Your friend,
Isabel
From them on, we began therapy with the letter. Every day, I read it aloud, and every day, Mrs. Dupree asked, “Do you think she loved you?”
“I guess not.”
“Do you think she loved you, Gloria? Come on.”
“It doesn’t sound like it.”
“Do you think she loved you?”
“No!”
Over and over, the same thing. I lost my sense of time, not day to day, but week to week and month to month. I could distinguish Saturday from Monday because of my daily routine, and I always looked forward to Friday socials, to dancing with Sheff, but ninety minutes, five days a week, I sat across from Mrs. Dupree, repeating the same stories, reading the same letter. I was exhausted, my brain fried.
“Do you feel sexually attracted to your mother?”
“No! God, no!”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes! Of course.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Are you sexually attracted to your mother?”
“No, I’m not.”
“But you’re not certain.”
“I am certain.” I started crying, not because of guilt, acceptance, revelation, admonition, not for any of their reasons, but because I was beat down, because everything in my life before Belmont started to sound made-up, unreal, like I was losing myself. I wanted my own bed, my front yard, my books, my father, my neighbor, even my sad mother, all the things I’d taken for granted. Freedom.
In December, I received a care package: chocolate bars, chewing gum, and two issues of Photoplay. It was the “Guys, Girls, and Guns” issue. Sean Connery was on the cover promoting his new film, Thunderball. I read the magazine cover to cover, and slipped it under my pillow. The second issue featured Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. I savored each word.
Every Friday, I clung to Sheff as we danced across the ballroom floor. “Don’t let them get to you,” he said.
“I’m trying.” I held fast to his shirt collar, occasionally glancing down at the glossy tiles, the little squares that made up the country scene. I understood how an outsider would perceive Belmont as a fine, respectable place, and who would tell them otherwise? Parents weren’t permitted within the institution except on guided tours where they were shown what they wanted to see: well-dressed, seemingly well-adjusted youths.
It was mid-December. I had hoped to be home for Christmas, but it didn’t seem like that was going to happen. I worried that Sheff would be released before me, and he had the same worries. Neither of us wanted to be left behind. “Maybe we’ll get out on the same day,” I told him.
“Wouldn’t that be something.”
“I bet stranger things have happened.”
“Undoubtedly.” He smiled.
I pressed my chin to his collarbone.
He said, “If I went with girls, I’d be with you forever.”
“Same here, except with guys, I mean.”
The more Belmont tore me down, dismantling everything I knew about myself, the more determined I was to hold on to the young girl who’d loved Amelia, to the young woman who’d loved Isabel. Maybe I was a sexual pervert by Belmont’s standards, but my feelings had been legitimate, and I recognized very clearly that Mrs. Dupree was trying to turn me into someone I wasn’t. I told Sheff, “I would rather hang myself than spend another ninety minutes with that woman, except that they won’t let me have anything with which to hang myself.”
He half laughed, but then his voice turned serious. “It gets to you. I know. It gets to me, but the good news is that you got a package. They don’t give just anybody packages and letters. It’s a sign that they think you’re making real progress.”
From the turntable speakers, Frank Sinatra crooned “Fly Me to the Moon.” Sheff spun me, then pulled me in close. “You’ll get out soon. I know it. Me … I’m never getting the fuck out of here.”
“Yes, you are,” I said. “They can’t keep you here forever.”
“Pop has a lot of money. He can keep me here until I’m eighteen.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, wouldn’t he? He fucking hates me.”
We were both quiet. It was a gray December, outside and inside Belmont. Sheff said, “I have good news.”
“What is it?”
“David went home.”
“Which one’s he?”
“He had the short pants, like knickers.”
“Oh yeah. He seemed nice.”
“He did that aversion therapy.”
“How did it go?”
“I don’t know. No one saw him.”
“Anything that comes with a guarantee sounds like the equivalent of a lobotomy.”
“You made a rhyme.” Sheff took hold of some of my hair. It had grown a lot since I’d arrived at Belmont. “When I get out of here,” he said, “I’m disappearing, going to the city to find my Sal Mineo, and I’m never coming back. All we have to do is hang in there.”
“We can do it.”
“Of course we can. Look around. Look at this motley crew, a bunch of gender-confused misfits. We should riot or something.”
“Riot,” I repeated. He slipped his hand up the back of my neck, under my curls.
“Smash windows.” His breath was warm and smelled of fruit punch.
“Smash windows,” I repeated.
“I’m tougher than I look, Gloria.”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me. I’m tough too.”
“And I need to get my dick sucked.”
“Oh, you had to go and ruin it, didn’t you?”
His eyes teared up. “I’m good at ruining things.”
“Stop. I’m teasing.” The song ended. We walked hand in hand toward the chairs. I was looking at the floor tiles, a carriage, a pink satin shoe, a horse hoof, when he said, “I’m confident of one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“We’re the best-looking people in here. We should get married just to have the most beautiful children in the world.”
“We absolutely should.”
Sheff squeezed my hand. “I love you, Gloria Ricci.”
“I love you too.” When I grew up, I’d marry Sheffield Schoeffler, and I wouldn’t even care if he went around getting his dick sucked.
He said, “Don’t cry too much. You don’t want frown wrinkles. My mother has them, and they’re horrendous. She goes to a fancy spa and gets her face burned to get rid of them.” He contorted his face.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You know what we’ll do …” He let go of my hand and made a fist, shooting his long white arm toward the ceiling, toward the shimmering light that seemed to fall like snow through his watery blue eyes. “We’ll live! We’ll live wilder than Dr. Belmont and Mrs. Dupree can fathom. I’ll write to you, and you’ll meet me in Chelsea. We’ll go to all the clubs that Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg go to. We’ll sleep in the same room where Dylan Thomas slept. We’ll burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles.” Then, he whispered, “And I’ll fuck Sal Mineo.”
Sheff was full of hope. He leaned in and kissed me right smack on the lips. Pulling back, he said, “I have to be amorous of girls if I’m ever going to shake this place from my heels.”
I was his girl. He was my guy.
He said, “It’s no good being alive if you don’t get to live.”
I couldn’t have agreed more.
8
ON CHRISTMAS EVE, I WAS called to Mrs. Winningham’s desk. She said, “Your father’s on the telephone.”
I took the black receiver in hand. “Dad?” I wanted him to hear the desperation in my voice. “Can I come home now?”
“Are they feeding you?”
“I’m ready to come home.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m much better.” I pulled the black cord tight around my pointer finger.
“How’s the food?”
“I’m ready to come home.”
/> “Dr. Belmont said that you made a friend. Is he nice?”
“He’s great. Can I come home?”
“Are you eating?”
“Yes, I’m eating.”
“We miss you.”
“I want to come home. I don’t want to be here anymore. Why haven’t you written? Why haven’t you been to visit?”
“We’ve tried, Glo, but the doctor said it was detrimental to your progress, and you’d end up staying longer, and we signed a contract when you were admitted.” He sighed. “We shouldn’t have signed that contract.”
“I want to come home.” I paused. “Please come get me. Please. I can’t stay here any longer. Please help me.”
Mrs. Winningham tapped her wristwatch to indicate that my time was up. Then, she said, “You’re being terribly dramatic, Miss Ricci.”
“Dad, they’re making me get off the phone. Someone said that tomorrow is Christmas. Can’t you come see me for Christmas? I’m going to miss midnight Mass. Please let me come home. Please come get me.” I started to bawl.
“Oh, honey.” His voice broke. “We love you.”
Mrs. Winningham wrangled the phone from my grasp before I got to say, “I love you too,” but I yelled it as Mrs. Winningham spoke into the receiver, “Dr. Belmont will return your call within the hour, Mr. Ricci.”
For the next two weeks, I told Mrs. Dupree everything she wanted to hear: I wanted to grow up and get married—be like everybody else; I was a reformed sinner, a reformed instrument of Satan. I could’ve won an Oscar. We collaborated, writing a plan of action for my eventual release. I would participate in extracurricular activities at St. Catherine’s. Specifically, I would join the pep squad. I would attend school dances and sporting events, spend time with my peers. If and when an impure thought came to me, I would pray. I would confess, but most important, if the thoughts persisted, I would contact the institute.
“Do you want to be successful?” Mrs. Dupree asked.
“Of course.” I was committed to my betterment. I even agreed to write a testimonial for the institute about their program’s effectiveness. Then on January 5, 1966, four-plus months after walking through Belmont’s doors, Miss Rondell came to my room and said, “Pack your things. You’re going home.” I had little to pack. I hurried, standing at attention, tapping my foot. I couldn’t believe it. Finally. Miss Rondell escorted me upstairs to Mrs. Dupree’s office, where she stood with her back to me, a gentle rain falling outside the eight-paned window. “Your parents are on their way,” she said.
“I need to say good-bye to Sheff.”
“I’ll tell him that you said good-bye.”
“We promised to say good-bye if either of us was getting out.”
“I didn’t make any such promise.” She turned to face me. “Did I?”
“No, ma’am.” Then, I saw my copy of The Catcher in the Rye, my notebooks, and my letter from Isabel stacked on the chair where I’d sat ninety minutes a day, five days a week, for one hundred twenty days.
“You can take your things. Or you can leave them.”
I approached the window. Only after I saw my parents’ car coming up the drive did I say, “I’ll take them.” I unzipped my suitcase, stowing them inside.
Mrs. Dupree watched. “Don’t forget what you’ve learned.”
I didn’t respond. I could think of nothing but getting out of Belmont. I hated Mrs. Dupree: her voice, her hands, her burns, her timer. I hated her for making me say things I didn’t believe.
“It’s time,” she said, and this time, I was the one in the lead, down the stairs, first in the elevator, first through the door. Outside, the rain blew in sheets, drumming the awning. It’d been fall when I’d arrived, and now it was the middle of winter. Dr. Belmont was already outside talking to my parents. As soon as I crossed the threshold, my mother ran to me, her arms extended, her tears warm on my neck. “I missed you so much,” she said, and any resentment that I’d felt toward her washed away beneath the awning of the Belmont Institute. After what I’d experienced, I could hold no grudge against the sadness she’d felt. If nothing else, I was more empathetic to my mother’s pain.
My father took hold of my suitcase and hugged me.
Mother said, “Your father was so upset after he talked to you on Christmas Eve. We wanted to come get you right then, but Dr. Belmont said that you were making great progress.” Her voice dropped. “And there was the contract.” In spite of myself, tears rolled down my cheeks.
“I just want to go home.” I pulled the car door open and slipped inside. My father put my suitcase in the trunk. I watched Dr. Belmont in his silver spectacles shake my father’s good hand.
Inside the car, my mother said, “Sister Bernadette is excited that you’ll be returning to St. Catherine’s for the spring.”
“I’m looking forward to going back to school.” I held my breath. Let’s go already.
Mrs. Dupree and Dr. Belmont waved good-bye. I looked down at my lap. As soon as we passed through the wrought iron gates, exhaustion took over. I dreamed that Dr. Belmont and Mrs. Dupree sat side by side, their knees touching, in my window seat. They’d never let me go. I woke as we pulled into the driveway. The rain had been replaced by a white fog.
Walking toward the house, Father was talking about someone I didn’t know, some man from the phone company. My father had returned to work, part-time for now. He’d regained partial use of his left pointer finger. I smiled. I was genuinely glad to be home, but I couldn’t help thinking of Sheff. While I had my freedom, he would be enduring afternoon prayers.
At six o’clock, we had Swanson TV dinners and watched the evening news with Walter Cronkite. During the first commercial, Father said, “I need to tell you again, Gloria, that I’m sorry I didn’t come get you.”
My mother concurred. “We promised to follow Dr. Belmont’s recommendations.”
I wasn’t mad at them. I was simply determined to live my life on my own terms. As soon as I heard from Sheff, I’d meet him in Chelsea. I’d wasted enough time.
9
I JOINED THE PEP SQUAD. We wore blue shorts and white blouses with little blue ties. I had two pompoms, blue and white, and cheered “Rah rah rah,” at the girls’ basketball games. There was even a picture of me in the 1966 yearbook. Since I’d been home, I’d been making good grades and going to confession. The sisters thought that secretarial school might be a good avenue for me. I could learn to take dictation and work for a doctor or lawyer until I met a nice young man and settled down.
I’d been home a little over a month when I entered my room to find my mother sitting on my bed, the Bishop book in her hands. She held it up as I set my book bag down. “You still have this.” She patted the bed for me to come sit. “Do you remember when I used to read from it?”
I showed her how I’d dog-eared the page with the fish poem.
“That’s one of my favorites,” she said.
“I know. Me too.” I started to recite it. She put her arm around me and joined in. “ ‘I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook fast in a corner of his mouth. He didn’t fight. He hadn’t fought at all.’ ” We looked at each other and smiled, our voices like music. “ ‘Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper, and its pattern of darker brown was like wallpaper …’ ”
After we’d recited the whole poem, she said, “How do you know it?”
“I started memorizing it when I was seven.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“I’ve been a terrible mother.”
“I’m sure there are worse.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m going to do better.” She patted my knee. “I’m glad you kept the Bishop.”
That evening, I helped with dinner. My mother asked if I wanted to go to the movies after Mass on Sunday.
“Sure.”
With that oily rainbow between us, my mother took it upon herself to slow
ly strip away her own ancient wallpaper, finding a middle-aged woman eager to live. While I waited to hear from Sheff, my mother and I started getting to know each other again. In early April, we went to Moores Pond. We trekked down one of the trails, the sunlight trickling through the oaks and pines. She said, “Do you still have feelings for Isabel Sullivan?”
We never discussed Isabel. “No. No feelings.” Then, I paused. “Maybe anger. I thought she was in love with me. She wasn’t.”
My mother kicked a rock on the path. “A long time ago, when I knew that college boy, the one who went to Columbia, I knew a couple of girls who were that way, the way you were …”
“Lesbians?”
She nodded. “They were nice girls.”
“Even though they were gay?”
“Of course.”
“I might still be that way.” I held my breath.
She took hold of my hand. “We shouldn’t have sent you to that place, Gloria. I just thought that if they could make you like everybody else, you’d be happier.”
As we emerged from the woods, the sunlight glinted on the pond. I let go of her hand and rubbed my eyes.
“Everybody who’s that way has a hard time,” she said.
I swallowed hard. “I am that way.”
“I love you whatever way you are. When I knew the college boy, we went to this bar where everyone was that way.”
“You?!” I couldn’t believe it.
“I know.” She sort of laughed and scratched her nose. “He was a wild one.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I guess that what I’m trying to say is that all your father and I want is for you to be happy.”
I finished out the school year waiting to hear from Sheff. The summer came fast, and with it came my mother’s annual Fourth of July party, a tradition she had kept even after the twins died. That first awful year, everyone had whispered that she seemed really good, but my father and I knew the truth. Like so many people, she was good at pretending things were all right when they weren’t.
Lost in the Beehive Page 4
