Read Online The Madman's Tale by John Katzenbach - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Katzenbach
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items through the wire. These included some rough sheets and a pillowcase, a threadbare army surplus olive drab wool blanket, a bathrobe much like the ones he’d already seen on some patients, and some pajamas, again like those he’d already seen. He placed these on top of the suitcase and lifted both in front of him.
Mr. Moses nodded. “All right, I’ll show you your bed. Get your stuff squared away. Then what have we got for Mister C-Bird, ladies?”
Again, one of the nurses checked the chart. “Lunch at noon. Then he’s free until a group session in Room 101 at three with Mister Evans. He comes back here at four thirty for free time. Dinner at six o’clock. Medications at seven. That’s it.”
“You get all that, Mister C-Bird?”
Francis nodded. He didn’t trust his own voice. He could hear, echoing deep within him, orders to comply, keep quiet, and stay alert. He followed Mr. Moses through a door into a large room with some thirty to forty beds lined up in rows. All the beds were made up, except one, not far from the door. There were a half dozen men lying on beds, either asleep, or staring up into the ceiling, who barely looked in his direction as he entered the room.
Mr. Moses helped him to make the bed and stow his few clothes in a footlocker.
There was room for the tiny suitcase, as well, and it disappeared into the empty space. It took less than five minutes to square him away.
“Well, that’s it,” Mr. Moses said.
“What happens to me now?” Francis asked.
The attendant smiled a little wistfully. “Now, C-Bird, what you got to do is get yourself better.”
Francis nodded. “How?”
“That the big question, C-Bird. You gone have to figure that out for yourself.”
“What should I do?” Francis asked.
The attendant leaned down toward him. “Just keep to yourself. This place can get a bit rough, sometimes. You got to figure out everybody else, and give ‘em what space they need. Don’t be trying to make friends too fast, C-Bird. Just keep your mouth shut and follow the rules. You need help, you talk to me or my brother, or one of the nurses, and we’ll try to see you straight.”
“But what are the rules?” Francis said.
The large attendant turned and pointed at a sign posted high on the wall.
NO SMOKING IN SLEEPING ROOM
NO LOUD NOISES
NO TALKING AFTER 9 PM
RESPECT OTHERS
RESPECT OTHER PEOPLE'S PROPERTY
When he finished reading through twice, Francis turned. He wasn’t sure where to go or what to do. He sat down on the edge of his bed.
Across the room, one of the men who had been lying down staring at the ceiling, feigning sleep, abruptly stood up. He was very tall, well over six and one half feet, with a sunken chest, and thin, bony arms that protruded from beneath a tattered sweatshirt with the logo of the New England Patriots on it, and stovepipe legs that jutted from lime green surgical scrubs that were six inches too short. The sweatshirt sleeves had been sliced off just below the shoulders. He was far older than Francis, and wore stringy gray-tinged hair in a matted clump that fell to his shoulders. His eyes were suddenly wide, as if half-frightened and half-furious. The man instantly lifted one cadaverous hand and pointed directly at Francis.
“Stop it!” he shouted out. “Stop it, now!”
Francis shrank back slightly. “Stop what?”
“Just stop! I can tell! You cannot fool me! I knew it as soon as you came in! Stop it!”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Francis replied meekly.
By now the tall man was waving both arms in the air as if trying to clear cobwebs from his path. His voice was rising with each step he took across the room, “Stop it! Stop it! I can see through you! You can’t do it to me!”
Francis looked around for somewhere to run, or to hide, but he was hemmed in by the man lurching toward him and the back wall of the room. The few other men in the dormitory were still asleep, or ignoring what was happening.
The man seemed to
Mr. Moses nodded. “All right, I’ll show you your bed. Get your stuff squared away. Then what have we got for Mister C-Bird, ladies?”
Again, one of the nurses checked the chart. “Lunch at noon. Then he’s free until a group session in Room 101 at three with Mister Evans. He comes back here at four thirty for free time. Dinner at six o’clock. Medications at seven. That’s it.”
“You get all that, Mister C-Bird?”
Francis nodded. He didn’t trust his own voice. He could hear, echoing deep within him, orders to comply, keep quiet, and stay alert. He followed Mr. Moses through a door into a large room with some thirty to forty beds lined up in rows. All the beds were made up, except one, not far from the door. There were a half dozen men lying on beds, either asleep, or staring up into the ceiling, who barely looked in his direction as he entered the room.
Mr. Moses helped him to make the bed and stow his few clothes in a footlocker.
There was room for the tiny suitcase, as well, and it disappeared into the empty space. It took less than five minutes to square him away.
“Well, that’s it,” Mr. Moses said.
“What happens to me now?” Francis asked.
The attendant smiled a little wistfully. “Now, C-Bird, what you got to do is get yourself better.”
Francis nodded. “How?”
“That the big question, C-Bird. You gone have to figure that out for yourself.”
“What should I do?” Francis asked.
The attendant leaned down toward him. “Just keep to yourself. This place can get a bit rough, sometimes. You got to figure out everybody else, and give ‘em what space they need. Don’t be trying to make friends too fast, C-Bird. Just keep your mouth shut and follow the rules. You need help, you talk to me or my brother, or one of the nurses, and we’ll try to see you straight.”
“But what are the rules?” Francis said.
The large attendant turned and pointed at a sign posted high on the wall.
NO SMOKING IN SLEEPING ROOM
NO LOUD NOISES
NO TALKING AFTER 9 PM
RESPECT OTHERS
RESPECT OTHER PEOPLE'S PROPERTY
When he finished reading through twice, Francis turned. He wasn’t sure where to go or what to do. He sat down on the edge of his bed.
Across the room, one of the men who had been lying down staring at the ceiling, feigning sleep, abruptly stood up. He was very tall, well over six and one half feet, with a sunken chest, and thin, bony arms that protruded from beneath a tattered sweatshirt with the logo of the New England Patriots on it, and stovepipe legs that jutted from lime green surgical scrubs that were six inches too short. The sweatshirt sleeves had been sliced off just below the shoulders. He was far older than Francis, and wore stringy gray-tinged hair in a matted clump that fell to his shoulders. His eyes were suddenly wide, as if half-frightened and half-furious. The man instantly lifted one cadaverous hand and pointed directly at Francis.
“Stop it!” he shouted out. “Stop it, now!”
Francis shrank back slightly. “Stop what?”
“Just stop! I can tell! You cannot fool me! I knew it as soon as you came in! Stop it!”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Francis replied meekly.
By now the tall man was waving both arms in the air as if trying to clear cobwebs from his path. His voice was rising with each step he took across the room, “Stop it! Stop it! I can see through you! You can’t do it to me!”
Francis looked around for somewhere to run, or to hide, but he was hemmed in by the man lurching toward him and the back wall of the room. The few other men in the dormitory were still asleep, or ignoring what was happening.
The man seemed to
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