The Madman's Tale (6 page)

“My father was determined.”

“You struck him, did you not?”

Don’t admit to anything! He hit you first! Say that!

“He hit me first,” Francis dutifully responded.

Doctor Gulptilil made another notation on a sheet of paper. Francis shifted about. The doctor looked up at him.

“What are you writing?” Francis asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. I want to know what you are writing.”

Don’t let him snow you! Find out what he’s writing! It won’t be anything good!

“These are just some notes about our conversation,” the doctor said.

“I think you should show me what you’re writing down,” Francis said. “I think I have the right to know what it is you’re writing down.”

Keep at it!

The doctor said nothing, so Francis continued, “I’m here, I’ve answered your questions, and now I have one. Why are you writing things about me without showing me? That’s not fair.”

Francis shifted in his wheelchair and pulled against the bonds that restrained him. He could feel the warmth of the room building, as if the heat had suddenly spiked. He strained hard for a moment, trying to free himself, but was unsuccessful. He took a deep breath and slumped back into his seat.

“You are agitated?” the doctor asked, after a few silent moments had passed. This was a question that didn’t really need an answer, because the truth was so obvious.

“It’s just not fair,” Francis said, trying to instill calm back into his own words.

“Fairness is important to you?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Yes, perhaps Mister Petrel, you are correct about that.”

Again the two men were quiet. Francis could hear the radiator hissing again and then thought that perhaps it was the breathing of the two attendants, who had not budged from behind him throughout the interview. Then he wondered whether one of his voices might be trying to get his attention, whispering something to him so low that it was hard for him to hear, and he bent forward slightly, as if trying to hear.

“Are you often impatient when things don’t go your way, Mister Petrel?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“Do you think you should hurt people when things don’t go the way you would like them?”

“No.”

“But you get angry?”

“Everyone gets angry sometimes.”

“Ah, Mister Petrel, on that point you are absolutely correct. It is, however, a critical question as to how we react to our anger when it arises, is it not? I think we should speak again.” The doctor had leaned forward, trying to inject some familiarity in his demeanor. “Yes, I think some additional conversations will be in order. Would that be acceptable to you, Mister Petrel?”

He didn’t reply. It was a little like the doctor’s voice had faded, as if someone had turned the volume down on the doctor, or as if his words were being transmitted over a great distance.

“May I call you Francis?” the doctor asked.

Again, he did not respond. He did not trust his voice, for it was beginning to mix together with a swelling of emotions within his chest.

Doctor Gulptilil watched him for an instant, then asked, “Say, Francis do you recall what it was that I asked you to remember, earlier in our talk?”

This question seemed to bring him back to the room. He looked up at the doctor, who wore a slyly inquisitive look on his face.

“What?”

“I asked you to remember something.”

“I don’t recall.” Francis snapped his reply.

The doctor nodded his head slightly. “But perhaps, you could remind me, then what day of the week it is …”

“What day?”

“Yes.”

“Is it important?”

“Let us imagine that it is.”

“Are you sure you asked me this earlier?” Francis said, stalling for time. But this simple fact suddenly seemed elusive, as if concealed behind a cloud within him.

“Yes,” Doctor Gulptilil said. “I’m quite sure. What day is it?”

Francis thought hard, battling against the anxiety that abruptly crowded past all his other thoughts. Again he paused, hoping that one of the voices might come to his aid, but again, they had fallen silent.

“I believe it is Saturday,” Francis said cautiously. He said each word slowly, tentatively.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” But this word fell out of his mouth with little conviction.

“Do you not recall me telling you earlier it was Wednesday?”

“No. That would be a mistake. It is Saturday.” Francis could feel his head spinning, as if the doctor’s questions were forcing him to run in ever-concentric circles.

“I think not,” said the doctor, “But it is of no importance. You will be staying with us for some time, Francis, and we will have another opportunity to speak of these things. I’m certain that in the future you will remember things better.”

“I don’t want to stay,” Francis replied quickly. He could feel a sudden sense of panic, mingling with despair, instantly welling up within him. “I want to go home. Really, I believe they are expecting me, and it is close to dinnertime, and my parents and my sisters, they all want everyone home for dinner. That’s the rule in the house, you see. You need to be there by six, hands and face washed clean. No dirty clothes if you’ve been playing outside. Ready to say grace. We have a blessing before we eat. We always do. It’s my job some days to say the blessing. We need to thank God for putting the food on the table. I believe today it’s my turn—yes, I’m sure of it—so I need to be there, and I can’t be late.”

He could feel tears stinging at his eyes, and he could hear sobs choking some of his words. These things were happening to a mirror image of himself, and not quite him, but himself slightly apart and distant from the real him. He struggled hard to make all these parts of himself come together and focus as one, but it was difficult.

“Perhaps,” Doctor Gulptilil said gently, “you might have a question or two for me?”

“Why can’t I go home?” Francis coughed the question out between tears.

“Because people are frightened for you, Francis, and because you frighten people.”

“What sort of place is this?”

“It’s a place where we will help you,” the doctor said.

Liar! Liar! Liar!

Doctor Gulptilil looked up at the two attendants and spoke next to them. “Mister Moses, will you and your brother please take Mister Petrel to the Amherst Building. I have written out a scrip for some medication and some additional instructions for the nurses there. He should get at least thirty-six, perhaps more, hours of observation before they consider shifting him into the open ward.” He handed the clipboard across to the smaller of the two men flanking Francis, who nodded his response.

“Whatever you say, Doc,” the attendant said.

“Sure thing, Doc,” his huge partner replied, stepping behind the wheelchair, grasping the handles and rapidly spinning Francis around. The motion made him suddenly dizzy, and he choked back on the sobs that were filling his chest. “Don’t you be so scared, Mister Petrel. Things gonna be okay soon enough. We’re gonna take good care of you,” the large man whispered.

Francis did not believe him.

He was wheeled back through the office, into the waiting room, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands quivering against the cuffs. He twisted in the chair, trying to get the attention of either the large or the small attendant, his voice cracking with a combination of fear and an unbridled sadness. “Please,” he said, piteously, “I want to go home. They’re expecting me. That’s where I want to be. Please take me home.”

The smaller attendant had his face set, as if the pleas coming from Francis were hard for him to hear. He placed his hand on Francis’s shoulder and repeated, “You gonna be okay, now, hear me. It’s gonna be okay. Shush now …” He spoke as he might to a baby.

Sobs wracked Francis’s body, emanating from deep within him. The prim secretary looked up from her seat behind the desk with an impatient and unforgiving look on her face. “Quiet down!” she ordered Francis. He swallowed back another sob, coughing.

As he did so, he looked across the room and saw two uniformed state troopers, wearing gray tunics and blue riding pants above polished knee-high brown boots. They were both strapping, tall, taut pictures of discipline, with close-cropped hair and their curved and cocked officers’ hats held stiffly at their sides. Each wore a glistening leather Sam Browne belt, polished to a reflective shine, and a holstered revolver high on their waist. But it was the man that they flanked that quickly attracted Francis’s attention.

He was shorter than the troopers, but solidly built. Francis would have
guessed his age to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He stood in a languid, relaxed fashion, his hands cuffed in front of him, but the language of his body seemed to diminish the nature of the restraints, rendering them less restrictive and more as if they were merely an inconvenience. He wore a loose-fitting single-piece navy blue jumpsuit with the title MCI-BOSTON stitched in yellow above the left hand chest pocket and a pair of old, worn running shoes that were missing their laces. He had longish brown hair, that poked out from beneath the edges of a sweat-stained Boston Red Sox baseball cap, and a two-day shadow of a beard. But what struck Francis first and foremost were the man’s eyes, for they darted about, far more alert and observant than the leisurely pose he maintained, taking many things in as rapidly as possible. The eyes carried something deep, which Francis noticed immediately, even through his own anguish. He could not put a word to it instantly, but it was as if the man had seen something immensely, ineffably sad that lurked just beyond the horizon of his vision, so that whatever he saw, or heard or witnessed was colored by this hidden hurt. The eyes came to fix on Francis, and the man managed a small, sympathetic smile, that seemed to speak directly to Francis.

“Are you okay, fella?” he asked. Each word was tinged with a slight Boston-Irish accent. “Are things that rough?”

Francis shook his head. “I want to go home, but they say I have to stay here,” he answered. And then piteously, and spontaneously, he asked, “Can you help me, please?”

The man bent down slightly, toward Francis. “I suspect there are more than a few folks here who would wish to go home and cannot. Myself presently included in that category.”

Francis looked up at the man. He did not know precisely why, but the calm tones the man used helped to settle him. “Can you help me?” Francis blurted out, repeating himself.

The man smiled, a mingling of insouciance and sadness. “I don’t know what I can do,” he said, “but I will do what I can.”

“Promise?” Francis asked suddenly.

“All right,” the man said. “I promise.”

Francis leaned back in the chair, closing his own eyes for a second. “Thank you,” he whispered.

The secretary interrupted the conversation with a sharply punctuated command directed to the smaller of the two black attendants. “Mister Moses. This gentleman …” she gestured toward the man in the jumpsuit, “is Mister …” then she hesitated slightly, before continuing seemingly purposefully not using his name, “… the gentleman that we spoke about earlier. The troopers will accompany him in to see the doctor, but please return promptly to escort him to his new accommodations …” this word was spoken with a slight
edge of sarcasm, “… as soon as you get Mister Petrel settled over at Amherst. They are expecting him.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the larger brother said, as if it was his turn to speak, although the woman’s comments had been directed toward the smaller of the two men. “Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll be doing.”

The man in the jumpsuit looked down at Francis again. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Francis Petrel,” he replied.

The man in the jumpsuit smiled. “Petrel is a nice name. It’s a small seabird, you know, common to Cape Cod. They are the birds you see flying just above the waves on summer afternoons, dipping in and out of the spray. Beautiful animals. White wings that beat fast one second, then glide and soar effortlessly the next. They must have keen eyes to be able to spot a sand eel or a pogy in the surf. A poet’s bird, to be sure. Can you fly like that, Mister Petrel?”

Francis shook his head.

“Ah,” the man in the jumpsuit said. “Well, perhaps you should learn. Especially if you’re going to be locked up in this delightful place for too long.”

“Be quiet!” one of the troopers interjected with a gruffness that made the man smile. He glanced over at the trooper and said, “Or you will do what?”

The trooper didn’t reply to this, although his face reddened slightly and the man turned back to Francis, ignoring the command. “Francis Petrel. Francis C-bird. I like that better. You take things easy, Francis C-Bird, and I will see you again before too long. That’s a promise.”

Francis was unable to respond, but felt a slight sense of encouragement in the man’s words. For the first time since that horrible morning had begun with so many loud voices, shouts and recriminations, he felt as if he wasn’t completely alone. It was a little like the harsh noise and constant racket that had been filling his ears all day had diminished, like a radio’s blaring volume turned down slightly. He could hear some of his voices murmuring approval in the background, which relaxed him a bit more. But he did not have time to dwell on this thought, for he was abruptly wheeled out of the office, into the corridor, and the door shut resoundingly behind him. A cold draft made him shudder and reminded him that as of that moment all that he had once known of life had been changed and all that he was to know was elusive and hidden from him. He had to bite down on his lower lip to keep the tears from returning, swallowing hard to remain quiet and let himself be diligently steered away from the reception area and deep into the core of the Western State Hospital.

L
imp morning light was just sliding over the neighboring rooftops, insinuating its way into my sparse little apartment home. I stood in front of the wall and saw all the words I’d written the previous night crawling down a single long column. My handwriting was pinched tight, as if nervous. The words were arranged in wavering lines, a little like a field of wheat as a breath of warm wind passes over. I asked myself: Was I truly that scared, the day I arrived at the hospital? The answer to that was easy: Yes. And far worse than I had written. Memory often blurs pain. The mother forgets the agony of childbirth when the baby is placed in her arms, the soldier no longer remembers the pain of his wounds when the general pins the medal on his chest and the band strikes up some martial tune. Did I tell the truth about what I saw? Did I get the small details right? Did it happen quite the way I remembered it?