I Know This Much Is True (11 page)

Ray spat on the grass. “Any of those clowns come around here, I’ll take a baseball bat to them.” He probably would, too. Fuckin’

Ray.

I backed onto the road and threw her into first. “Hey!” he called.

He was walking toward the truck. I rolled down the window and braced myself.

“Just answer me one thing,” he said. “Why didn’t you let them at least
try
to put his hand back on? Now he’s got a physical disability on top of a mental one. How come you didn’t have them at least
try
?”

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days. But it pissed me off—
him
asking it. A little late for fatherly concern, wasn’t it?

“For one thing, they were only giving the reattachment a fifty-fifty chance,” I said. “If it
didn’t
work, it would have just sat there, dead, sewn to his wrist. And for another thing . . . for another thing. . . . You didn’t
hear
him, Ray. It was the first time in twenty years he was in charge of something. And so I couldn’t. . . . I mean, okay, you’re right—it
doesn’t
make him a hero.” I looked up from the steering wheel.

Looked him in the eye—that trick I’d taught myself way back when.

“It was
his
hand, Ray. . . . It was
his
choice.”

He stood there, hands in his pockets. Half a minute or more went by.

“You know what the funny thing is?” he said. “I never even bought that goddamned knife. I won it in a card game from this guy in my outfit. Big, beefy Swede, came from Minnesota. I can see him plain as the nose on your face, but I been trying all afternoon to think what that guy’s name was. Isn’t that something? My kid cuts his hand off with that knife, and I can’t even remember the guy’s name I won the damn thing from.”

“My kid.” It struck me that he said that. Claimed Thomas.

That night, Joy brought home Chinese food as an apology. I sat there, eating without really tasting it. “How is it?” she asked me.

“It’s great,” I said. “Great.”

Later, in bed, she rolled over to my side and started getting friendly. “Dominick?” she said. “I’m sorry about this morning. I just want things to get back to normal.” She rubbed her leg against my leg, flicked her finger in and out of the waistband on my underpants. Got me interested with her hands. I just lay there, letting her do me without doing anything back.

She got on top and put me inside of her. Put my hand, my fingers, where she wanted them. I was just going through the motions at first—performing a service. Then I started thinking about Dessa out there in the hospital parking lot, in her jeans and little jacket. I was making love to Dessa . . .

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Joy came quickly—intensely. Her orgasm felt like a relief, a burden lifted off my shoulders. I was almost there myself, almost ready, when I just stopped. I didn’t mean to. I just started thinking of things: the way the state hospital corridors smell like dead farts and cigarettes, and the way Dan the Man had painted that happily-ever-after mailbox out there for them, and the picture I’d conjured up for Ray to get myself off the hook: Thomas’s severed hand, stitched to his wrist like dead gray meat.

I went soft on her. Slipped out. Nudged her off me and rolled away.

“Hey, you?” she said. Her hand curled around my shoulder.

“Hey me what?”

She grabbed my earlobe, pulled it a little. “It’s okay. No biggie.”

“Now there’s a compliment,” I said.

She jabbed me one. “You know what I mean.”

Yanking up the covers, I turned further away from her—swung my hand up for the light switch. “God, I’m whipped,” I said. But a few minutes later, it was
her
breathing that was soft and regular.

I couldn’t sleep at all that night. Spent hour after hour staring up at the void that, in the daytime, was nothing but our goddamned bedroom ceiling.

“Finish, Dominick,” Thomas said. “Finish the psalm.”

I felt, rather than saw, the cop look over at me. I opened my brother’s Bible.
Give me not up to the wishes of my foes,
I read,
for false
witnesses have risen up against me, and such as breathe out violence. I
believe that I shall see the bounty of the Lord in the land of the living.

Wait for the Lord with courage; be stouthearted, and wait for the Lord.

The police cruiser took the familiar turn off the parkway, the cop waved to the security guard, and eased over the speed bump. We rode by the boarded-up Dix Building. Coasted past Tweed, Libby, Payne. . . . Someone had told me once that back during the state hospital’s heyday, those brick monstrosities had housed over four thousand patients. Now, the inpatient population was down to around two hundred. Decay and downsizing had closed every building but Settle and Hatch.

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“Hey, you just passed it,” I told the cop when the cruiser rolled past the Settle Building. “Turn back.”

He looked in the rearview mirror, exchanged a look with his partner. “He’s not going to Settle,” the other one said.

“What do you mean, he’s not going to Settle? That’s where he always goes. He runs the news rack at Settle. He runs the coffee cart.”

“We don’t know anything about the coffee cart,” the escort said.

“All we know is our orders say to take him to Hatch.”

“Oh no, not Hatch!” Thomas groaned. He pulled and struggled against the restraints they’d put on him; his resistance rocked the cruiser. “Oh, God, Dominick! Help me! Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!”

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f

The maximum-security Hatch Forensic Institute, located at the rear of the Three Rivers State Hospital grounds, is a squat concrete-and-steel building surrounded by chain link and razor wire. Hatch houses most of the front-page boys: the vet from Mystic who mis-took his family for the Viet Cong, the kid at Wesleyan who brought his .22-caliber semiautomatic to class. But Hatch is also the end of the line for a lot of less sexy psychos: drug fry-outs, shopping mall nuisances, manic-depressive alcoholics—your basic disturbing-the-peace-type wackos with no place else to go. Occasionally, someone actually gets better down at Hatch. Gets released. But that tends to happen
in spite of
things. For most of the patients there, the door swings only one way, which is just fine with the town of Three Rivers. Most people around here are less interested in rehabilitation than they are in warehousing the spooks and kooks—keeping the Boston Strangler and the Son of Sam off the streets, keeping Norman Bates locked up at the Hatch Hotel.

There’s never been an escape from Hatch. Circular in shape, the
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place is divided into four independent units, each with its own security station. The outside wall of the building is windowless; the inside windows look onto a small, circular courtyard—the hub of the wheel, so to speak. There are some picnic tables out there and a rusted basketball hoop that pretty much gets ignored because most of the guys are fat and sluggish from Thorazine. Unit by unit, twice a day, patients whose submissiveness has won them the privilege can enter that concrete-floored courtyard for a twenty-minute hit of fresh air and nicotine.

I’ve heard motormouths on the radio and on the barstool next to me complain that the insanity plea is one of the things that’s wrong with this country—that we let rapists and killers get away with murder by letting them hide out at “country clubs” like Hatch. Well, guess again, folks. I’ve been there. Walked out with the stink of the place still on my clothes and my brother’s screaming still in my ears.

If there’s a hell worse than Hatch Forensic Institute, then God must be one vengeful motherfucker.

The cruiser’s blue lights winked on and off. The cop who was driving us stopped at Hatch’s front gate and handed a guard some paperwork. “It was a
sacrifice
!” Thomas kept shouting. “It was a
sacrifice
!”

I turned around and told him to take it easy—that I’d get the whole thing straightened out and get him back to Settle that night.

But I only half-believed that myself. The steel grid between the front and back seats of the cruiser—between my brother and me—was beginning to feel like a preview of coming attractions.

There was a whirring sound. The gate glided open and clunked to a stop, and the cruiser eased past, over a speed bump, and around the building. We came to a halt at a double door marked “Patients Receiving—Unit Two.” A red light above the door flashed. We sat and waited with the motor running.

“What law did I break?” my brother blurted out. “Who did I hurt?”

The answer to the last question was as obvious as the bandaged stump on the end of his arm, but how did that make him a criminal?

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It
had
to be a mistake, I told myself. It made no sense. But as I sat there staring ahead at those double doors, that winking light, I felt a yank in my chest—one of those fight-or-flight rushes. “Hey,” I said, turning to the cop next to me. “What’s your name?”

The question surprised him. “My name? Mercado. Sergeant Mercado.”

“All right, look, Mercado. Just do me a favor, will you? Just bring him over to the Settle Building for five minutes. I know the night people there. They can call his doctor and get this sorted out. Because this whole thing is a big mistake.”

“You’re tampering with an agreement between God and me!”

Thomas warned. “The Lord God Almighty has commanded me to prevent an unholy war!”

Mercado looked straight ahead. “No can do,” the cop in back answered for him. “They’d have our ass in a sling if we ignored signed orders.”

“No, they won’t,” I said. I turned around to look at the guy. His face and Thomas’s were crisscrossed by that metal screen that divided us.

“They’ll be
glad
that you straightened out the mix-up before any shit hit the fan. They’ll be
grateful.
”

“I run the news rack at Settle!” Thomas pleaded. “I run the coffee cart!”

“Hey, I can sympathize with you,” Mercado told me. “I got brothers myself. But the thing is, we can’t just—”

“No, don’t!” I said, interrupting him. I was wired, pumped on sheer desperation. “Just think about it for a second before you let some knee-jerk police response come out of your mouth. All I’m asking you to do is be a human being instead of a cop for five minutes, okay? All I’m asking is that you throw this thing in reverse and drive—what?—one-sixteenth of a mile over to Settle. You don’t even have to leave the hospital grounds, Mercado. One-sixteenth of a mile, man. Five minutes, tops. That’s all I’m asking.”

Mercado looked in the rearview mirror. “What do you think, Al?

We could just—”

“Uh-uh,” from the backseat. “No way, José. No can do.”

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“Then
you
get up tomorrow morning at five-thirty and start the coffee!” Thomas shouted. “
You
make sure there’s enough change in the change box and that nobody buys Mrs. Semel’s Drake’s cakes.

You
make sure none of the other doctors get Dr. Ahamed’s
Wall
Street Journal
!”

Mercado and I looked at each other. “You got brothers?” I said.

“How many?”

“Four.”

“Come on, man,” I whispered. “Follow your gut. Five minutes.”

Reflected in the flashing light over the “Patients Receiving”

door, Mercado’s face turned red, not red, red. I saw the hesitation in his eyes, the struggle. That’s when I blew it. I reached over to touch his arm—make some human contact with the guy—and he freaked.

Batted my hand away so hard that it hit the windshield.

“Keep your hands to yourself!” he said. “Understand?” His own hand was down at his holster, a shield over the butt of his gun.

“That’s the
last
thing you want to do is grab an armed officer.

Understand? You could end up
real
sorry next time you did that.”

I looked out the side window. Took a deep breath. Gave it up.

A uniformed guard unlocked the double doors and motioned us inside. Mercado got out and opened the back door, easing my brother out of the cruiser. “Watch your head now,” he said. “Watch your head.”

A part of me wanted to stay right there inside that cruiser: to secure my status as the
un
crazy twin, the one who
wasn’t
going into that place. I’m not talking about major abandonment, just five seconds’ worth of hesitation. But I admit it. I hesitated.

“Here,” the older cop said when I got out of the cruiser. He handed me Thomas’s duffel bag. I was already holding his Bible.

Thomas stood, hunched over a little from his restraints. He told the older cop he had to go to the bathroom. Was there a bathroom inside that he could use? He’d had to go most of the way there.

His leg chains rattled with each small step he took toward the building. I had a bitter taste in my mouth and a dull, thudding feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was like I’d swallowed those chains I Know[001-115] 7/24/02 12:21 PM Page 72

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or something. What was going on? Why were they doing this?

The guard let my brother and the two escorts through but stopped me at the door. “Who are you?” he said. He was one of those short, gung-ho types. Late twenties, early thirties, maybe.