Endless Love

by Scott Spencer

  I stood up. Even the slight motion made the room race. I faced my parents; my father sat very still, absolutely erect; my mother was tapping her foot and glancing at it. I wanted to throw myself before them, to create a miraculous moment of family and comfort. I felt very weak and very ugly.

  “Help me,” I said, bowing my head. I felt my knees going weak and I wanted to fall, but I wouldn’t.

  “Help you?” said Rose. “I don’t understand, David. I just don’t get it. What can I do?” She looked at Arthur, her eyes at once frightened and annoyed.

  “What’s past is past,” Arthur said, in a murmur. “There’s no turning back. Forgive me for this, David, but I only hope she’s happy.”

  “What can I do to help you?” Rose said. “I ask you. I’ve never known. Just tell me. You ask me for help and I don’t know what to do. You’re talking about red pants from twelve years ago, you’re white as a sheet, and I don’t know what to do for you anymore, if I ever did, to be perfectly honest.”

  I was sorry I’d said it. I drew myself up and tried to look masterly. It cleared my mind to take a long, deep breath. I walked to the window. I saw a boy named Howard Kerr, dressed in his unvarying black, walking with his parents toward their car in the visitors’ parking lot. The Kerrs walked with their arms around each other while Howard walked in front, his head down, jacketless and hugging himself, his long hair dancing.

  “It is for the best,” I said. I watched the Kerrs getting into their LTD. Howard brushed the snow off their windshield with his forearm. “I mean it’s a relief. Otherwise, there’d probably always be a question. I feel a weight being lifted off of me, I already feel it.” I listened to my parents breathing behind me; my legs were aching from the tightness of my muscles. Mr. Kerr rolled his window down and Howard stepped back, bent at the knee to speak. The exhaust from the car darkened the snow to pale ash. Mrs. Kerr’s long red fingernails appeared at the open window, waving goodbye. The car pulled away and Howard stood and watched as the taillights disappeared into the haze of the storm.

  “You’d better be going,” I said to my parents. It was dark enough outside to see their reflections in the window, propped up in their chairs like two oddly angled playing cards. “People are already leaving and you’ve got a long drive. In this snow. It’s not letting up, you know.” I saw Arthur beginning to stir; his hands went onto the arms of his chair and he took a deep breath; soon, he’d be at my side, his arms around me. I turned quickly, stopping him. “The best thing, the best possible thing, for right now I mean, it’s kind of strange right now, a little hard to adjust to, so I think you should both leave.”

  “We could talk, David,” said Arthur.

  I nodded. “I know. But I’ve been talking for about five years and it hasn’t…I’m a little talked out, is what I mean. Maybe we can talk some other time.”

  Rose and Arthur left with very little additional protest. I stood at the window and watched them walk to the parking lot; they didn’t touch but they seemed to be talking. As he opened the car door, Arthur turned around and waved in the general direction of my window, but I stepped back, plastered myself to the wall, as if avoiding gunfire. I sat in one of the armchairs, wondering with an empty, obsessive repetitiveness if there was any significance in the fact that I’d chosen to sit in Rose’s chair and not Arthur’s. The volume of the radio someone was playing seemed to have increased and the sound of it climbed up my spine like a monkey.

  I stood up, my fists clenched, and I strode out into the corridors. The doors to some of the rooms were open. Families visiting. It was important to remember the whole world wasn’t in a hospital, didn’t meet in tiny rooms with single beds, on Sunday. Finally, I found the radio, on the floor above my own. It was in Bruno Tesi’s room. He held it on his lap, a huge portable with the antennae completely extended and quivering. Bruno was with his older brother, who sat in a trenchcoat with his long legs crossed, smoking a brown cigarette. Bruno, soft and unformed, with skin like flan, smiled when I came into the room. A Steve Miller record was on, monotonous and snide. Bruno turned the volume down because even he knew I’d have to shout to be heard over it. I said in a voice only loud enough to be heard: “If you don’t turn that thing down and keep it soft I’m going to cause you excruciating pain and then I’m going to kill you.”

  It was a grave error threatening Bruno. Both he and his brother reported it and my actions came under closer scrutiny. My favored position at Rockville withdrew just as effortlessly as it had appeared, backing out of circumstance’s door, hat in hand.

  It was just as well, I felt. My will was largely gone and I felt myself sinking into the marsh of my worst self. I had one last rational thought before letting it all slip out of my hands: perhaps Jade had moved to Paris to increase my chances of release.

  The loosely guarded secret of Rockville was that the staff tolerated sexual contact between the patients. It was usually discreet, so much so that in all my years inside I knew only of two or three instances when two people were known as a couple. During my first stay, Dr. Clark told me that if I ever had a romantic encounter with a patient the important thing was that I should not be ashamed of it, that I would speak to him of it, “share it.” This was the Rockville strategy on sex: rather than control it, they wanted to make it a part of the general rehabilitative atmosphere. We were all of us there, after all, to help one another, and this meant genuine human contact—and how could there be genuine human contact with sexuality strictly off- limits?

  In April, a couple months after learning of Jade’s marriage, I made friends with a sixteen-year-old patient named Rochelle Davis. Rochelle was quite beautiful in a sultry, unwholesome way. She wore prune-colored lipstick and nail polish, black clothes, smoked Camels incessantly, and presented herself as an authority on suicide. She had categories of suicide: revenge suicide, accidental suicide, instructional suicide, and others that made even less immediate sense, such as lavender suicide, cheesy suicide, and astral suicide. She had no friends, neither inside the hospital nor out. In the world she was too aggressively strange, and in Rockville most felt too vulnerable to risk friendship with someone so fascinated by self-termination. Rochelle—gaunt, green-eyed, her chestnut hair combed Elvis style—gave no evidence of caring what people thought of her, but she did seem very keen on knowing me. It was obvious that my increasingly unstable social position in the hospital was a large part of Rochelle’s interest in me, but it wasn’t that simple, as it never is.

  The first time we made love was in the bathroom on the first floor reserved for nurses. It was a strange, fussy little room, with pink walls, dull tile floor, an armchair, and a dressing table holding Johnson’s Baby Powder, dental floss, Arrid deodorant spray, and a spray cologne called “Sunday.” We made love in the armchair, three or four times over—not out of an ever- increasing passion but because each time it was clumsy and the satisfaction we gained only irritated our huge store of static lust. At first, we didn’t have the boldness to take our clothes off—as if it might somehow be better to be discovered with pants down to the knees rather than naked altogether. We made love with Rochelle on my lap, her bony, bluish feet pressed on the back of the chair, her head dangling between my open legs, her navy blue underwear quivering like a trampoline between her thighs as she shook her constricted legs with nervous, discomforted passion. Then we helped each other come with our mouths and then we made love on the cold floor—naked now, but it was too late: we were already growing incurious and it was clear that the yearning we attempted to serve would remain immune to our efforts.

  Nevertheless, I became obsessive about her. That night, I lay in bed and when my cock lifted at the thought of her I followed its ascent and was in her room moments later: Nurse Seroppian was asleep at her post, her enormous purple eyelids shuddering, and she was known for the dependability of her nightly doze. I spent the night in Rochelle’s bed and entered her once after she’d fallen asleep. She woke for a moment, didn’t seem to mind, and slipped back into
sleep. It went on that way for weeks; we made love like people beating their heads against a wall. It sometimes amazed me she was only sixteen and so bereft of romantic illusion, but mostly I didn’t care. I didn’t discuss this liaison with Dr. Clark—I knew it would give him trouble—but I did slowly gain a secret sexual reputation: for endurance, if nothing else, or just plain availability.

  Before long I took a second lover, a girl from Chicago named Pat Eliot, who had curly yellow hair, cupid’s-bow lips, prodigious breasts, and who pronounced her first name in two syllables. Pat was in her early twenties, an actress. She was actually a success in the world: she’d appeared at the Goodman Theater in many plays and had had a good role in a Hollywood movie, though it hadn’t been released. She was a wonderful lover, tender and powerful, without a trace of athleticism. Her breasts fascinated me but they were so huge they also made me shy, which pleased her because I would guess people had made too much of an issue about them. And so I had two lovers, and then a woman named Stephanie was admitted to Rockville.

  Stephanie was just twenty and already a graduate student at the University of Chicago. She had brutal nightmares and wandered about in her sleep. I didn’t know her last name. But I was fixated on the idea of making love to her, and as soon as I had an opportunity to approach her, I did. She had no interest in making love with me and not much interest in knowing me. But I pursued the matter with increasing single-mindedness. Like any losing gambler, I could think of nothing else. I stared at her, followed her, dreamed of her, thought of her when I was with Rochelle and Pat, wrote notes to her, and finally lured her to my room, where I threw myself at her with odious abandon. She ran from my room, not exactly screaming, but saying “Christ sakes” in a loud, excited voice, and within the hour I was taken down to Dr. Clark’s sunny little office, where he waited for me behind his desk, drumming his fingers on its polished surface, empty except for a folder that turned out to be my records.

  We talked for a long while; I told him I was “sexually active,” and he said that he knew I was. He told me that nothing unfortunate was likely to come of my friendship with Pat, but with Rochelle I was involving myself with a “girl of mysterious pathos,” and that with Stephanie I was simply behaving like a jerk and a bully. The peculiar thing was that the reprimand didn’t end in a warning; my actions were not directly proscribed.

  I continued to pursue Stephanie despite my failure to interest her and despite Clark’s words with me. I cannot even remember what attracted me to her or what I wanted: I analyzed the attraction as sheerly magnetic and I gladly surrendered all memory and forethought to an urge that really wasn’t quite so blind as I would have liked. I felt myself capable of any low behavior. I imagined forcing myself on Stephanie, grabbing her from behind, sneaking into her bed at night. I took these empty, frustrated thoughts as signs of vitality, and so I welcomed them even as they destroyed me from within. The real point, of course, was not to think of Jade, and in this all illness served its purpose: if it had not been erotomania it could just as well have been hysterical paralysis. Finally, one day I convinced Stephanie to come to my room; I think my persistence was beginning to work on her, added to the emptiness and loss of self that was growing inside her as her stay at Rockville became longer and more routine. I had gotten her into a conversation about Nobel Prize winners and we were going to check in my almanac how many Americans had won the prize for literature. Rochelle saw us leave and a few minutes later she went to her room and uncovered the cache of Librium she’d been hoarding over the past couple months and attempted to commit what she might categorize as a revenge suicide.

  Rochelle was saved without much difficulty, but the day after—with the entire hospital in a nervous hush—Dr. Clark told me that he was recommending that I be “released” from Rockville. I knew that it was only bad news, but I asked if this meant he was recommending me for outpatient treatment, if I was going to be allowed to return to Chicago.

  “You know very well what it means and what it doesn’t. I’m a little surprised, even as your doctor, that you’d use this as an occasion…Well, never mind. The answer is no. The decision is limited to one consideration: we don’t feel that we can treat you with any great hope for success. At this point, your presence is disturbing the overall therapeutic community. I’m afraid your treatment is going to have to continue in a setting in which community is not as important. And who knows? It might be the change you need.”

  Right…

  My grandfather Jack wasn’t paying part of my hospital charges any longer; my breaking parole and Arthur’s affair with a black woman launched Grandfather away from us and our interminable problems. My parents had been able to negotiate a slightly lower rate with Rockville, but it was still a lot more than they could afford. When it was decided that I could no longer stay in that permissive Wyon hospital, a cursory search was begun to find another comparable institution in the state of Illinois, but nothing suitable seemed to present itself—and the truth was that my parents couldn’t afford to pay for private treatment any longer. At the recommendation of the court, my psychiatric files, my body, and my fate, were transferred to a state-run hospital called Fox Run, in Highland Park, a Chicago suburb. Breaking it to me—the details, that is—Arthur tried to be encouraging. “I think this is just the kind of place the court wants you to stay in before you get your release. The trouble with a place like Rockville is it’s got a reputation, and the thinking is if you’re spending your time here you’re not getting helped and you’re not getting punished.”

  “Then why’d you put me here?” I asked.

  “It’s what you wanted,” said Arthur. “You said it was.”

  “And now you’re putting me in Fox Run? I’ve heard about Fox Run, you know. There’s been people here who’ve spent time there. It’s a goddamned hole is what it is. Oh God, can’t you feel what’s happening? I’m getting lost in the shuffle. Fox Run is the kind of place you disappear in. You get beaten to death, or drugged to death, or forgotten. Fine. OK. I’m not going to care, not another word. I just want to suggest that you both take a good look at me. If you think I’m bad now, next time you see me you’re not going to recognize me at all. I swear, it’s the end of me.”

  On July 1, 1976, Eddie Watanabe and a rabbinical-looking staff worker from Fox Run took me by Ford to my new quarters in Highland Park. As a parting favor, Dr. Clark had given me a whopping dose of Stelazine and the bright neon anxiety I’d been feeling was now encapsulated in a soft, faintly transparent gel. I was bleary, silent; I sat in the back seat with my valise and a paper bag, watching the cornfields turn to suburbs, the sky turn from the blue of robins’ eggs to the blue of faded denim, to the barely decipherable blue of smoke. Eddie and the fellow from Fox Run talked about the mayor and the governor and the federal budget and then about things they’d believed when they were younger. Finally, Watanabe said, with weary pride, that they were both “survivors of the sixties,” and the fellow from Fox Run nodded in agreement.

  The joke at Fox Run was that we, the patients, were the foxes and the staff was the hounds. They tried to get us to identify with them by continually informing us of the neighborhood’s attempts to have the hospital shut down; every third day, it seemed, part of the staff would be off somewhere fighting for the life of the institution, testifying before a citizens’ group or a state committee, defending Fox Run from the charges, the thousands of charges made against it. We inmates ranged in age from eighteen to ninety-three; many of us were without family; a large number were without rememberable pasts. We were Oriental, Appalachian, East European, Mexican, black, and most of us would be spending the rest of our lives in this hospital, or in another.

  One of the principal complaints of the people who lived around Fox Run was that security was so patchy that patients, supposedly at will, would leave the hospital and wander through the community, peering into windows, shitting in bushes, staring mournfully at the children in shorts and halters. As soon as I learned this, I resolved to
escape and soon I had an opportunity. I was mopping the floors in a ward when I heard a supervisor tell an orderly that a fire exit door was jammed and had to be repaired because it could neither open properly nor close. I slyly patrolled the corridors, looking for the defective door. I found it in short order and stood before it, breathing heavily and adjusting to the idea of freedom—of the bright, vast world that stretched out beyond that door.

  I waited until the corridor was quiet; I could actually see the light coming through the door, an iridescent strand, EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY was stenciled in red across the door. This is an emergency, I thought to myself, as I pressed on the long lever and pushed. The door wedged open, swinging uncertainly on its broken hinge; the world leapt into view. Then just as suddenly I was grabbed from behind and dragged to a small room that was rumored to exist solely for the corporal punishment of patients and in which I was slapped, shaken, bounced around, and pummeled until I lost consciousness. The supervisor and two orderlies who caught and beat me never reported my attempted escape and I, in turn, never reported them. No one asked me about the cuts, lumps, and bruises that covered my body. It was a month before the pain disappeared and even longer before the limp and the headaches receded. Being beaten like that is so extraordinary, there’s no point in describing it. Those who haven’t been punished like that will never know how it feels, even if a genius describes it, and those who have, know it all too well.

  In October, on a Sunday, Ann came to Fox Run. An orderly found me in the men’s fifth-floor television room watching the Bears play the Oakland Raiders. “Visitor,” he said, tapping me viciously on the shoulder with his index finger. I’d been feeling woozy that week. I asked if it was my parents—surprised, because I remembered our huge fight the week before and my asking them not to come to see me for a while. “No, it’s an aunt.” He showed me the white slip in his hand. Date, time, patient’s name. Visitor’s name: Ann Axelrod. Relation: Aunt.