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Authors: Karen Joy Fowler
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teeth. Gray eyes. Large, sensual lips. She wore her hair cut short in the current fashion of the Duchess of Austria; B.J. had seen illustrations of her haircut in advertisements in the paper. Her dress was a complicated affair, though very unclean. He was surprised by her hair and her clothes, which suggested money. People with money didn’t end up at Steilacoom. She stood directly in front of him. She probably thought he had been listening at the door.
‘No, I wasn’t,’ B.J. told her quickly. B.J. was often rather frightened of women, but this woman was so very small. Her mouth was slightly bruised, which showed that she had already been initiated by the wardens into life in the asylum. She had an air of fragility about her. B.J. felt protective. She had no business being in the corridor.
‘You go back to your room,’ B.J. said to her, hastily, looking around to see if anyone was listening. ‘Or you’re going to be hit again.’ He tried to remember which warden was helping with the women this morning. It was a popular duty. Was it Houston’s day? He thought so. ‘Are you crazy? Go back,’ he said more strenuously. She smiled at him, but he would take no more responsibility. He didn’t want another woman falling in love with him. Expecting things. Flowers. Gifts. Notes. Time. Women, all women, whatever their mental condition, had this unnatural need for attention. It wasn’t enough just to be with them, even. You had to talk about them. You had to talk about nothing else. How you felt about them when you first met them. How the feeling was even stronger now. How you had never felt this way before in your whole life. He pushed past her. When he turned to look back, she was gone.
B.J. could not really go to his room and lie down. The doctor might actually not know this and B.J. would not have wanted to be the one who distressed him with the truth, but the penalty for not finishing assigned chores was one he had paid only once and was never going to pay again. He decided not to return to his room at all, but made his way to the kitchen to see if wood or water was needed for breakfast. A new Chinaman had just been hired. He wore a filthy padded coat and fiddled with his braid while William Ross, cook by trade and inmate by circumstance, instructed him in the preparation of graham mush and boxty.
‘Staples here at the asylum,’ Ross was telling him. ‘Scarcely a day goes by when boxty isn’t served in one form or another. You could say the asylum runs on boxty.’ He laughed. ‘A joke,’ he explained. ‘It goes right through the patients like grain through a goose.’ He waited for the Chinaman to express amusement, but there was no response. When Ross spoke again, his voice was less familiar. ‘B.J., here’ - he gestured toward B.J. with the point of a large kitchen knife - ‘is an example of the fine, strapping health boxty can provide. If you ever need wood fetched or water, you can ask B.J. But remember, he’s not to go out alone. None of them are. He needs to get the key and a warden. If he’s not quick about it, then you get the warden yourself and tell him so.’
Ross acted more like a warden than an inmate himself, and on special occasions, like the birthday of one of Greene’s many daughters, Ross was called to the contractor’s own home to cook. B.J. knew that Dr Carr had recommended Ross’s release weeks ago. Dr Carr thought, and B.J. agreed with him, that Ross had never really been insane. B.J. was afraid of Ross.
He looked at the Chinaman to see if he was afraid of him as well. The last Chinaman had once thrown his cleaver at B.J. There was still a slice in the wall over the water bucket where the blade had lodged, the handle trembling in the wood like the shaft of an arrow. B.J. sometimes stroked the scar for reassurance when he set the bucket down. The bucket would soon be empty again. He would fill it and then it would be empty. The world seemed to conspire
‘No, I wasn’t,’ B.J. told her quickly. B.J. was often rather frightened of women, but this woman was so very small. Her mouth was slightly bruised, which showed that she had already been initiated by the wardens into life in the asylum. She had an air of fragility about her. B.J. felt protective. She had no business being in the corridor.
‘You go back to your room,’ B.J. said to her, hastily, looking around to see if anyone was listening. ‘Or you’re going to be hit again.’ He tried to remember which warden was helping with the women this morning. It was a popular duty. Was it Houston’s day? He thought so. ‘Are you crazy? Go back,’ he said more strenuously. She smiled at him, but he would take no more responsibility. He didn’t want another woman falling in love with him. Expecting things. Flowers. Gifts. Notes. Time. Women, all women, whatever their mental condition, had this unnatural need for attention. It wasn’t enough just to be with them, even. You had to talk about them. You had to talk about nothing else. How you felt about them when you first met them. How the feeling was even stronger now. How you had never felt this way before in your whole life. He pushed past her. When he turned to look back, she was gone.
B.J. could not really go to his room and lie down. The doctor might actually not know this and B.J. would not have wanted to be the one who distressed him with the truth, but the penalty for not finishing assigned chores was one he had paid only once and was never going to pay again. He decided not to return to his room at all, but made his way to the kitchen to see if wood or water was needed for breakfast. A new Chinaman had just been hired. He wore a filthy padded coat and fiddled with his braid while William Ross, cook by trade and inmate by circumstance, instructed him in the preparation of graham mush and boxty.
‘Staples here at the asylum,’ Ross was telling him. ‘Scarcely a day goes by when boxty isn’t served in one form or another. You could say the asylum runs on boxty.’ He laughed. ‘A joke,’ he explained. ‘It goes right through the patients like grain through a goose.’ He waited for the Chinaman to express amusement, but there was no response. When Ross spoke again, his voice was less familiar. ‘B.J., here’ - he gestured toward B.J. with the point of a large kitchen knife - ‘is an example of the fine, strapping health boxty can provide. If you ever need wood fetched or water, you can ask B.J. But remember, he’s not to go out alone. None of them are. He needs to get the key and a warden. If he’s not quick about it, then you get the warden yourself and tell him so.’
Ross acted more like a warden than an inmate himself, and on special occasions, like the birthday of one of Greene’s many daughters, Ross was called to the contractor’s own home to cook. B.J. knew that Dr Carr had recommended Ross’s release weeks ago. Dr Carr thought, and B.J. agreed with him, that Ross had never really been insane. B.J. was afraid of Ross.
He looked at the Chinaman to see if he was afraid of him as well. The last Chinaman had once thrown his cleaver at B.J. There was still a slice in the wall over the water bucket where the blade had lodged, the handle trembling in the wood like the shaft of an arrow. B.J. sometimes stroked the scar for reassurance when he set the bucket down. The bucket would soon be empty again. He would fill it and then it would be empty. The world seemed to conspire
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