Loochie didn’t know what to do just then so she just got up. Her mother didn’t believe her.
Slowly, Loochie’s mother shuffled back into the bedroom. As she did she looked over her shoulder at Loochie one more time. A look of confusion, pure bafflement, was there.
Loochie turned to the kitchen window. She was about to close it, but before she did she leaned her head out. Her mother’s doubt seemed to infect her. Could she really have made it all up? She looked to the sixth floor, just in time to see a long, narrow hand reach out from the apartment. Loochie knew that hand. It was Alice’s.
“I hope you like it,” Loochie whispered.
In another year, at the age of thirteen, Lucretia Gardner would be diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Over the rest of her adolescence she would see many different doctors and be admitted to a number of different mental hospitals in Queens. In the first year of her illness Loochie’s mother would tell the admitting staff about the time Loochie claimed to have battled monsters inside a park inside apartment 6D. To her mother, and the doctors, this counted as a clear manifestation of mental illness, an amped-up delusion, the trick of a troubled mind. Loochie learned to stop arguing otherwise. Folks like that could never be convinced. Sunny’s death was no delusion, though. Neither was Loochie’s grief, which lasted a year. The doctors and her mother, and later even her brother, dismissed Loochie’s story, but she never doubted that it was true. Louis had turned out to be right about one thing, however: Being young didn’t protect anyone. Horrors came for kids, too. She understood that now. But that didn’t have to be the end of the story. Because of Sunny, so much joy had come for her as well.
After Loochie saw Alice take the cake, she closed her kitchen window. She shut the security gate. She went to her room just as her mother had told her to do. She lay down in bed. Sunny’s blue cap was tucked under her pillow. Keeping it close comforted Loochie. That night she slept the good sleep. In her dreams there were no monsters, only friends.
Read on for an excerpt from Victor LaValle’s
The Devil in Silver
BOOK GROUP ENDED with a silent march. The patients left the conference room quietly. Sam and Sammy went together. The others, one by one. Only Pepper remained at the table. Dr. Barger and Josephine waited for him to leave so they could lock the door behind him.
What had Pepper been expecting? To declare he’d been trapped here through deceit and have the others, who’d been trapped even longer, gnash their teeth and weep for him? To confess he’d seen a monster and have everyone melt and hold him close? Maybe so. But that’s not what he’d gotten. He’d admitted to being frightened. The reaction of his peers? They wanted lunch.
Pepper finally left the room.
Josephine moved behind him, keeping the Bookmobile between them.
Dr. Barger locked the door.
Lunchtime.
When Pepper reached the nurses’ station, he found half the patients in an orderly line. Scotch Tape stood inside the station, holding a clipboard. He caught Pepper’s eye.
“No more room service for you, my man. Before every meal, you come here first to get your meds, like everyone else.”
Pepper didn’t see any point in refusing. He went to the back of the line. Where Loochie and Coffee and Dorry and Sammy and Sam were. They didn’t speak to him. They didn’t even look at him. Had he said something wrong in there?
Miss Chris was beside Scotch Tape, holding a tray of small white cups. As each patient stepped up to the desktop, Scotch Tape read off a series of medicines: Risperdal. Topomax. Depakote. Celexa. Luvox. Nardil. Dalmane. Haldol. Lithium. (Just to name about a third of Scotch Tape’s list.) Miss Chris checked the cup to be sure the right pills were in each. Then she handed the cup to the patient and both staff members carefully watched each one swallow.
That was the system. Meds at breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Pepper swallowed his Haldol and lithium. He was strangely grateful for the pills. They shaved down the sharp edges of his emotions. Until he felt smooth and round. Easier to roll along, no matter the bumps and curves. He walked down Northwest 5, toward the television lounge, alone. No doubt he’d lost his job with Farooz Brothers by now. Those guys would fire someone if he missed more than two days. Forget about four weeks. But Pepper just kept rolling.
His rent was paid automatically from his checking account. A system that his landlord (an agency rather than a person) had demanded of all tenants back in 2009 when layoffs first began in big numbers. Electricity, gas, even the cable was probably still working. His life had been disrupted, but not his billing cycles. His cell phone was paid automatically, too. Which meant he might still have service. Where had they put his phone? In a baggie with his boot laces and belt. (That baggie then went into a cubby, like in kindergarten, kept with all the others in a locked room on Northwest 1.) How long could he keep current on his bills? How long would his life outside wait for him? He had about four thousand dollars in his checking account. Which would last longer—his savings or his captivity? Keep rolling.
He reached the television lounge and the orderly handed him a lunch tray. The gray tray, with its little segmented sections, reminded Pepper of the ones they used to hand out in grade school.
Pepper moved to an empty table, as far away from the television as possible. The flat screen showed the local news. There was a remote control for the TV, an old man held it like a scepter. He lifted it high and increased the volume so he could hear over the chatter of the growing lunch crowd.
The orderly said, “Not too loud, Mr. Mack.”
The old man turned and glowered at the orderly, a kid. “It’s my half hour to control the remote,” he said. “That includes the volume.”
Mr. Mack looked to his best friend, who sat beside him. “Is this youngblood giving me orders?”
His friend shrugged noncommittally.
Both men wore threadbare sport coats. Under these were their patient-issue blue pajamas; theirs were bright and stain-free. Both had on worn-down loafers, too. They looked sharp, especially in here. Compared with everyone else, they looked like Duke Ellington and Cab Calloway.
The orderly raised his voice now. “You’ve got to think of everyone in the room.”
“Fuck everyone in the room,” Mr. Mack muttered.
“Language!”
Mr. Mack put up a hand in a gesture of peace. “I mean I’m trying to help these people learn about current events.” Mr. Mack looked back at the orderly. “And Frank Waverly doesn’t think I need to listen to you anyway.”
The orderly said, “Frank Waverly is no fool. It’s you who’s being defiant.”
Mr. Mack grinned at this as if he’d just been complimented. He raised the remote again and lowered the volume. But just one bar.
Pepper, meanwhile, had settled himself at his table, ignoring the skirmish. Instead of the staff and patient, he watched the sunlight as it lit up the half-court outside the lounge.
He didn’t notice he had company until they sat.
Loochie, Coffee, and Dorry.
At the other end of the lounge, Mr. Mack’s hand rose again, the remote aimed at the screen, and the little green volume bars appeared again. The sound went up.
“Mr. Mack!” the orderly shouted.
Dorry reached over and put her hand on top of Pepper’s.
“So,” she said, when he looked at her.
She leaned toward him without smiling. She squinted, as if trying to see deeper inside. Loochie spoke next, though.
“It’s been around long before any of us. I mean any human beings. They found it living here and built Northwest just to hold it. You understand? Northwest is a cage.”
Coffee leaned forward to add, “But every living thing needs to eat, Pepper. You can keep something in a cage, but then you have to feed it. Now look at us here. The food makes us fat. The drugs make us slow. We’re cattle. Food. For it. And best of all, for New Hyde, no one notices when people like us end up dead.”
Behin
d the group, a new skirmish unfolded. Mr. Mack’s half hour of television privileges had passed. This was as much of a rule on the unit as the medication schedule. The only way to keep so many different patients occupied. It was Sammy’s turn to hold the remote. But Mr. Mack wouldn’t let it go. He and Sammy were now tugging at either end of it like it was the key to New Hyde’s front door.
The orderly intervened. “Your time is up, Mr. Mack.”
“I got one minute left! I got one minute!”
“You got milk breath!” Sammy yelled back at him. “And your teeth are yellow!”
Behind Sammy, Sam added, “And those are his good qualities!”
Frank Waverly, Mr. Mack’s friend, nodded at this. Even though Mr. Mack was his best friend, he couldn’t disagree with Sam’s point.
Now the orderly clomped over to the tables to break up their nonsense.
Dorry, Loochie, and Coffee paid this chaos no mind. They were on another plane. Dorry leaned in to speak, snatching that wretched cookie off Pepper’s tray and dropping it into her lap before opening her mouth. “I’m going to tell you the truth about what you saw last night.” She glared at the others. “Not stories.”
She stole the cookies off Coffee’s tray, then Loochie’s with surprising quickness and dropped them into her lap.
“I’ve been here longer than Coffee and Loochie combined. I have the distinction of being the second patient ever committed to Northwest. And that thing you saw the other night? He was the first. Let me tell you this, with no ambiguity. He’s a man. Deformed. Very troubled. Very angry. But just a man.”
Pepper could feel that breath burning his ear again. Could see those white eyes, missing their pupils. Felt the fur. “I’ve never seen a man like that,” he argued.
Loochie and Coffee nodded solemnly.
Dorry shook her head. “I’m telling you what I know.”
The orderly stood over Mr. Mack now and put his hand out in a gesture common to any parent. Exasperated authority. Mr. Mack looked at his wristwatch and counted out loud. “Nine … eight … seven … six …”
When he reached zero, he opened his hand and held the remote out to Sammy, but the orderly snatched it first to turn the volume down. When Sammy got her turn, she chose an episode of American Chopper.
She and Sam pulled their chairs right up under the screen. Even the patients who didn’t like the show remained in their seats and watched to pass some time. On the screen a burly guy with a graying mustache slapped the side of a silver motorcycle, grinned at the camera, and said, “This beast looks like it was forged in hell!”
Coffee rose from his chair. “Why don’t we just show him?”
Dorry shook her head. “Not yet.”
Pepper said, “Show me what?”
Loochie picked the green apple off her tray. She bit into it and chewed.
“Show you where it lives,” she said.
The four of them walked down Northwest 5 as a pack. Loochie and Coffee in the lead, Dorry and Pepper behind.
Dorry said, “What’s on Northwest One?”
Pepper said, “The exit.”
Loochie said, “That’s no exit.”
Coffee said, “It’s just an entrance, for us.”
Dorry asked, “What’s on Northwest Two?”
Pepper said, “Male patients.”
Dorry asked, “What’s on Northwest Three?”
Pepper said, “Female patients.”
As they entered the room at the hub of the unit, Dorry said, “And what’s on Northwest Five?”
Pepper said, “Television lounge.”
Loochie turned back to him and the pom-poms on her knit cap bounced. “We would’ve accepted smoker’s area, too.”
They ignored the staff members sitting inside the nurses’ station just as the staff members ignored them. They were in two overlapping realities.
Dorry touched Pepper’s shoulder to stop him. “So what’s left?”
“Northwest Four,” Pepper said. “You told me not to go anywhere near it.”
Loochie and Coffee and Dorry and Pepper gathered at the threshold of that hallway. Northwest 4 looked like all the others. Eggshell-white walls, beige tiled floors, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. There were doors running down either side, but here was the first difference: None of the doors had knobs. Even from the lip of Northwest 4, Pepper could see door after door with the handle removed and the lock sealed. A whole hallway of rooms that were never used.
At the far end of Northwest 4 sat a large stainless-steel door.
It looked like the little cousin of the secure door in Northwest 1. Stainless steel instead of cast iron, sleek where that other one was rough. But it, too, had a shatterproof window. The lights of the room behind that door were out. Totally dark.
“There,” Dorry said quietly.
Loochie lifted one foot. “Watch this.”
Her baby-blue Nike crossed the threshold of the hallway, and instantly Miss Chris called out from the nurses’ station.
“Off-limits.”
Loochie winked at Pepper and planted her foot over the line. She lifted her back foot and brought that one over, too. There she stood, just barely, in Northwest 4.
Scotch Tape stood up and leaned his elbows on the desktop of the nurses’ station.
“Loochie,” he growled. “You heard what Miss Chris said?”
Loochie stepped back.
“They protect it,” Coffee whispered.
Pepper couldn’t look away from the stainless-steel door one hundred feet down Northwest 4. It bent the light cast down from the ceiling so that something seemed to move behind the plastic window. A figure on the other side, or just a reflection of something on this side? Pepper stared at the small window. His legs stiffened. His face turned warm.
He felt watched.
Then he heard his own voice in his head. It was saying, No, no, no, no, no. Not disbelief but refusal.
“I don’t belong here,” he told the other three. “This isn’t my fight.”
His spoken voice sounded so small. He watched Dorry and Loochie and Coffee deflate with disappointment. A story came to him, an explanation.
“In 1969,” he told them, “the Doors performed at the Dinner Key Auditorium in Miami. About twelve thousand fans showed up to hear them play. Jim Morrison was drunk.”
“You were there?” Loochie asked. “You been to Miami?” She sounded jealous.
“No,” Pepper admitted. “I was born in ’69. I read about this. In an interview with Ray Manzarek, their keyboardist.”
Pepper looked to Coffee and Dorry and Loochie, but none of them seemed to recognize the name. Pepper decided not to be disappointed in them for this.
“Morrison performed, but he didn’t sing much. Mostly he yelled at the crowd. And at a certain point he told the crowd he knew why they’d really come to the show that night. ‘You want to see my cock, don’t you?!’ ”
Dorry snorted, a little laugh.
“That’s what he said,” Pepper continued. “Then Morrison waved his shirt in front of his crotch and pulled it away and said, ‘See it? Did you see it?’ ”
Coffee looked confused.
Loochie said, “This doesn’t sound like a very good band.”
“Listen to me. Four days later, the city of Miami issued a warrant for Morrison’s arrest. After a trial, Morrison was convicted of two misdemeanors. Open profanity, I think. And indecent exposure. And yet, Ray Manzarek swears Morrison never exposed himself. No pictures were ever developed, from a crowd of twelve thousand. And no one ever showed real evidence that the … exposure ever happened. Manzarek called it a mass delusion.”
Pepper stopped for a moment, to let the phrase sink in.
“But even years later, there were hundreds, thousands, who swore they’d seen Morrison’s penis. It didn’t happen, but to them it was still real.”
Loochie and Coffee and Dorry backed away from Pepper. Pepper looked at his feet.
“You understand what I’m
saying?”
Dorry nodded and shrugged.
“You’re not one of us,” she said. “Sure. We understand.”
Loochie said, “If I had paid to see that concert, I would’ve got my money back.”
Just that fast, they departed. Coffee slipped into the phone alcove. Dorry returned to her room on Northwest 3, where she slipped those cookies into a plastic bag, a kind of care package she was putting together for another patient, one of the many she took care of at New Hyde. And Loochie wandered back down Northwest 5. Her half hour of TV control would be coming soon and she wanted to watch something stupid and fun, music videos maybe; something to make her forget the story about Jim Morrison’s penis. And how Pepper meant it to say she was seeing something that wasn’t really there. Fuck you, Frankenstein. That’s what Loochie wanted to tell him.
And Pepper? He returned to his room alone.
Lucretia and the Kroons Page 10
