managed a weak: “Hello?”
No one responded and the porthole slammed shut.
It was another thirty minutes by his reckoning before the porthole opened again. He tried another
hello
and this one seemed to work, because seconds later he heard the sound of a key being worked in the lock. The door scraped open and he saw the larger of the two black attendants, pushing his way into the cell. The man was smiling, as if caught in the midst of a joke, and he nodded at Francis not unpleasantly. “How you doing this morning Mr. Petrel?” he asked brightly. “You get some sleep? You hungry?”
“I need something to drink,” Francis croaked.
The attendant nodded. “That’s the medications they gave you. Make your tongue all thick, kinda like it be all swollen, huh?”
Francis nodded. The attendant retreated to the corridor, then returned with a plastic cup of water. He sat on the side of the cot and held Francis up like a sickly child, letting him gulp at the liquid. It was lukewarm, almost brackish, with a slight metallic taste, but at that moment, just the mere sense of it pouring down his throat, and the pressure of the man’s arm holding him, reassured Francis more than he had ever expected. The attendant must have realized this, because he quietly said, “It gonna be all right, Mr. Petrel. Mr. C-Bird. That what that other new man called you, and I’m thinking that’s a fine name to go by. This place a little rough at first, take some getting used to, but you gonna be just fine. I can tell.”
He lowered Francis back to the bed, and added, “The doctor gonna come in to see you now.”
A few seconds later, Francis saw Doctor Gulptilil’s round form hovering in the doorway. The doctor smiled, and asked, in his slight singsong-accented voice, “Mr. Petrel. How are you this morning?”
“I’m all right,” Francis said. He didn’t know really what else he could say. And, at the same time, he could hear the echoing of his voices, telling him to be extremely careful. Again, they were not nearly as loud as they could be, almost as if they were shouting commands to him from across some wide chasm.
“Do you remember where you are?” the doctor asked.
Francis nodded. “I’m in a hospital.”
“Yes,” the doctor said with a smile. “That is not difficult to surmise. But do you recall which one? And how it was that you arrived here?”
Francis did. The mere act of answering questions lifted some of the fog he felt was obscuring his vision. “It is the Western State Hospital,” he said. “And I arrived in an ambulance after having some argument with my parents.”
“Very good. And do you recall what month it is? And the year?”
“It is still March, I believe. And 1979.”
“Excellent.” The doctor seemed genuinely pleased. “A little more oriented,I would suspect. I think today we will be able to remove you from isolation and restraint, and begin to integrate you into the general population. This is as I’d hoped.”
“I would like to go home now,” Francis said.
“I am sorry, Mister Petrel. That isn’t yet possible.”
“I don’t think I want to stay here,” Francis said. Some of the quavering which had marked his voice the day he’d arrived threatened to reemerge.
“It is for your own good,” the doctor replied. Francis doubted that. He knew he wasn’t so crazy to be unable to see that it was clearly for other people’s good, not his. He didn’t say this out loud.
“Why can’t I go home?” he asked. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Do you recall the kitchen knife? And your threatening words?”
Francis shook his head. “It was a misunderstanding,” he said.
Doctor Gulptilil smiled. “Of course it was. But you’re going to be with us until we come to the realization that we cannot go around threatening people.”
“I promise I won’t.”
“Thank you, Mister Petrel. But a promise isn’t quite adequate under the current circumstances. I must be persuaded.
No one responded and the porthole slammed shut.
It was another thirty minutes by his reckoning before the porthole opened again. He tried another
hello
and this one seemed to work, because seconds later he heard the sound of a key being worked in the lock. The door scraped open and he saw the larger of the two black attendants, pushing his way into the cell. The man was smiling, as if caught in the midst of a joke, and he nodded at Francis not unpleasantly. “How you doing this morning Mr. Petrel?” he asked brightly. “You get some sleep? You hungry?”
“I need something to drink,” Francis croaked.
The attendant nodded. “That’s the medications they gave you. Make your tongue all thick, kinda like it be all swollen, huh?”
Francis nodded. The attendant retreated to the corridor, then returned with a plastic cup of water. He sat on the side of the cot and held Francis up like a sickly child, letting him gulp at the liquid. It was lukewarm, almost brackish, with a slight metallic taste, but at that moment, just the mere sense of it pouring down his throat, and the pressure of the man’s arm holding him, reassured Francis more than he had ever expected. The attendant must have realized this, because he quietly said, “It gonna be all right, Mr. Petrel. Mr. C-Bird. That what that other new man called you, and I’m thinking that’s a fine name to go by. This place a little rough at first, take some getting used to, but you gonna be just fine. I can tell.”
He lowered Francis back to the bed, and added, “The doctor gonna come in to see you now.”
A few seconds later, Francis saw Doctor Gulptilil’s round form hovering in the doorway. The doctor smiled, and asked, in his slight singsong-accented voice, “Mr. Petrel. How are you this morning?”
“I’m all right,” Francis said. He didn’t know really what else he could say. And, at the same time, he could hear the echoing of his voices, telling him to be extremely careful. Again, they were not nearly as loud as they could be, almost as if they were shouting commands to him from across some wide chasm.
“Do you remember where you are?” the doctor asked.
Francis nodded. “I’m in a hospital.”
“Yes,” the doctor said with a smile. “That is not difficult to surmise. But do you recall which one? And how it was that you arrived here?”
Francis did. The mere act of answering questions lifted some of the fog he felt was obscuring his vision. “It is the Western State Hospital,” he said. “And I arrived in an ambulance after having some argument with my parents.”
“Very good. And do you recall what month it is? And the year?”
“It is still March, I believe. And 1979.”
“Excellent.” The doctor seemed genuinely pleased. “A little more oriented,I would suspect. I think today we will be able to remove you from isolation and restraint, and begin to integrate you into the general population. This is as I’d hoped.”
“I would like to go home now,” Francis said.
“I am sorry, Mister Petrel. That isn’t yet possible.”
“I don’t think I want to stay here,” Francis said. Some of the quavering which had marked his voice the day he’d arrived threatened to reemerge.
“It is for your own good,” the doctor replied. Francis doubted that. He knew he wasn’t so crazy to be unable to see that it was clearly for other people’s good, not his. He didn’t say this out loud.
“Why can’t I go home?” he asked. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Do you recall the kitchen knife? And your threatening words?”
Francis shook his head. “It was a misunderstanding,” he said.
Doctor Gulptilil smiled. “Of course it was. But you’re going to be with us until we come to the realization that we cannot go around threatening people.”
“I promise I won’t.”
“Thank you, Mister Petrel. But a promise isn’t quite adequate under the current circumstances. I must be persuaded.
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