feel like touching her and holding my arms around her. Is it okay for me to have that feeling?”

  “I don’t know why not.”

  “You don’t think I’m becoming a lesbian, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Her words give me some relief. Dr. Rowe is very perceptive about many things. I’m not sure she understands about the sky voice, but I won’t bring it up again. Someday, maybe the two of us will go to tea, and we will talk. Maybe we could go to the Shakespeare festival first. It would be perfect, no doctor and no patient, just two women having tea and talking about A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  She lights one of her cigarettes and blows a stream of smoke up at the ceiling. The sockets of her eyes are dark. I wonder if she knows how to blow smoke rings. I’ve been told my Uncle Larry was very good at blowing smoke rings, but it would be completely inappropriate for a psychiatrist to blow smoke rings in her office. She wouldn’t blow smoke rings at tea, either.

  Five

  Mrs. Youngblood has put the one called Luke in the chair next to me. It makes me very tense. I sit very straight and still with my eyes down. There are lots of chairs available, it seems so unfair.

  A patient called Professor Sarbanes is doing most of the talking. He is impatient and irritable and quite electrical.

  It frightens me when we have group. I do
n’t want to speak and I don’t want to listen to these hopeless stories of lives that don’t work. As crazy wild as I am, it could become even worse, and the thought fills me with fresh panic.

  Mrs. Youngblood has turned to me. She is speaking to me.

  “Did you hear me, Grace?”

  Oh please no. I sit up even straighter.

  “Grace, the group would like to hear from you.”

  “What group?” asks the one called Luke. “You’re the only one askin’ the questions.” He is so near to me, I mustn’t look at him. What meaning his remark holds, I do not know. My breath is coming short and the panic is rising in my stomach; I can’t let myself get scrambled.

  Mrs. Youngblood ignores Luke’s remark. She says, “Recently, Grace suffered a very traumatic experience at her school. She was molested by a gang of hoodlums. Grace, would you like to tell the group about it?”

  “Please no.”

  Mrs. Youngblood smiles. “I’m not sure we know exactly what please no means.”

  “Please, Mrs. Youngblood, I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “I’m sure part of you feels that way, but you might be surprised how talking about it would make you feel better.”

  I keep my eyes down. “I’d just rather not, please. I’ve talked to Dr. Rowe about it.”

  “I’m glad to hear that you’ve talked to Dr. Rowe about it, but you’re also a member of this group, and that membership carries some responsibility.”

  Why can’t she let me alone? “Please no,” I say again.

  The one called Luke lights a Marlboro and says, “I get the impression she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  Mrs. Youngblood says, “I appreciate your observation, Luke, but what Grace wants to do and what is good for her, may be two different things entirely. And let me remind you that it’s not your job to decide what’s best for other patients.”

  He shrugs. “If you say so.”

  “Before we go any further with the group, Luke, don’t you think it would be a good idea if you asked if your cigarette smoke bothers anybody?”

  “I could care less if it bothers anybody.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not a very responsible group attitude.”