15

HERS WAS THE FACE THAT HE LOVED, THE FORM, THE VOICE AND MIND and soul. As he pointed the weapon at her, at her beloved form, her gaze pleaded for mercy, for understanding

for life.

“Please,” she whispered, and he heard her pain, and ached, and said nothing. Only took careful aim at his wife, at the mother of his only child, and squeezed the trigger.

Her beautiful, beseeching eyes turned to glass, turned cold and dead even as she crumpled, falling back and away, and he had murdered her, his fault, his. There’d been no good reason, no justification in the world that could make what he’d done acceptable. The revolver was heavy in his hand, the sound of the discharge still echoing in his shocked mind, and in the time it had taken to pull the trigger, he knew that he was damned for all eternity.

He was holding the gun

and she was gazing at him again, alive, her eyes bright and begging for her life.

“Please,” she whispered, and he took careful aim, his heart beating in anguish and fear. Fired. Watched her die, and understood that it would never, never end as she sat up again, her eyes wounded and afraid, that breathy, lonely plea on her fine, trembling lips.

He took a deep breath, opened his mouth to scream—

—and Eli was awake and in the dark, the low sound of thunder rumbling outside, overlaid by rain pattering on glass. He didn’t scream, only stared at the blank, unfamiliar wall next to his cot, eyes wide and unblinking. The small window near the ceiling cast a patch of watery street light across the floor, the bars of shadow that cut through it gray and insubstantial.

But solid, he thought vaguely, and was both disturbed and comforted at once. All of the windows had bars at Riverdale, or so he’d been told. Tomorrow, when he joined the general populace, he’d see for himself.

Ruri was dead. His family was dead. Pria had come to the trial, but only for the sentencing

and the single look she had spared him had been so full of rage, so hateful and hurt, he understood clearly that she, too, was lost to him. He deserved it, just as he deserved the nightmares, as he deserved the windows with bars.

He watched the shadow rain drizzle across the floor, feeling the night cold of the lonely room settling into him. Someone, somewhere not too far away, started screaming, a wail of madness and despair. Eli listened but couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman before it stopped, an abrupt, choking halt that surely came from an orderly’s club or fist. Another deranged mind, another damned soul, perhaps hoping for redemption during the day even as he or she screamed in the night. Did they hope for freedom? The concept was no more for Eli. He might be released, someday, but the dream would always be there. The memory of what he’d done.

After a very long time, he slept. And his wife was waiting for him in the dark.

“

group sessions three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, Friday,” the nurse said, looking up at Eli as they walked, her wrinkled face carefully set in a placating smile. It was a kind face, but understandably wary. He was a new inmate, an untested quantity.

“We’re quite progressive here, but we also find that most of our patients enjoy some structure,” she said, leading them down a long, silent corridor that smelled like disinfectant. The walls were an industrial shade of mild green; the linoleum was worn but reasonably well maintained. “We have meals at the same time every day, as well. You’ve already had your breakfast, but from now on, you’ll be eating with the other people from your ward. Lunch will be at twelve o’clock sharp, dinner at five-thirty. Someone will show you the way to the dining hall. If you’re hungry in between those times, speak to one of the orderlies and they’ll take care of it.”

Eli glanced behind them. The young Negro man following sneered, one hand dropping to the billy club tucked into his belt.

“I’m sure that will be fine,” Eli said, quickly looking away.

“That’s very accommodating of you, Mr. Underwood,” the nurse said, her smile still in place. She was very short and getting on in years, and seemed nice; she’d led him away from his solitary cell, was taking him to the room where the other inmates—the ones not intent on hurting anyone, he presumed—whiled away their days. He couldn’t recall her name, though she’d told him

. Susan? Sue-Lynn?

They rounded a corner and came to a stop in front of a closed door.

“Samuel?” the nurse asked, and the young man stepped forward with a ring of keys, his expression boyishly innocent as he worked the lock. Eli was careful not to stand too close, afraid to incur any ill will. He’d only arrived yesterday, after the sentencing; he’d been searched, deloused, and sent to solitary for his first night. So far, he’d had no trouble with the staff, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Samuel-the-orderly pulled the door open and stepped inside first, taking in the room before standing aside for Eli and the nurse. It was a big room, long, with a row of windows opposite the door they’d come through, another door at the far end to the left. There was another nurse inside, and two more orderlies; the three of them stood near one of the windows, smoking. Eli counted eight, nine people wearing the same uniform as his, the once-white material a soft shade of gray. Most of them sat together near the center of the room, their cheap wooden chairs loosely arranged, though a few were standing or walking by themselves, mumbling quietly, their faces slack with drugs or insanity or perhaps one of the barbaric treatments he’d heard of and didn’t want to think about. In all, though, it was much less horrible than he’d imagined; no one was screaming or crying or tied up, and he saw no bruises or other signs of abuse.

The nurse walked him to the gathered inmates as Samuel joined the other staff members, a cigarette already in his hand. One of the men, another Negro, stood up as they approached, a wide, friendly smile on his dark face. Eli attempted to summon a smile of his own and fell short, his insides too ravaged for it.

“Benny, this is Eli Underwood,” the nurse said, her manner relaxing as she spoke, an apparent familiarity between her and the tall Negro. “Eli, this is Benny Russell. He’s something of a

trustee, I suppose you could say. I’m sure Benny would be happy to introduce you to the others and help you get situated. Won’t you, Benny?”

Benny’s smile widened. “My pleasure. It’s nice to meet you, Eli.”

He extended his hand and Eli took it, surprised at the warmth and strength he felt in Benny’s grip, realizing suddenly how much he’d missed the touch of another human being in past months. It had been too long since anyone had touched him, even a simple handshake. It made him feel like crying.

“Same here,” Eli said.

“Well, I’ll leave you to get settled,” the nurse said. “Benny, I hope we can talk later

?”

She said this almost with an air of deference, enough that Eli took notice. Benny nodded at her, and she smiled, then walked away, disappearing through the door to the left, her soft white shoes creaking faintly against the faded floor. Eli looked around at the others in the room, doing his best not to stare as he studied the faces of his fellow inmates.

There were several men and women, some brown, some white; everyone sat together, which was fine by Eli. He thought Thurgood Marshall had the right idea, pushing for an end to segregation. He had worked with and fought alongside a number of colored soldiers in Korea, and though he hadn’t been particularly prejudiced before the war, he’d never given much thought one way or another for the Negro race, either. Afterward, though, after watching so many good men die during the liberation of Seoul—men of all colors—he’d found that he could no longer smile at the hateful jokes, even listen to the ridiculous bigoted rhetoric he so often heard since his return to the states, casually spewing forth from the mouths of ignorant whites. There were certainly cultural differences between Negro and white, but only in the same way that there were between Italian and Jewish, Irish and Greek, any two peoples from different places.

Apparently the insane get to be more enlightened than ordinary folk, Eli thought wryly. In spite of his self-proclaimed worthlessness, his half-believed vows to never find comfort again, he was glad to be in a “progressive” place.

“Let’s get you introduced.” Russell casually slipped an arm around Eli’s shoulders and turned him to greet the others. Again, Eli felt grateful for the friendly touch, was surprised by the depth of his feeling.

“Mr. Underwood, this is

“

The names that Russell gave him mostly slipped past Eli, though the faces would stay with him. A petite, dark-haired young woman with wise blue eyes; an androgynous young man with dreadlocks, an older man, almost a giant, physically, named Leo—and wouldn’t he give Samuel and his buddies something to worry about?—with a cool, appraising look on his rugged features. There were several others, and when they had finished with the inmates, Russell walked him over to greet the nurses and orderlies

a tall, curvaceous nurse with green eyes, an unsmiling but attractive woman named Laura or Lauren, an orderly named Terrence who moved like the soldiers Eli had fought alongside—and against—during the war. Each acknowledged Eli in some way

though as with the inmates, most seemed more interested in Russell’s attention than in Eli—smiling at Russell after a cursory nod at Eli, eager, somehow, for the attention of the tall, dark man. Eli felt almost privileged when, after the brief introductions, Russell led him to one of the windows, pulling up two chairs so that they could sit together.

The bars he’d expected were on the other side of a square of smudged glass that overlooked a parking lot, ringed with dripping hedges. It was still raining, staining the late-summer sunlight a mournful, shadowy gray, but it was warm inside. Eli felt a few seconds’ pleasure, sitting cozily by a rainy-day window, and then felt the guilt again, the guilt that was his near constant companion, his lonely twin.

Killed her, killed her and I don’t deserve to be glad about anything, not anything at all—

Russell sat in front of him, his wide smile fading.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Underwood? Or

may I call you Eli? You can call me Benny.”

Eli nodded. “I’m

Nothing is wrong.”—took her away from her daughter, only woman I ever loved, because I’m mad, evil, and crazy, I don’t deserve—

Benny’s dark eyes were watchful. “I see. That makes you something of an exception around here.”

“Oh?” Eli wasn’t interested, but didn’t want to be rude. He clamped down on the inner litany, forcing himself to pay attention.

“That’s right. Everyone who stays here, everyone who works here

I don’t know if I’d say there was anything wrong with any of them, but we all have our crosses to bear.” Benny leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly, his gaze intent on Eli’s. “Choices we made that we wish had turned out differently. Bad memories. Bad dreams.”

Eli stared at him, wondering for an instant if somehow, he knew about Ruri, but Benny sat back again, smiling.

“But some of us just want to learn about ourselves, and others,” he said. “Some of us

we need to learn. To better ourselves.”

Eli’s throat felt dry. “But

aren’t you here because

I mean, we’re all here for some crime or another

“

Benny’s smile didn’t waver. “That’s one way of looking at it, Eli. Is that why you’re here?”

“I

Yes,” Eli said, feeling a deep urge to confess, to tell this man everything, and understanding at the same time that he didn’t deserve to unburden himself, didn’t deserve to ask for the comfort of such release. Benny only watched, his expression a study of patience and calm.

“I’m here

because I deserve to be here,” Eli said finally.

This time, Benny’s smile got even wider. He reached forward and patted Eli’s knee, his eyes sparkling.

“Then this must be where you belong,” he said lightly. “Let me tell you about the schedule around here. Did Sue Lynn tell you we’re a ‘progressive’ group?”

Eli nodded, his thoughts distant as Benny described art time, and mealtime, and talk time, where the men and women slept, how to get cigarettes and extra food. Outside, the rain continued to fall.

“

this must be where you belong,” he thought, marveling at how Benny had made it sound, how casual, as though Eli had chosen to think of his sentence as proper

implying that there was any other choice. He’d killed his wife in cold blood, in a moment of madness he couldn’t justify; what was there to choose? If Benny noticed that Eli wasn’t paying full attention, he didn’t comment

throughout the rest of the morning, he only talked about little things, smiling and warm as he related anecdotes about the other inmates and staff and about himself. It turned out they both loved baseball, and both had been in the military; Benny had been a Navy man in the Pacific theater, ‘42, and had some good stories about the men on his ship

and though he’d obviously seen plenty, he didn’t relate any combat tales, which was something of a relief. Eli had seen enough of it himself. Benny’s pleasant, unguarded manner was entirely engaging, comforting in its completeness; it was as though he had the ability to draw a man outside himself, to make him see things with a different point of view, a perspective somehow more forgiving than one’s own. Eli wasn’t sure what to make of him. At lunch, when Benny went to sit with another of the inmates for a time, the dark-haired woman with the ancient eyes, Eli was almost relieved to be back with his own familiar thoughts, bleak as most of them were. He watched as Benny took the girl’s hand, talking with her in a low, calm voice, smiling frequently at her

and wondered at how such a man had come to be in an asylum for the criminally insane. And wondered, too, why he already felt that he and Benny were going to be friends.