menu_book Chapter 8

public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Dr. L. Martin. Homicide Hussey by Atha McGuire. Chapter 8. The word was quiet. It was, Mrs. Callahan said, suspiciously quiet. What is it, Lula? The lull before the storm? Lula shook her head. She asked Mrs. Callahan, how's your mother feeling these days? The afternoon charge lifted her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose. Her back's been hurting some, but she gets around

pretty well. I hope I do as well at her age. She patted Lula's arm before she went back to the desk. I hope we both do, Lula. Johanna watched Mrs. Callahan walk from the day hall. It isn't just my imagination. She thinks it's quiet, too. All day, Nicole had silently worked on her piece of linen, her eyes never leaving it. Yogi had stood on her head. She wouldn't quit standing on her head to eat lunch. An aide had kept tipping her over onto her feet, and Yogi had

kept turning back with her feet in the air until Mrs. Connor, the morning charge, had told them to quit it. She said it wouldn't hurt Yogi to go without lunch. She's pouting, the aide had said. I think it has something to do with Miss Tietenham. Yeah, Spitsy had giggled. You can tell by looking at her feet. They're drooping. Octavia Hill seesawed from high to low. She would sing and dance, then abruptly stop and mumble softly. It was as if she were trying to hold herself in,

Johanna thought, as if she were waiting. Waiting for what? But the driving force that stimulated her feet and excited her voice couldn't be completely stopped. For a moment, Johanna listened to her rapid words. She was vigorously preaching a sermon having to do with sin, only it seemed she was in favor of it. Johanna didn't want to turn her head and look toward the rear of the day hall, but every once in a while would find herself doing so, and every time she

looked, the woman who had smelled so strongly of pyraldehyde was staring at her. They had stopped giving her the drug, Lula said, because it was hard on her and they wanted to see if she could get along without it. Isn't it time for lunch? Mrs. Holliday turned from studying a pattern of sunlight on the floor. She was no longer wearing the hat. She had on a house dress because she had had an accident and they had changed her. Isn't it time for lunch? They had had lunch.

That's a pretty dress, Johanna said. Yes, it is. Mrs. Holliday looked down at the dress and the creases deepened in her forehead. They even help me bathe myself. I don't feel as spry as I used to. I wonder who does the cooking. I go in and eat and don't even help do the dishes. And no washing to do. And no ironing. She lowered her voice guiltily. Is it, is it wrong of me to stay here? No, of course not. You're a sweet girl, Anne. How's your mother? Mrs. Holliday didn't talk long.

Soon she was again studying the pattern of sunlight on the floor. I'm tired, Johanna thought, stifling a yawn. I hope I can sleep tonight. The white moor seems even more ridiculous now in the daytime. I've got to admit, I've never in my life seen anyone quite like her.

She's crazy. All these other women are crazy too, but they're not like her. Why do I keep thinking some of them are acting oddly? I do hope I can sleep tonight. Why in the world wouldn't they act odd? After all, this is an insane asylum. Two aides who were taking psychiatric training were sitting several chairs from Johanna. She could hear them talking. They were studying as they watched the day hall. Spitsy was standing in front of them, listening with her mouth open.

One was asking questions, and the other was answering. The fear of wide-open spaces? Agoraphobia. Fear of high places? The other aide hesitated.

Areophobia, said Spitsy. You go sit down. Johanna stood up to straighten the twisted skirt of the much-too-large house dress she was wearing. When she sat down, it felt better. I wonder why Mr. Dow hasn't come to see me.

He came regularly when I was in jail, but perhaps they asked him not to while I was under observation. He said I had nice ankles. He's an ankle man. The white moor asked me if he had a quirk.

That's no quirk. Psychiatrists say men are attracted to the part of a woman they identify with their first remembrances of their mothers unconsciously. It explains their whistling at girls in sweaters. They were breast babies. I wonder if it applies to women if they admire certain parts of men because, say, I don't get this, one of the aides

said. When you're alone with a violent patient, she was reading from a loose leaf notebook in her lap, and are not in position to get behind him, use a mattress. She shook her head. I don't get it. You're supposed to grab a mattress, the other aide said, and back the patient into a corner until help comes. They can't get at you through the mattress, see? Spitzy, who had joined them again, giggled. Oh, go sit down. Johanna stifled a yawn. Mrs. Callahan was standing in

the doorway and looking peculiarly at Johanna, as if she were studying about her. Johanna's hand went to her face. Mrs. Callahan frowned slightly. What's she staring at me for? I'm not doing anything. I'm so quiet. A can of carrots in a cupboard couldn't be more quiet. She looks as if she were trying to decide whether to give me a glass of pyraldehyde or put me in a straight jacket. Then Mrs. Callahan turned and went back to her desk. I've only two more days, Johanna thought.

Miss Tietenham, funny how attached you can get to them, one of the aides was saying. There was a bed patient on 35. Jeez, she was old. They called her Sailor Mary. I used to feed her, and she was sure cute.

She'd give me the sweetest smile and then grab my arm and bite it. Didn't have any teeth, but you could still feel it plenty. She died one night, and when I came to work in the morning, I cried a little when they told me. Maybe it was because I knew she really liked me. What's the use of it?

The use of what? Keeping them alive the way they do. You mean the black bottle? Doing away with the unfit and useless? All that stuff about getting rid of the weeds that choke out the natural growth of things?

Well, there are some people think irises are pretty, but as far as I'm concerned, the common garden variety are washed out looking things, and I'd probably call them weeds. and yank them out. Some people think black-eyed Susans are weeds, but I like them, and there you are. They might start by doing away with the weeds, the hopelessly insane, but they'd sure as hell

end up by pulling flowers. Someone'd end up by coming at me with a hoe if I didn't think the way he did. Because whenever people are people, Spitzy said philosophically, they're nuts. Spitzy, you go sit down and stay there. Spitzy wandered off for a minute. Miss Holmes, Mrs. Callahan was beckoning from the door, come along. Now what? Johanna stood up and walked toward her, conscious of the two long dress brushing against her legs. What does she want

with me? Just before she reached Mrs. Callahan, Johanna felt a movement behind her and turned. It was the woman who had smelled of puraldehyde. The woman's eyes were narrowed, and her arm was outstretched as she came after her, as if wanting to stop her. No, Mrs. Cunney, go back to your seat. Mrs. Callahan used the expressionless tone of voice necessary to all the white uniforms when they must be obeyed. A trained institutional voice, cold as the pack sheets and hydro,

firm as cuffed chains of steel. Before Mrs. Callahan spoke, an aide had already reached the woman's side and grabbed her arm. She told Mrs. Callahan, looks like she needs another highball. Mrs. Callahan shook her head. Order book says to discontinue. Just keep an eye on her. She turned to Johanna. I think you'd better stay in your room. Johanna walked with her down the quarter. You should have been in your room all day, Mrs. Callahan smiled at her before she shut

the door, leaving Johanna alone in the small room. She locked me up because of Miss Tietenham. They're afraid I might hurt someone. Johanna stretched out on the narrow bed. They're not locking Mrs. Cunney up. They're not afraid of her. It's a bit confusing. Still, every patient and every attendant is watching Mrs. Cunney, and if she, as much as stands up from her chair, someone will make her sit down. And they wouldn't watch me, I act too sane. Mrs. Callahan thinks

I'm dangerous, thinks I'm a murderer. Lula and the White Moor are the only two people in the world who know I'm not a murderer, but they can't help me. Johanna stared at the ceiling and tried to relax. No one can help me. Mr. Dow can't help me, but I don't think he put poison in the candy he sent me. In the first place, it would be too big a risk, and he has no reason to kill me. But can I be sure? He hired me for the Van Der Ants, didn't he? Suppose it was part of a scheme. He could

have hired me as part of a plan. He'd know I'd be accused if something of mine was found near her body. How did he get the flower? Why did Dinah lie? If she'd told the truth, would they still have accused me? Because I was the outsider, because of my face. When Mr. Dow told me I had nice ankles, he didn't mean it as a compliment. He made a statement. He might have been speaking of the weather. He merely stated the fact that I had nice ankles. His voice was sincere. A jury

would listen to that voice. In front of a jury, it would vibrate with honesty. I felt he was honest, bluntly honest. When he talked, he used his hands a little, and he told me he wanted me to see things as they were, as they would be. You have nice ankles. He had looked at them approvingly. Then he had shaken his head, but the face. A damned jury won't go past the face. He had told her the truth. Johanna saw the sky already black through the window. It was darker than it had been

this time last evening. Was a storm coming, and wasn't it time for their evening meal? It certainly didn't matter that she had nice ankles. She hadn't thought F.I. Dow good-looking because she had compared him with Tip Thornton, and no man could compare favorably with Tip Thornton's smooth blondness. Still, she had thought Dow had an interesting face. He looked shrewd and clever. He looked like a brilliant lawyer who could capitalize on a rugged, honest face. He had

smoked a cigar jerkily walking back and forth on the bare-stained floor of the jail. I'm a fixer, he had said. A good lawyer's a good fixer, but this time I'm up against something. Usually, I find out who's going to be up for jury duty, and by inquiring here and there, can find out their views on anything. I can challenge them and keep anyone off the jury who isn't going to react the way I want him to.

But how do I want this jury to react? If I could use pity, why the hell is it that a beautiful face draws sympathy? I'm sorry, Johanna had told him about my face. He had continued walking up and down. Don't worry, I'll get an angle, but for now. And then he had told her she must plead guilty by reason of insanity. When she told him she'd rather tell

the truth, he angrily told her that the first instinct in nature is self-preservation, and whether she realized it or not, she was fighting for her life. He was, he said, going to save her life. He said if she were committed to a mental institution, she could later be judged sane and be allowed to go free. She had been taken back to her cell, and they had brought her a plate of fried potatoes, raw in the middle and burned on the sides, and two biscuits burned on the bottoms,

and all she could think of was guilty by reason of insanity. The door opened, and Johanna raised her head from the pillow. It was Nicole. It is waiting we are, Nicole said. She shut the door. Johanna looked blankly at the space where Nicole's head had been. It's ridiculous that anyone can open my door and come in, but I can't get out. They're all crazy and can open my door and come in, and I'm sane and I'm locked up. Or am I sane? They think they're sane too. Even Nicole merely

has spells of being sick, but they're not sane. Perhaps there wasn't any murder committed except in my imagination. I can't be sent to the gas chamber if there wasn't a murder, but then I'd have to be here the rest of my life, and if I'm so crazy that I think such a thing happened and it didn't, I should be locked up. Could it be that I'm dangerous? No, I don't believe it. I don't want to hurt anyone. But the woman who killed her baby, she didn't want to hurt anyone either.

Oh God, am I insane? The door opened again. Johanna found herself looking into the eyes of Mrs. Cunney. Hello. Johanna tried to smile at her. The woman holding the door stared at her. She took a step into the room. Johanna asked, how are you feeling? Mrs. Cunney continued staring at her. Johanna sat up with a sudden tenseness in her body. She didn't like the expression on the woman's face. She had a feeling that the dullness in the eyes staring at her was a deceptive curtain

covering a murderous emotion that the woman might do anything. She hadn't been given any pereldehyde. Mrs. Cunney looked as if she were gathering strength. Abruptly, the woman vehemently whispered, not you. No, not you. There was a flash of light as a chill fingered down Johanna's spine. From the corner of her eye, Johanna saw the jagged streak of lightning across the sky through her window, then heard the threatening thunder. Me, not you. Me. Johanna sat frozen.

What are you doing in here, Mrs. Cunney? Mrs. Callahan walked briskly into the room. Now run along to the dining room. Johanna tried to relax, but could only continue to sit stiffly on the side of the bed. What is the matter with everyone? asked Mrs. Callahan. She glanced out the window. It may be only the storm that's coming, but she shook her head. Johanna looked numbly at her. Mrs. Callahan told her, I think you'd better eat in the dining room with the

others. It will save the girls carrying another tray. Mrs. Callahan, Johanna asked, couldn't you lock my door with a key? I know you lock some of the rooms. Mrs. Callahan shook her head. It isn't on the order book. Johanna walked to the dining room with Mrs. Callahan wondering about it. She asked Lula. Lula, why don't they lock the doors of all the women? I mean, when a patient's put in a room, aren't they afraid another patient will open the door and let her out?

Lula was putting plates of toast on the tables. No, why should they? No one tried to let you out, did they? It's against the rules. Johanna watched Lula finish taking the toast from her tray and then walked back behind the counter. Mrs. Holliday and Bella, the big-headed woman, came in together. They walked slowly, Mrs. Holliday holding on to Bella's good arm. They were both smiling. Johanna wondered if Lula hadn't asked each of them to help the other. When the vegetarian told

Pee Wee to change seats with Mrs. Holliday so she could sit next to Bella, Johanna felt a momentary twinge and then relief that the old lady would be noticed after she, Johanna, had left. Only two more days and she would be taken back to jail to stand trial. Spitsy and Yogi were exceptionally quiet during dinner. Johanna asked Spitsy if she wasn't feeling well. I'm feeling okay, Spitsy said, peering at Johanna from under her bangs. I'm not talking because I'm thinking. Bella passed her

dessert to the woman across from her. The woman passed it to Johanna's table. Spitzy took it and handed it to Johanna. But I don't. Johanna looked at Bella. Bella smiled and nodded at her. It was odd. Most of the women in the room appeared to be smiling and nodding at her. Were they sorry for her because she had been locked in her room? But there were others who had to stay in their rooms. or was it because they knew she'd be with them only two more days? Whatever the reason, they were

kind. Johanna picked up her spoon and ate the dessert. These women were insane, but they were her friends. The evening passed slowly for Johanna. She missed sitting in the day hall with the other patients. Once she was let out of her room to go to the lavatory, the attendant who went with her asked if she didn't want a cigarette. Johanna knew the attendant wanted an excuse to smoke. Johanna took the bag of tobacco and folder of papers and tried to do as she had seen the others

do. The vegetarian came into the lavatory. She saw Johanna and said, yon rising moon that looks for us again. How oft hereafter will she wax and wane? Johanna fumbled and spilled some of the tobacco. The attendant offered her one of her own cigarettes from a flattened package. It had probably been full when she had come to the ward, but like so many of the other white uniforms, she had probably given most of them to the patients.

How oft hereafter, rising, look for us, the vegetarian quoted, through this same garden and for one in vain. The attendant had already lit her own cigarette, so Johanna gave the one she had taken back to her. Johanna slowly washed her hands to give the attendant time to finish her smoking. The white moor had asked Johanna if she smoked.

She had asked a good many silly questions. Perhaps I never smoked, Johanna thought, because I was afraid it would draw attention to me. I never wanted to be noticed. Then Johanna was again in her room. She had undressed and got into bed, and now the light was out.

Lula had told her she needn't worry about Mrs. Cunney, that she would watch her. The blonde nurse who worked relief wasn't on the ward. Johanna decided she'd be able to sleep tonight. But when the shift changed at 10.45, Johanna was still awake. It was the thunder and lightning that was keeping her awake.

The room was dark, and the night outside was black. A crack of lightning across the sky seemed to outline ominous shadows and the thunder to cover the sound of a turning doorknob. In the stillness that followed, Johanna listened, trying to assure herself there was no one in the room. A blast of rain suddenly crashed against the window, then continued battering against the glass. The storm had broken. The door opened.

End of chapter 8