Shades of Eva (42 page)

Of course ten meters into the ravine, you
were looking at a slope of around sixty degrees with rocks, stumps,
and roots sticking out of the ground like boils on a butt cheek,
and pine trees growing at all sorts of odd angles. ten feet down,
you were just another 10 feet down the slope, still sixty feet from
the creek below.

The area would have been visible from the
halfway house, which according to Podjen’s book, was the old
Hypnology Center where my mother was housed. My mother’s dormitory
was a stone’s throw from where her murdered baby had been buried,
if Amelia’s theory was correct.

I took a deep breath in. I could see quite
clearly the building’s rear windows—lenses, if you will, to this
very spot. Mom would have looked out over this ravine every day, I
thought.

As sick as an idea as that was, I had to
take comfort that I was that much closer to knowing the truth about
Elmer’s fate. It was starting to make sense. This was the perfect
burial plot. It was obvious to me, perhaps, because Ully’s blood
was also in my blood, that this location held a very morbid, very
terrifying significance. The ravine was the best spot, not just
because it was hidden and convenient that night, but because it was
so close in proximity to my mother’s room, from where Elmer was
taken.

There was a simple evil irony to it all. It
was window pain—and that’s pain with an a-i-n and a capital fucking
P. Mom could look out her window every night toward the woods and
wonder where on earth her baby boy was, and never even realize that
his tiny tomb was lingering just feet from her very window. A
painful, ironic truth—but a truth nonetheless!

Elmer’s exhumation would have to be
undertaken after dark. All I needed was my uncle Ully’s pointing
finger and a spot of pointed-out earth in which I could sink a
spade. If all went well, the process of undertaking a proper burial
for my brother, and attending to the justice he deserved, would be
well underway by nightfall.

I made a quick trip back into admin
,
hurried down the stairwell to RECORDS and into the file rooms where
the souls of half a million mental patients seemed to be napping. I
withdrew a file from the Ws and proceeded back upstairs with the
case file of Emily White in tow.

***

Shadow Journal entry

August 22, 1995

A letter to Dr. Thomas, found in the
Asylum

…
Your mercy has again allowed for my
freedom.  I have known for some time that we were never meant
to be, and could not be, and was waiting, pitiably, on your
words.  I could never leave you alone, for hanging on has been
all I’ve known. If had to be your knife that cut this cord, and for
that bittersweet swipe of your blade, thank you. I will always love
you. In my earth, there are few things that grow, God help me, but
when they do, the roots go deep. However clean the cut of your
blade may be, the shoots will come.  Allow my silence to free
you, as your kindness has done for me. I shall speak of this no
more.  Once is enough for always. ~Emily

Emily White was a European-American
immigrant, the recent widow of German-American revolutionary when
she was admitted. Her first committal was entirely voluntary; thus,
she was free to leave at any time.

The German revolutionary, Amelia’s uncle,
had died suddenly, shortly before Emily’s first committal. His
death was, perhaps, the impetus behind her coming to Coastal State.
That was 1950, just a few months before my mother was committed.
Emily was then 22-years-old, and my mother would have been fourteen
years old.

Emily’s first stay was relatively short,
about three weeks. I surmised it was during Emily’s second
committal later that year when she first met my mother.  They
were both rooming in the female dormitory then, which was ward C
now, the prison.

Emily’s file revealed a remarkable talent
for sculpture. No surprise there. I’d seen the pictures of some of
the artifacts I was looking for. She was prone to fall into a
trance state at times and would sculpt, “automatically,” her notes
read, “…busts and other representations.” 

Apparently, when Emily was presented with
these trance-produced sculptures, she couldn’t recall having made
them. This was certainly consistent with what Amelia had told me
about her aunt. The following is an excerpt taken from Emily’s
initial intake documents:

On the 25th of March, 1950, Emily (E) found
her husband’s body, but had yet to report his death. Instead, E let
him linger for days before she notified police. E fell into a gross
denial of fact in the interim characterized by hypersomnia, crying
and isolation, restlessness, anorexia, and suicidal ideation. E
claims she made pottery those nights, objects of which she would
destroy upon completion. It is E’s belief that Mr. White refused
her children, thus bringing about his respiratory arrest, what E
calls his “curse.” His loss is a great burden to E, however, as she
claims to have wanted her own family.

Amelia hadn’t mentioned any of those
details.

Within weeks of her initial committal, the
cause of Mr. White’s death became apparent, as well as the darker
nature of Emily’s condition.

…
E has confessed to inducing allergic
reactions in her husband by intentionally placing allergens in his
food, thereby causing his death. This confession has been reported
to the Michigan State Police and action is pending.

I was trying to wrap my mind around the idea
of sculpting while your spouse lay dead in the next room—dead by
your hand. It reeked of insanity. There was no other word for
it.

I searched the documents again, looking for
details about Emily’s outcome. Emily was put on trial in late 1950
and found not guilty by reason of insanity, based in large part on
the testimony of her doctors at Coastal State, and by Mr. White’s
rather lengthy police record. Emily’s motivation for placing
allergies in her husband’s food was found to be far from homicidal.
She did this, she testified, because when her husband was sick, “he
was his gentlest” to Emily, and they, their closest.

She was involuntarily committed following
the verdict, and this time, it was an indefinite commitment.

I found her sentence rather redemptive, as
the docs could have sent her to prison and threw away the key. I
didn’t think police would have cooked up too much fuss for her. As
it was, she remained in the custody of the Asylum until her death
in 1975, alternating time in the female prison division and the
Hypnology Center where she met my mother.

Three words ran replete throughout Emily’s
record: persistent interpersonal meddling. Like glimpsing a finger
pointing toward a far off star, I sensed that the subject of that
meddling was someone very familiar to me. And it was. Emily was
transferred to the Hypnology Center in 1951, and according to her
notes, Emily resided there, on and off, for approximately three
years. She was rooming near to where my mother was rooming on the
night Elmer was taken.

Nursing notes indicated a self-confessed
“budding affection” between Emily and her psychiatrist, a Dr.
Thomas. This affection quickly turned into what Asylum officials
were calling an all-out romance in one note, and an outright fling
in another.

Amelia hadn’t mentioned anything about that,
either.

The doctor’s name was Dean Thomas. Dr.
Thomas didn’t deny this (the affection, romance, or the fling)
whatever you want to call it, and neither did he substantiate it.
What he did do was to accept the severance package Coastal State
offered him, and that was the last I read of him.

One psychologist transcribed a poem that
Emily had on her person one day. It was confiscated, but it was
also all too familiar to me. Amelia called it a poem for mothers,
for lovers, and for children.

Thick layers of gauze,

Its contents, my heart.

A clinical perspective for friends,

Enough so the blood does not drip.

Only at the solitary presence of his tiny
grave,

Do I sit and unwind all the layers

And view the deep gash.

It will never heal…I will only wrap it
differently with time.

I searched the nursing notes for clues to
how Emily White died and found that her heart gave out in her
seclusion on April 4, 1975.

At 10:36 I placed a call to Amelia.

“So who is Dean Thomas?” I said, scanning
the intersecting streets for incoming limousines.

There was a long awkward pause until she
said, almost inaudibly,
“—It doesn’t matter.”

“No, I’m curious,” I said, rather calmly.
“Who is he? Says here that he was a psychiatrist and that he and
your aunt had a fling.”

“—
A fling?”

“That’s what they said. Sounds like a
transference thing: female patient falling for her fatherly
doctor.” This time I could take pleasure in Amelia’s
discomfort.

“—
It’s not important!”
Amelia echoed.
"—And moreover, a so-called fling might have been the reason
Coastal State cited to get rid of Dr. Thomas. I wouldn’t read so
much into things.”

“I’m a little confused,” I said. “Thomas
didn’t deny this.”

“—
He didn’t betray her!”
Amelia
replied, angrily.
“—What are you investigating, anyway? Me or
where the hell Emily’s art is?”

“She killed your uncle, Amelia! Why didn’t
you tell me that?”

“—
I told you he was cruel.”

“You said he wouldn’t give her kids.”

“—
She wanted a family, like your mother
did. That’s not a bad thing, Mitchell.”

“I know. Cruelty begets cruelty.”

“—
Find the gallery! I need you to find
her art for me.”

“I’m looking for it.”

“—
Then start by finding the blueprints to
the place! We need a map of the tunnels so you know where to look.
Some of them were probably sealed off and their access might be
difficult, so find the architectural plans.”

“I don’t know where those would be!”

“—
Start in the file room. Ask Flout. Ask
Daisy! Get down in there and start walking the place if you have
to. Just make a fucking map so if things go south, we’ll have
something to go by later!”

And as Amelia finished her briefing
instructions, she seemed to perk up.
“–Looks like your uncle is
almost there.”

I looked up and looked around. In the
distance, there was a black limousine making its approach. “He’s
here,” I said.

“—
And cruelty begets cruelty. Make the
most of your time together. Let me know how he looks.”

***

Tuesday: 10:54 a.m.

Approaching Ully’s limo that morning, I felt
that same sense of peace I’d felt when I’d finally decided to
return to River Bluff, to return sober, and in a way, to avenge my
mother. It was a feeling like relief, as if a decision, itself,
could somehow result in relief. I also felt something like
happiness. And then again, maybe it was the Valium—but I didn’t
think so. I was about to see Ully again, and this time I had
something on him.

The limousine’s windows were up, save the
driver’s, who I presumed was Thomas Quail, the heir apparent to a
million dollar portion of mi tio’s estate. The windows were tinted
black, except for the front windows, which were transparent. The
vehicle stopped at the gate out front. The driver watched me cross
the lawn. He was motioning me over, impatiently.

“Help you?” I said, looking inside and as
far back as I could see, which wasn’t far.

“McGinnis, Ulysses,” the driver said,
gesturing over his shoulder.

“No. Chet Imil,” I said, staring at Quail
through my Ray Bans. He looked familiar, too.

“No, I’m here with Mr. McGinnis. He has an
appointment today, and I have a plane to catch. So can we pass,
depute?”

“An appointment? What is this, a dentist’s
office?” I was smiling curtly. Quail just stared at me. I stared
back. “I need to check your wheels, there, Mister—

“Quail!” The driver said. “Tom Quail.”

“Sounds heroic…like Matt Trail. Ever read
that comic strip? Trail was—

“Excuse me, but we are in a bit of a hurry,”
Quail blurted, interrupting me.

He produced a chauffeur’s license. I took
it. His photograph was somber, empty-appearing, as if a depression
had gotten the better of him on picture day. It was something
different than the expression I remembered of him as a child. That
expression was anger, or at least impatience—the same kind of
expression that was on his face now. Maybe I brought that
expression out in him.

He’d aged a few years, but I recognized
him—and I remembered his words: Ully didn’t have to take you in.
You need to be a good boy! That was his admonishment, as if I
hadn’t been trying to be good.

I looked the license over, and then studied
his face for any hint that he recognized me. I didn’t see one. I
suppose I wouldn’t. I was just a boy, and what were the odds of
that little boy showing up at work in an asylum like this?

I walked completely around the vehicle once,
inspecting the exterior for smudges, grease, or anything
extraordinary, trying to see inside, the face of my uncle, but
couldn’t. I had the sudden suspicion that Ully’s condition might
have been worse than Amelia had let on. I was expecting Ully to
roll a window down whereby we could offer each other some form of
recognition, but the windows remained raised.

Maybe it was paranoia, but I had the
instantaneous sense that Ully wasn’t going to cooperate. I
envisioned him sitting idle in the backseat, but sitting armed.
Maybe he was going to shoot me at first sight. The thought made me
reach for my weapon. And then the butterflies came. I hadn’t
thought to load my damn gun that morning!