Just then, Jim Ridgeley put his head in the dining room. “Hello, Kay,” he said. He surveyed the women at the several tables, who were eating their soup, and nodded to those he recognized. He looked cross and rumpled. “Have Mrs. Petersen’s lunch brought to her in her room,” he said to the nurse at Kay’s table. “I want to talk to her.” “Oh, no fair!” shouted the tow-headed girl. “Dr. Ridgeley’s my sweetie,” said a fat woman, clowning. “Why have you left me, Dr. Ridgeley?”
He hurried Kay into her room. “This is a crime,” he said. “They have no business keeping you here.” He was late because he had been arguing with the psychiatrist who had seen Kay. “What did he say?” “In a word that he couldn’t ‘take the responsibility’ for any release. He wants to pass the buck to Harald, who of course can’t be found.” “Have you tried?” “Polly’s been trying all morning. She finally sent him a telegram. If he doesn’t show up this afternoon, I’m going to send out a police call for him.” His anger surprised and pleased Kay; she had forgotten how it felt to have a champion. The last champion she had had was her Dads, back home.
“Look,” said Jim. “It’s not going to be easy to get you out of here unless Harald co-operates. If I were still on the staff, I could swing it. But I’m not, and my departure wasn’t a popular move. They’re standing on technicalities. Harald could sue them, I suppose, if they let you out and you murdered him.” He laughed. “That’s the kind of reasoning. Old Janson is a fuss-budget. They can’t get the idea that a mental home isn’t a healthy place for a girl who’s upset. They love it here themselves.” He studied Kay. “If it weren’t for that shiner of yours, I’d pass you out with me as a visitor.” Kay looked up from her lunch tray in alarm; she had a strong feeling for legality. “Polly said you were impulsive,” she remarked. He nodded. “Let’s think,” he said. “Your father’s a doctor, is that right?” “An orthopedic surgeon. But he’s in general practice too.” “Supposing I phoned him?” said Jim. “He could hop on a train tonight. They’d certainly release you to him.” “But it takes three days to get here,” objected Kay. “Anyway, I couldn’t bear it. That Dads should know. If he thought I was in a place like this …” Her tears started again. “Or if he heard about the black eye and the police …It would kill Dads. He thinks our marriage is a big success and he just worships Harald.” “From afar, I assume,” Jim remarked dryly.
“I’ve always been Dads’ favorite child,” Kay continued, wiping her eyes. “He trusts me completely. And I’ve made him believe in Harald.” Jim stood looking out the small barred window. “What exactly do you find to believe in?” he asked, not turning around. “Why, he’s a genius,” said Kay. “I mean, if you knew the theatre—” She broke off. “Doesn’t Polly think he’s a genius?” she asked anxiously. “She hasn’t said,” Jim answered. He swung around to face Kay. “You know, Kay, there’s one point on which I question your sanity.” “Harald,” she supplied in a low voice. He sighed. “I suppose you love him.”
“It sounds more interesting that way,” Kay answered candidly. “But I don’t think I do. In a way, I think I hate him.” “Well, that’s refreshing,” he said. “Of course, I hardly know him, Kay. But if you hate the guy?” “Why don’t I leave him?” One reason she never confided in anyone was the fear of having to answer this question. But perhaps a psychiatrist could help her. “I can’t explain,” she said miserably. “Do you think I could be a masochist?” He smiled. “No. Even Hopper—the psychiatrist you saw—was struck by your ‘lack of affect’ in response to your husband’s brutality.” “He believed me then!” exclaimed Kay. “That means a lot to you,” he commented sympathetically. “Were you given to lying at one time?” Kay nodded. “Awful,” she said. “But only to build myself up. Or to get something I wanted.” “But you’d never bear false witness against your neighbor.” “Oh, no!” she said, shocked. “And I’ve reformed. Ask Polly. The thing is—I might as well tell you—Harald isn’t very truthful. And I’ve had a reaction against that. Maybe it’s just a reaction against Harald.” He reflected. “Do you think your marriage could be a sort of fish story?”
Kay met his eyes. “How did you guess?” she said. “I suppose it is. Could that be why I can’t run out on it? If I did, everybody would know it was a failure. You don’t realize, Jim, I’m a sort of legend in Salt Lake City. ‘The girl who went east and made good.’” “‘Made good’?” “By marrying Harald. The theatre. It all sounds so glamorous to Mums and Dads and the girls I went to school with. You see, I wanted to be a director myself. Or an actress. But I really have no talent. That’s my tragedy.”
Jim looked at his watch. “See here, Kay. Everybody’s at lunch. I’m going to try to pass you out. Nobody knows you’re a patient except the staff on this floor. You walk down the hall with me to the elevator. If we meet a nurse, O.K.; I’ll turn you over to her. If we don’t, we can make a getaway. The elevator men are all friends of mine. You’ll have to leave your suitcase. Polly can bring it later. Where’s your coat? I’ll carry it till we get in the elevator.”
Kay’s methodical nature was jarred by the interruption of her train of thought; now that she had started, she was eager to go on discussing Harald. But Jim’s enthusiasm caught her for a moment. Polly was lucky; he was quite a knight-errant. “I can’t let you do that. Why, it might get you disqualified. They’d be furious when they found out I was gone.” “Baloney. They’ll be relieved and grateful, for a fait accompli. Besides, we can let them think I forgot to lock you in and you walked out on your own initiative.” Kay made a grimace. The thought of taking the blame for what was solely his idea did not appeal to her. To be publicly rescued was one thing, but to figure in the records as an escaped lunatic was another. “No,” she said stiffly. “I don’t want to run away. I want to leave with flying colors. With the hospital acknowledging their mistake.” “You don’t know hospitals,” said Jim. But he saw he could not persuade her. She feared she was a disappointment to him—would Polly, in her place, have agreed? Kay strongly doubted it.
He stood up, looking frustrated. He was a man, she could tell, who liked to get things done. “We’ll have you moved off this floor at least,” he said, setting his jaw. And he explained to her that the hospital worked by a system of promotion. The patients graduated from one floor to the next, going downward. The star patients, those who were pronounced “convalescent,” i.e., almost ready to leave, were on the fourth floor, which was more like a college dormitory. The windows were not barred; the patients were not locked in; they were allowed to wear their belts and wedding rings and had regular visiting hours; they could turn off their light when they wanted, and the only rule was—just like college—that they could not smoke in their rooms. As he painted this picture of privilege, Kay brightened. “Do you really think you can get me on the fourth floor?” “This, afternoon. Providing they have a bed.” “You mean I can skip the fifth? Do they let patients do that?” “Not as a usual thing. But this isn’t a usual case, is it?” Kay smiled happily; she had always wanted to skip a grade in school, she confided.
Sure enough, within a half hour, the nurse came to move her to the fourth floor. Unfortunately, the other patients were in their rooms, napping, so they could not see her go. Kay tried not to savor her triumph and to think, rather, with sympathy of those she was leaving behind, who would be months, probably, getting the double promotion she had achieved in a single day. Yet she could not help preening herself on this very point as she sauntered down the corridor. It was only the memory of the pretty girl that made her feel a little bit sad.
Her new room was very much nicer, though it too did not have a telephone and the walls were an institutional tan. Unpacking her toilet articles, Kay decided that she would not mind staying in Payne Whitney if only her sanity were established. At four o’clock she had an appointment for a general medical examination; tomorrow morning she would see a gynecologist. And it was all “on the house,” said the new nurse, who had dropped in to get acquainted. At five, Kay would have
hydrotherapy. The patients were kept pretty busy in the daytime, but in the evenings they played bridge until it was time for their hot chocolate or Ovaltine. There was a ping-pong table; twice a week they had movies, which the male patients were taken to also. The hospital had a beauty parlor, and occasionally there were dances. Frankly, said Kay, it would give her the creeps to have a male patient for a partner. The nurse agreed, but the women, she said, were a lovely group—she would hate to see them go home.
Just before supper, Harald was announced. Immediately, Kay started to tremble. “You don’t have to see him, dear, if you don’t want to,” the nurse told her. But Kay declared she was ready. She promised herself not to cry and not to accuse him, but the first words that sprang from her lips were “Where have you been?” In answer, he handed her a florist’s box, from Goldfarb’s, containing two red camellias, her favorite flower. He had not come because he had been unable to face her after what he had done. He had been walking the streets. He had seen the dawn come up on the East River, and all day he had been roaming the city, thinking about Kay.
Kay fought down her desire to believe him. The day of reckoning, she told herself, had come; she must not let herself be bought off by two camellias. “You committed me,” she said coldly. “Didn’t you?” Harald did not deny it. “But how could you? How could you?” “I know,” he said, groaning. “I know.” He could not explain what had made him do it. “I was tired,” he said. “Obviously there’d been a mistake. But there we were, and it was late. If I hadn’t signed, where would I have taken you? They had a room reserved for you here. And they told me it was just a formality. An acquiescent devil inside me wanted to believe that. Ha!” When he had left the hospital, he had stopped in a bar and then had gone home and slept for a few hours, anesthetized, but his conscience had waked him, and while it was still dark he had gone out into the streets. He had walked the whole city and twice crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Standing on a pier in the North River, he had considered shipping on a freighter as a seaman and disappearing for good, into the Canal Zone or Australia. “I knew it!” cried Kay. Then he had walked to the Bronx Zoo and studied the apes, his ancestors, in the monkey house—then back, to Wall Street, where he had watched the ticker tape. He raised his right foot to show her the hole in his shoe sole. Finally he had taken the subway to Fifty-ninth Street, stopped at Goldfarb’s, and come here. “Have you eaten?” Kay demanded. He shook his head. “Did you see the psychiatrist?” “Yes, my poor girl; I’ve made a full confession. You can leave whenever you want. Mea culpa.” He was silent for a moment. “The psychiatrist told me, Kay, that you refused to give up your wedding ring.” He took her hand and gently pressed his lips to the gold-and-silver band. “I accepted that as a sign that some day you might forgive me. Was I wrong?”
This was the most abject apology she had ever had from Harald; Kay could not believe her ears. It almost made it worthwhile to have been shut up in an institution. “Tonight?” she said. “Can I leave tonight?” “If you wish. And you’re not too tired.” Kay hesitated. She remembered that in the morning she had an appointment with a gynecologist. And she was curious to see the other patients. Now that she was here, it seemed a pity, in a way, not to stay. “I saw a catatonic schizophrenic this morning,” she announced. “I sat across from her at lunch. It was fascinating. She was completely rigid and had to be fed like a doll. And there was this pretty girl next to me who looked completely normal but they’d brought her in in a straitjacket. She liked me. They fought over which ones should sit next to me. As if I were a new girl at school.” Harald smiled. “What else did you do?” “I had hydrotherapy. And a medical exam. I talked to Polly’s husband.” She felt herself color. “He wanted me to escape. And, oh, I have to tell you about my metabolism. …”
Harald listened. There was a discreet knock on the door. “Supper in five minutes, Mrs. Petersen.” They started. “What should I do?” Kay said. A vague sense of disappointment came over her at the thought of going home; it was like having to leave a party too soon. “Would you like to stay here for the night?” said Harald. She deliberated. She did not want to hurt his feelings. “We agreed you needed a rest, you remember,” he encouraged her. “And you can’t go to work until your poor eye heals. Anyway, you’ve asked for a week’s sick leave.” “I know.” “Your Blue Cross covers psychiatric hospitals. I made a point of finding out in the office. If I were you, I’d stay here a week or two. You can have daily talks with the psychiatrist. It’s all included in the treatment. With your background in psychology, it ought to be fruitful for you. It’ll give you a tool you can use in your personnel work, to study the other women here. And you may get a line on yourself.” “But there’s nothing wrong with me,” said Kay. “I thought that was established.” Her willingness to stay in the hospital was rapidly diminishing when she heard Harald proposing it. “Jim Ridgeley said it was a crime I was here,” she said hotly. “Oh, please, Kay, no reproaches!” replied Harald. “If you can’t forgive me, simply say so and I’ll go.” Kay caught herself up; she did not wish to drive him away. “I’d stay,” she said cautiously, “if it was understood that I wasn’t a mental case like these other people. I don’t mind talking to the psychiatrist if it’s clear that I don’t really need to. I mean, of course everybody needs to, but …” She floundered. “But everybody doesn’t have Blue Cross,” supplied Harald.
Kay tested him. “If I say no, will you take me home?” “Of course.” “All right, I’ll stay,” she decided. “Then I’d better go and have supper. You’ll come tomorrow, won’t you?” Harald promised. “In any event,” he remarked, “the psychiatrist will probably be wanting me.” “Wanting you?” Kay bridled. “They like to get other points of view on the patient. Incidentally, he’d like to talk to a few of your friends. Shall I have Norine come in the morning? She can drop in to see you afterward. And who else? Helena?” Kay stared at him. “If you tell my friends,” she said, “I’ll kill you.” Hearing what she had said, she clapped her hand to her mouth. “Of course I didn’t mean that,” she gasped. “But I beg you, Harald, don’t tell Norine. Don’t let her talk to the psychiatrist. I’ll do anything you want if you keep Norine away from here.” Heavy sobs began to shake her. “Oh, don’t be childish,” Harald said impatiently. “Save it for the psychiatrist.” The brutal tone, so soon after his apology, cut her to the heart. The nurse knocked again. “Are you coming to supper, Mrs. Petersen?” “She’s coming,” Harald answered for her. “Go wash your face. Goodbye. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The door shut.
Slowly Kay pinned the camellias to her dress. She reminded herself that she was free to leave. It was her own choice that she was staying. Unlike the other patients, she had never for a minute been out of her mind. But as she advanced to the dining room, a terrible doubt possessed her. They were using psychology on her: it was not her own choice, and she was not free, and Harald was not sorry—the psychiatrist had coached him, that was all.
Fourteen
PRISS CROCKETT, WHO BROUGHT Stephen to play in Central Park every morning, was surprised one June day, when she arrived pushing the stroller and followed by Stephen, to see a familiar figure seated on a bench with a baby carriage. It was Norine Schmittlapp, wearing a smart pair of slacks and black sunglasses. The hood of the carriage was down, and on the carriage mattress, which was covered with a rubber sheet, lay a naked infant, male. Priss halted; it was “her” bench Norine was occupying. She was uncertain whether Norine would recognize her; it must be five years since they had met. Norine had changed; she had put on weight and her hair was blondined. “Hi,” said Norine, looking up briefly. “Join us. This is Ichabod.” She joggled the baby carriage. Her tinted gaze sought out Stephen, who was pulling an educational toy along the walk. “Is that yours?” Priss presented her young. “Say how do you do, Stephen, to the lady.” She did not know how to introduce Norine, who evidently had remarried. Norine shook Stephen’s hand. “Norine Rogers. Glad to know you.” On her engagement finger was a huge diamond in a
platinum setting, and the baby carriage was an English model with a monogram. “Do you come here every day?” she asked Priss.
They were neighbors, it seemed. She had just moved into a brownstone, between Park and Madison, that she and her husband had bought; Priss’s apartment was on Lexington and Seventy-second. “But you’re lucky,” said Priss enviously. “You must have a back yard. You don’t need to come to the Park.” She herself found it quite a chore, mornings, to push the stroller all the way from Lexington and get back in time to put Stephen’s baked potato in the oven for a twelve o’clock lunch. Norine said that her back yard was still full of glass bricks and cement-mixers. They were doing the house over, putting in a ramp where the stairs had been and a wall of glass bricks on the street side. Priss realized that Norine’s house must be the one the whole neighborhood was discussing; she wondered what Rogers Norine could have married. “My husband’s a Jew,” Norine threw out. “His people changed the name from Rosenberg. Do you mind Jews? I’m mad for them myself.” Before Priss could answer, she continued, talking in the rapid-fire way Priss remembered, as if she were dictating a letter. “Freddy’s whole tribe converted. When they changed their name. He’s a confirmed Episcopalian. I was hellbent to have him go back to the old Orthodox faith. With a prayer shawl and phylacteries. The real Mosaic law. The Reformed rite is just a nineteenth-century compromise. But an Orthodox Jew can’t marry a shiksah.” Priss was surprised to hear this. Norine nodded. “They frown on exogamy. Like the Papists. The Episcopalians have a taboo on divorce; Freddy’s minister wouldn’t marry a divorced woman. So we got a Lutheran pastor in Yorkville. Freddy’s parents expected to see a framed picture of Hitler in the dominie’s parlor.” She laughed. “Are you interested in religion?” Priss confessed that she was more interested in politics. “I’m burned out on politics,” said Norine. “Since Munich. My passion’s comparative religion. Society is finished if it can’t find its way back to God. The problem for people like us is to rediscover faith. It’s easy for the masses; they never lost it. But for the elite it’s another story.”
The Group Page 38
