“Is that how you see it?”
“How I see it is, my roommate doesn’t even belong here. He’s a dodo. He belongs in some other kind of facility.”
“A dodo?” says Mrs. Youngblood.
“Yeah, a dodo. A retard.”
“Is that how you refer to mentally retarded people?”
“Yeah, dodos. It’s not a put-down, I like dodos. I used to live with them, in one of the group homes I was in. I was even workin’ in the dodo house cafeteria before I came here.”
Mrs. Youngblood still has the folder open. “It says here, Luke, that your cafeteria job was another place where you had difficulty with authority.”
“I’ve got a good idea,” he says. “Why don’t you take your folder and shove it up your ass?”
I feel I can’t stand any more. I press my hands over my ears. I say suddenly, “Mrs. Youngblood, please. There’s too much anger.”
She turns to me with eyes that glitter. “Grace, do you have something to add to this conversation? Do you have a question for Luke?”
“You are in the mist and there is all the static. So much hostility frightens me, I’m getting scrambled.”
“I think where you find Luke, you find anger. You know a lot about anger, don’t you, Luke?”
“I know a lot about bullshitters and their power trips. What it comes down to is, they just can’t stand it if the square pegs don’t fit in the round holes.”
“Was that the problem in your cafeteria job, Luke?”
“There wasn’t any problem until the douche bag supervisor made one.”
“I figured it would be something like that.” Mrs. Youngblood smiles, but it is a smile without humor. “Why don’t you tell us about it?”
“You’ll probably wet your pants if I don’t. The supervisor decided that all the boy dodos should stand at the urinal to take a leak. Their usual way was to sit on the pot and do it. She was afraid they were sittin’ there and playin’ with themselves instead of takin’ a leak.”
“What did it have to do with you?”
“Nothin’. She wanted me to help her enforce her new policy. I told her to kiss off; my job was in the cafeteria. Besides, I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. The dodos don’t get too many grins out of life, maybe they deserve a chance to jerk off every once in a while.”
“What you’re really telling this group is that when you caused your friend’s death by pulling the plug on his respirator, you were acting in a way that is consistent with the rest of your behavior.”
“I’m not tellin’ this group anything, because they don’t give a shit. The only one playin’ the game is you.”
“You just don’t like anyone telling you what to do, do you?”
“Brilliant. You figured that out all by yourself. Maybe you ought to give yourself a gold star.”
Six
Missivey is sitting in front of her test pattern but she is on the far side of the room and the noise doesn’t disturb me. It is six A.M. The sky is lightening through the east window, but it is a gray dawn.
I have had a dream which has awakened me, but it wasn’t a bad dream. It was lovely, it was a dream of my father; the two of us were walking across a huge meadow, and he had cut for me a cluster of the lovely white roses.
The mist is lifting from the lounge carpet like haze on a meadow at dawn. But there’s no mist in the lounge, really. It was part of the dream of the meadow.
A gentle rain is falling. I can hear it dripping from the eaves. I feel calm as a tranquil pond. If only this moment could be locked in place with me inside it. There’s a song called “Time in a Bottle.” If only I could be fixed here, on this point in time, and the serenity would be everlasting unto everlasting. There would never be the disorienting hallways at school, or group therapy, or butchering of gentle farm animals, or Surly People, or any of the things which hurt and scare.
And the early morning dawn, it sleeps so peacefully,
Soothed by long fingers.
Through the open window I hear the cooing of the dove and the lowing cattle and the muffled, distant traffic.
“They got any coffee around here?”
The loud voice startles me. I look up and it is the one called Luke Wolfe. He struts at all times; is it the strut of a predator? My pulse quickens and my mouth turns dry. His hair is damp and I can smell his after-shave.
“What did you say, please?”
“I said is there any coffee around here?” His voice crackles with static and he is blocking the light from the east window, he is sort of like a silhouette.
“I don’t think so,” I say quickly. “In the cafeteria there is coffee for the staff, but I’m quite sure it’s not meant for patients.”
He leaves without a word, strutting down the west wing toward the cafeteria. I’m sure he would never need to consult the blue line or the yellow line or any of the lines. He won’t come back here, surely. He won’t want to be in the lounge at dawn. If he does come back, I will be all alone with him, except for Miss Ivey who doesn’t really count, because she is here only in body. I feel the panic rising in my stomach. It would be much safer to go to my room, but I stay in my spot on the couch, hoping to remember the dream and recapture the peaceful moment.
He returns, with steaming coffee in a large Styrofoam cup.
“They gave you some,” I say.
“I took some,” he says. He is wearing a red tank top. He could break me with his heavy muscles. He sits at the card table and lights a cigarette.
For a few minutes he smokes his cigarette and drinks his coffee. My pulse will not slow down; I try to keep my mouth moist.
He finally breaks the silence. “So tell me. What is a psychopath?” He seems bored.
“Excuse me?”
“What is a psychopath? People keep callin’ me a psychopath, and I don’t know what the hell it means.”
The nurses’ station is only a few feet around the corner. If Mr. Sneed is there, he could help me.
“There’s going to be anger,” I blurt out. “Will there be anger?”
“Hey, man, don’t come unglued. It’s just a question. If you don’t know the answer, that’s cool.” He gets up and strides across the room. He switches off Miss Ivey’s television set. She seems to take no notice of him.
He returns to his chair and sits down. “Jesus Christ, a goddam test pattern.”
I moisten my lips and my mouth. “A psychopath is a person without a conscience,” I say quietly. “A person with a basic personality component that’s missing.”
“Is that it?”
He thinks I am finished, but I am only swallowing so I can go on. “A psychopath feels no remorse for the evil that he does. He hates to get caught, but he doesn’t feel remorse for the deed itself.”
He puffs on his cigarette but doesn’t speak. He is folding his red and blue bandana tight into a band. I must be very careful of what I say. I have seen the anger of Surly People and I have seen his anger too. “You have to understand, I’m only trying to answer your question. I’m not calling you a psychopath.”
“That’s cool.” He is knotting the headband into place around his head.
“Also, please remember I didn’t make the definition, I’m just reporting it. There’s much more to it than what I’ve told you. In the first floor lounge there’s a library of psychology books. You could read up on it if you wanted to.” It sounds like such an absurd suggestion. It’s the fear that causes me to babble like this, why does the fear control everything?
“You sound real uptight,” he says.
“I almost always am,” I blurt out.
“So what are you in for?”
“I’m never sure. Just crazy wild, I guess. I’ve spent lots of time in looney bins, sometimes I think it’s a life sentence. The years will pass and I will make lots of ashtrays and candy dishes. They used to call them ashtrays but now they call them candy dishes.” It is the fear that makes me babble like this. I mustn’t anger him but I mustn’
t tell him anything that’s real. But do I even know what is real? I have seen him penetrate Mrs. Youngblood’s sphere and I know he can penetrate mine. He is no accident.
“You talk funny,” he says. He has lit a new cigarette. “That’s one thing you notice about the puzzle house, people talk funny.”
There are tears dimming my eyes, but I mustn’t let him see me cry. Why did he have to disturb the peace of the lounge at dawn? Maybe Mrs. Grant will come early with the medicine.
“Please don’t be offended,” I say, “but did you truly kill your friend?”
“I pulled the plug on his respirator. It comes down to the same as killing him.”
“Was it hard?”
“It wasn’t a hard decision, if that’s what you mean. I thought I was doin’ him a favor. I know I was. He wanted to snuff and I couldn’t blame him. Would you want to spend your whole life as a vegetable? There’s worse things than death is how I look at it.”
I think suddenly of the crimson water, warm and peaceful, and I blurt out, “It’s so true. There are many things worse than death, such as a life of loneliness or fear or disorientation.”
He looks at me with curiosity, then shrugs his shoulders. “Anyway, the only hard part was figurin’ out how. I had to wait until the nurses were busy someplace else, then I had to open the console and cut a couple circuits.”
“It must be that you are mechanically inclined,” I say. It will be better if I can keep him talking about himself, and then Mrs. Grant will bring the medicine.
“A little,” he says. “It wasn’t the hairiest job in the world. Actually, according to my lawyer and my social worker, I’m not even supposed to be talkin’ about this shit. I mean it’s okay to talk about Johnny dyin’, but I’m not supposed to talk about any of the details.”
“I promise I would never breathe a word to a soul, please believe me.”
He throws back his head and laughs, so harsh, the way he sometimes does in group. His teeth are straight and regular. “What the hell, they’re just thinkin’ about all the legal bullshit. I have to go to trial next month. They’re afraid I’m gonna talk to newspaper reporters.”
“Are they going to put you in jail?”
“It’s possible. Anything’s possible. They don’t even know yet if I’m gonna have a bench trial or a jury trial or just a hearing. That’s what I’m in here for. I have to have a total psych evaluation before I can go to trial. Somewhere out there in some air-conditioned conference room, a bunch of prime bullshitters will sit around and figure it all out.”
“Please, what exactly is a bullshitter?”
He looks directly into my eyes. “Bullshitters are the lazy fatasses who sit around in expensive suits in big offices. They never do any real work, all they do is make decisions that control other peoples’ lives. I’ve been in the social services system all my life. That means the government basically, and that’s where you find the most bullshitters.”
His dark eyes have locked me in like small, black mirrors and I can’t look away. There is a tiny reflection of myself in both his eyes. What am I doing in his eyes? Am I teeny-tiny like Alice, that I can locate in his eyes?
I look away quickly and try for breath. “But what about your parents? Can they not help you?” I hurry to moisten my mouth.
“I never had any parents. I mean I never knew who they were. I’ve always been in group homes or foster homes.”
“I’m sorry, I’m really so sorry. I didn’t mean any harm.”
“No sweat, that’s ancient history. Is there any way you could cut down on all the apologies?”
“Please excuse me. I know something about ancient history, I take it at school. Mr. McCorkindale is my teacher. Miss Braverman is my science teacher. I’m not a good science student, but I’m very fond of her. Please excuse me, but when I’m stressed I get quite incoherent in my conversation. I believe it to be a defense mechanism to avoid getting scrambled. Dr. Rowe agrees with me.”
“I never met anybody that talks like you do. I know McCorkindale, though. I had him for a class last year.”
“We go to the same high school? You go to West High?”
He asks, “You go there? I never saw you.”
“This is my first year. We just moved to town this summer.”
“Yeah, that would explain it. It was about the first day of school that I was over in the Quad Cities pullin’ Johnny’s plug. I was only back in school for a few days and then the cops came.”
“How did they know it was you who did it?”
“I didn’t try to cover my tracks or anything, I was about the only visitor John ever had. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who did it. Anyway, after the cops came, they put me in juvenile detention. Then they sent me here. One way or the other, I’m done with school. If I go to the slammer or if I don’t, either way I’m not goin’ back to school.”
“But isn’t this your senior year?”
“It depends how you look at it. If I went back I would be a senior, but I just told you I’m not goin’ back.”
“I have to repeat my sophomore year,” I say. “I’ve spent too much time in mental institutions.”
He puts out his cigarette and drinks a little of his coffee. “That’s what I’m tryin to tell you about bullshitters. Anyone could see, with your brains, that’s a bullshit decision. But you had no say in it. Am I right?” I don’t know what to say, so he changes the subject: “You’ve got a lot of red in your hair. I never noticed it. Anybody ever call you Red?”
I look quickly away. Has he been watching my hair? I am still frightened but I don’t think there will be anger or violence with a conversation like this. “Not that I can remember,” I say. “But I can tell you one thing. It doesn’t help to have a high I.Q. if you get scrambled in your mind or if your brain gets whizzed up with data.”
“I wouldn’t know what that means, but you can’t apologize for the decisions bullshitters make. That’s like givin’ ’em a transfusion.”
“But please, if you don’t go back to school, what will you do with your life?”
“I’ll be out on my own, makin’ my own way. All I want is to get free and clear, and find some kind of job that lets me go my own way with no bullshitter lookin’ over my shoulder. I might drive a rig and roll on down the highway.”
“I would never mean to be quarrelsome, but wouldn’t it be easier for you if you got your diploma first?”
“Who needs a piece of paper? The secret to makin’ your own way is keep your needs simple so you don’t need a lot of money. I talked to this guy once who worked on boat repair in Boston Harbor. He didn’t work on ocean liners, the boats were big sailboats and schooners, all owned by a very rich bullshitter who rented them out to other bullshitters for cruises. Anyway, the guy I talked to would work a while, then be off a while, dependin’ on whether the boats needed repair or if he was short of cash. There are ways, believe me.”
His self-assurance is so complete it intimidates me. I can’t think of anything more to say, but it would be uncomfortable to sit with him in silence or look into his eyes.
A checkerboard and the pieces are on the card table. He asks me if I want to play a game. I think checkers is a very boring game, but I would never say that to him. He sets up the pieces and I sit across from him. I wonder if checkers is played anywhere other than mental institutions.
“I have my own rules for checkers,” he says.
“Please, what does that mean?”
“The usual way is too boring. The way I play, when you get to the back row and get a king, you get to change the rules any way you want. You get to decide how all the pieces move. You can move them backwards, sideways, double, or anything you want.”
He makes me very uncomfortable. If the rules are changed, it will be stressful. “It sounds so complicated,” I say.
“Nah. Nothin’ to it. Then if the other guy gets a king, he gets to change the rules any way he wants. It goes back and forth like that; the rules are alw
ays changin’.”
“I get confused about things sometimes.”
“You need to chill out a little bit. It’s no sweat, just make a move. Any move you want.”
We play for a few minutes, then Mrs. Grant comes. It’s time for medicine, she says. I need to go to the bathroom, I have to pee so badly. I am relieved that she has come.
I have forced the last blob of grouting compound between the tiny blue and white squares of ceramic tile. The compound dries gritty on my fingers; this is the fourth candy dish I have made. I have no idea what my mother and I will do with four candy dishes, we never eat candy.
“Mrs. Meade,” I say, “correct me if I’m wrong, but I think these used to be called ashtrays.”
“That’s correct.”
“But when smoking became socially unacceptable, it seemed appropriate to change the name from ashtray to candy dish. Is that how the evolution occurred?”
“Something like that.”
“I suppose I could call two of them ashtrays and the other two candy dishes, but what if you don’t smoke cigarettes or eat candy either?”
“You’ll just have to find some other use for them.”
“It would be nice to bring Beauty and the Beast to crafts someday and spray paint the beast. Do you have gold spray paint? Of course I’m not sure my father meant it to be that way, and the paint would have to be a perfect match. I’ll tell you what: it would be nice to make an Ojo de Dios.”
“My, aren’t we talkative today,” says Mrs. Meade. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll bring some sticks and yarn tomorrow so you can make an Ojo.”
“Thank you of course, Mrs. Meade, I’ll be happy to work on one. But I have to keep in mind that eyes and voices in the sky are really delusional.”
Mrs. Higgins comes in. She tells me I have visitors.
“Please, Mrs. Higgins, I don’t understand.”
“You have two visitors in first floor lounge. I’ve come to take you down.”
“What about my raisin dish? I’ve decided to call it a raisin dish.”
I Can Hear the Mourning Dove Page 10
