stone pillar with its terrible carved word.
"A sound?"
"Somebody screaming. I could hear it right through the walls."
"Yes," he said. "It was a woman. I didn't know that the sound would go right outside. I'm sorry, Katy, that it frightened you. Sometimes the Asylum patients feel a need to scream. I don't know why."
"Is someone hurting them?"
"No, no. They're well cared for. They just seem
to be hurting inside their own heads."
"Can't you fix them? Isn't that why you came?"
He shook his head. "They called me because one of them had a bad stomachache. I can fix
that,
Katy. I've fixed tummyaches for you, haven't I, often enough?"
I nodded. "But the other can't be fixed? The inside-the-head part? The screaming part?"
"No. That can't be fixed."
"Do they
all
scream?"
Father held the reins in one hand and put his other arm around me. "You know, Katydid, there are one hundred and twenty-two patients in the Asylum right now. If they all screamed, we would hear it all the way on Orchard Street. It would blow our roof right off."
I knew he was trying to make me laugh. I didn't, though.
"Some of them never make a sound. They don't even move, those silent ones. They sit in the same position and stare into space, some of them for years," Father said. "Some walk back and forth, back and forth. One dances, all alone. Others sing, or talk."
"Or scream?"
"Or sometimes scream."
"Can't you give them medicine?" He sighed. "You know a strange thing, Katy? Sometimes they are better if they have a high
fever. So some doctors are trying to figure out ways to push their temperature up, as if they had malaria, or pneumonia. They've tried giving them sulphur and oil. But I think it's too dangerous. I think there must be another way."
I realized that he was talking to me as if I were grown up.
"I want you to find the way," I said. "I want you to fix those people."
"Someone will, one day," he said. "Maybe not me. But someone."
He jiggled the reins to hurry the horses. Behind us, the Asylum grew small in the distance. I tried to think of another sound to bury the memory of the scream.
Shoooda shoooda shoooda
came to my mind. I rubbed my mittened hands in circles on my coat and thought of Jacob.
9. APRIL 1911
Â
Gram arrived from Cincinnati by train. She came every summer but this time it was earlier than usual; this time she came in April because of the baby. I had helped Peggy as she cleaned the big spare bedroom, the one with the pink-flowered wallpaper, that Gram always used on her visits. We laid the freshly starched and ironed bureau scarf on top of the tall bureau, and we set out the silver brush-and-comb set that Mother usually kept packed away in a drawer.
Miss Abbott had even put a new blue satin binding on the blanket for Gram's bed. I watched as
Peggy smoothed the crocheted coverlet over the blanket, and then we took a small pillow filled with pine needles and set it atop, for the lovely smell.
The curtains were freshly washed and starched and ironed. Naomi had baked an orange cake, and the house smelled of it. The brass knocker on the front door was polished. Everything seemed new and shiny, and it was in part, of course, for Gram, because she hadn't visited in a long time.
But I knew it was also for the baby. The baby would be coming very soon.
I went with Father in the buggy to meet the train, and there she was, wearing a hat and gloves as she stepped down with the conductor reaching up for her hand. The porter helped Father move her bags to the buggy, and I took Gram's hand and skipped beside her after she had distributed coins to all of those who had helped her on her journey. The conductor tipped his hat to her and said that he hoped she had a nice visit with her family.
Of course she said how I had grown.
The train blew its whistle and began to move slowly from the stationâours was a very short stop, being such a small townâon its way to Philadelphia beyond. I saw faces in the windows of the
"A sound?"
"Somebody screaming. I could hear it right through the walls."
"Yes," he said. "It was a woman. I didn't know that the sound would go right outside. I'm sorry, Katy, that it frightened you. Sometimes the Asylum patients feel a need to scream. I don't know why."
"Is someone hurting them?"
"No, no. They're well cared for. They just seem
to be hurting inside their own heads."
"Can't you fix them? Isn't that why you came?"
He shook his head. "They called me because one of them had a bad stomachache. I can fix
that,
Katy. I've fixed tummyaches for you, haven't I, often enough?"
I nodded. "But the other can't be fixed? The inside-the-head part? The screaming part?"
"No. That can't be fixed."
"Do they
all
scream?"
Father held the reins in one hand and put his other arm around me. "You know, Katydid, there are one hundred and twenty-two patients in the Asylum right now. If they all screamed, we would hear it all the way on Orchard Street. It would blow our roof right off."
I knew he was trying to make me laugh. I didn't, though.
"Some of them never make a sound. They don't even move, those silent ones. They sit in the same position and stare into space, some of them for years," Father said. "Some walk back and forth, back and forth. One dances, all alone. Others sing, or talk."
"Or scream?"
"Or sometimes scream."
"Can't you give them medicine?" He sighed. "You know a strange thing, Katy? Sometimes they are better if they have a high
fever. So some doctors are trying to figure out ways to push their temperature up, as if they had malaria, or pneumonia. They've tried giving them sulphur and oil. But I think it's too dangerous. I think there must be another way."
I realized that he was talking to me as if I were grown up.
"I want you to find the way," I said. "I want you to fix those people."
"Someone will, one day," he said. "Maybe not me. But someone."
He jiggled the reins to hurry the horses. Behind us, the Asylum grew small in the distance. I tried to think of another sound to bury the memory of the scream.
Shoooda shoooda shoooda
came to my mind. I rubbed my mittened hands in circles on my coat and thought of Jacob.
9. APRIL 1911
Â
Gram arrived from Cincinnati by train. She came every summer but this time it was earlier than usual; this time she came in April because of the baby. I had helped Peggy as she cleaned the big spare bedroom, the one with the pink-flowered wallpaper, that Gram always used on her visits. We laid the freshly starched and ironed bureau scarf on top of the tall bureau, and we set out the silver brush-and-comb set that Mother usually kept packed away in a drawer.
Miss Abbott had even put a new blue satin binding on the blanket for Gram's bed. I watched as
Peggy smoothed the crocheted coverlet over the blanket, and then we took a small pillow filled with pine needles and set it atop, for the lovely smell.
The curtains were freshly washed and starched and ironed. Naomi had baked an orange cake, and the house smelled of it. The brass knocker on the front door was polished. Everything seemed new and shiny, and it was in part, of course, for Gram, because she hadn't visited in a long time.
But I knew it was also for the baby. The baby would be coming very soon.
I went with Father in the buggy to meet the train, and there she was, wearing a hat and gloves as she stepped down with the conductor reaching up for her hand. The porter helped Father move her bags to the buggy, and I took Gram's hand and skipped beside her after she had distributed coins to all of those who had helped her on her journey. The conductor tipped his hat to her and said that he hoped she had a nice visit with her family.
Of course she said how I had grown.
The train blew its whistle and began to move slowly from the stationâours was a very short stop, being such a small townâon its way to Philadelphia beyond. I saw faces in the windows of the
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