by Kim Fielding
He should have known better than to believe again.
Twenty
WILLIAM looked through patient files late into the night. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, not when his stomach was still roiling over losing Colby. Losing him before he ever really had him. He’d had a light dinner and then turned the fan on high, hoping in vain that it would cool him a little.
It was past midnight, and his eyes felt raw and grainy when he found the file. William James Wright, said the slightly smeary tab. Admitted January 5, 1938. Age: 23. Diagnosis: Sexual perversion, homosexuality.
Oh God. Twenty-three.
The file was thick, the notes extensive. William took it next door to his apartment and sat in his comfortable chair, dust sticking to his sweaty skin, a glass of ice water at hand. A moth flew in the open window and circled dizzily around his lamp. He tried to shoo it away but it kept coming back, beating itself against the hot bulb until it fluttered to the table and was still.
He began with the admission notes. The ink had faded and the handwriting was hard to read, so he had to squint a little.
Patient is a healthy 23-year-old male. Five feet, eight inches, 135 pounds. Brown eyes, brown hair. Slightly underweight and lacking in robustness. No obvious scars or physical infirmities; no prior record of psychiatric treatment. Demeanor is subdued, detached. No signs of delusions or hallucinations.
Patient was admitted subsequent to involuntary committal. His parents had been concerned for some time that he might be homosexual. Patient refused to discuss matter. When parents became aware that patient had gone to another man’s home for a homosexual tryst, they called police. Patient and the other man were discovered in flagrante. The other man fled and was able to elude authorities but patient was arrested and charged with sodomy. Judge ruled for committal in lieu of criminal conviction.
Although patient admits to homosexual thoughts and behavior, he demonstrates defiance in being unwilling to admit he is ill. Prognosis: guarded.
The thick sheaf of pages that followed detailed the various things that were done to Bill. The chart noted his reassignments from cell to dorm and back, although not the reason for them, as well as his weight and other vital statistics. William soon recognized Dr. Fitzgerald’s cramped handwriting, which usually summarized his meetings with Bill and his treatment recommendations. There was quite a bit of paperwork concerning the insulin therapy and its aftermath. Bill had nearly doubled in weight during the therapy but the excess pounds dropped away after the insulin was discontinued, and he evened out at 117 pounds. He must have been emaciated.
William mostly skimmed the notes. A few phrases cropped up repeatedly in the doctor’s comments: uncooperative, denial, lying. When William got to the section on the castration, he read even fewer of the details. He did manage to learn, however, that Bill had very nearly died from a postoperative infection. After the surgery, Dr. Fitzgerald seemed to have taken particular delight in repeatedly testing Bill’s sexual responses to various stimuli. There was smug self-satisfaction in his tone as he described Bill’s waning ability to become aroused.
A police report followed. Bill had been recaptured and dragged back to the hospital. A nurse dispassionately noted that when he was readmitted, Bill was suffering from extensive scrapes and bruising, as well as a broken rib. William wondered if the beating had happened at his brother’s hands or from the police.
Dr. Fitzgerald was furious over the escape. He apparently took it as a personal insult, a criticism of his ability as a psychiatrist. He recommended the Freeman-Watts procedure. It would be the first time the procedure had been tried in Jelley’s Valley.
On September 3, 1942, Dr. Fitzgerald and another doctor named Mason performed a prefrontal lobotomy. Holes were bored in Bill’s skull, and the frontal lobes of his brain were ablated. William had to look the word up—it meant destroyed.
According to the chart, there was no infection this time, and Bill recovered from the surgery fairly quickly. Dr. Fitzgerald wrote with satisfaction that the patient’s obstinacy had disappeared and that escape was no longer a risk. William had to read the scant nurses’ notes that followed to glean the full truth. After the lobotomy, Bill was unable to perform more than minimal self-care. He was incontinent. He could speak only a few words.
William James Wright, age 59, died of pneumonia at the Jelley’s Valley State Insane Asylum on February 7, 1975. No family could be found to claim his body, so he was buried on the hospital grounds. The file didn’t specify where.
William sat for a long time with the file in his lap and the dead moth beside him. Finally he stood and turned off the reading light. He gently placed the file on the shelf next to the tin box. He took off his shorts and, naked, climbed into bed.
He was still awake when the dark outside his window grayed to dawn.
Twenty-One
WILLIAM had all the solitude and quiet he could possibly need for finishing his dissertation. He worked tirelessly on it, taking breaks only to jog the hospital grounds or lift the hand weights. He allowed himself two hours in the evening to read or watch TV. Sometimes he watched porn instead, and although he got off on it, the experiences weren’t very satisfying. He accomplished a huge amount of work, though, and was able to send several chapters to Dr. Ochoa for feedback.
A week after he’d last seen Colby, William went into town. He was counting on Colby having the day off. Sure enough, when William entered the building, the older man at the post office counter greeted him with a hearty hello. The man was taller and more heavily built than Colby, with a wild shock of white hair, but his blue eyes and wide smile were very familiar. “What can I do you for?” he boomed jovially.
“I came to check my mail and return some books I borrowed.”
Those eyes lit with recognition and the smile faded. Without a word, Colby’s grandfather turned around. He grabbed some papers from one of the mail slots, spun back to William, and plopped them on the counter.
William glanced at them. Credit card bill, some kind of notice from the university, junk mail. “Thanks.” He hesitated a moment before setting down the plastic bag of books.
He didn’t know what Colby had told his grandfather about him. The old man didn’t exactly look hostile, but he certainly wasn’t friendly. And he didn’t say anything either. Feeling very awkward, William thanked him again, picked up his mail, and left.
After that, he did his shopping in Mariposa. He still returned to JV once a week to retrieve the mail. Always on a Wednesday or Thursday. He and Colby’s grandfather never exchanged more than a few muttered words.
William went to the produce stand, but the reception from Missy was decidedly chilly. He realized that an estrangement from Colby meant he’d basically broken up with the entire town of Jelley’s Valley. No more transcendental tamales from Rafa and Luis. The only person in town who didn’t seem to care whether William and Colby were friends anymore was Donald Hall, the owner of the gas station, and he’d been surly to begin with. On the one hand, William was sad to lose some of the local things he’d come to enjoy, as well as annoyed that he’d have to drive more than an hour round trip for basic supplies. On the other hand, it made him smile to know that people here cared so deeply about Colby.
The heat settled in for good, making even the cows listless and logy.
On the Fourth of July, there were fireworks in Jelley’s Valley. William couldn’t see them, but he stood outside and listened to the bangs reverberate against the hills. He wondered if Colby was watching them, smelling the sharp tang of gunpowder, maybe sitting on a blanket in the little park near the school and eating a half-burned hamburger.
Two evenings later, William drove to Fresno. It was a Friday night, so the Stockyard’s parking lot was almost full. William was wearing the green shirt Colby had given him. It was slightly tighter across the chest and biceps; William had added a little muscle over the past weeks. But his old jeans still fit and so did his blue-striped button-down.
The ba
nd was playing when he entered the bar, and it was loud. Instead of the pretty but untalented singer of last time, this band featured a fat man with a gorgeous voice who also played a mean blues harmonica. The dance floor was packed with bouncing, swaying men and a few women, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and beer. The knots of lovers had spilled over from the bathroom hallway into the main room, each pair occupied with their own private dance. One young man was leaning back against the wall and looking blissfully breathless as two other men kissed and stroked him.
William had to push and twist his way to the bar. Once again, his height was in his favor. He caught the bartender’s eye easily and ordered a beer. Since he had to drive himself home this time, he’d need to make this one last.
None of the tables were available, so William found an empty spot along one wall and simply watched. He’d rarely been in a position to look at other men so openly and frankly, especially not when they tended to look right back. It was a racially diverse crowd, although predominantly white and Latino. The men ranged in age from barely twenty-one to well into their sixties, although most seemed roughly his age. There were all kinds of physical types: small and delicate, big and burly, thin, fat, muscular, smooth, hairy. A lot of them were dressed very much like William, while some wore Western gear or leather, and some sported something a little flashier. One tall man with shaved head and a bodybuilder’s physique wore a pair of skintight yellow shorts with cutouts for his ass cheeks.
William liked the way men moved. He admired the play of their muscles, the swell of their butts, the bulge of their crotches. He enjoyed their deep voices. He couldn’t really say which traits he preferred. While some of the men were undoubtedly better-looking than others, he could imagine himself attracted to any man in the room. Every one of them had his own charms. Sex with any of them might be fun.
“Hey. Why aren’t you dancing?”
The guy was a few years older and a few inches shorter than William. He had light-brown skin, dark eyes and hair, and a slight paunch beneath his plain black shirt. His smile was devastatingly handsome.
“I was finishing my beer.”
The man peered at the glass, which held mostly suds. “Looks like it’s finished. Want to?” He tilted his head toward the dance floor.
Sure. Why not? William handed his glass to a passing waiter and followed his new friend. They had to maneuver a bit to find a spot. The current song was a fast one with lively harmonica riffs. William was slightly gratified to realize his partner was a terrible dancer. Not as bad as William, probably, but bad enough to not mind William’s spastic moves. They shouted a few words at each other, but the music was far too loud to catch anything. Either this man’s name was Teddy or he was ready for something, or maybe he was saying that something was trendy. William just smiled back.
At some point in the middle of the next song, William ended up with a new dance partner. This one was a skinny kid with a floppy emo haircut. He danced up close to William, rocking their pelvises together, and then disappeared into the crowd as soon as the music stopped. But he was almost immediately replaced by a big guy in a Harley shirt and then a handsome older man with sexy smile lines. The older man stuck with him for two fast songs and a slow one. When the slow one was over, he inclined his head inquisitively in the direction of the bathroom hallway, where the amorous crowds had not thinned. William shook his head with a smile. The man smiled back and gave him a philosophical shrug.
William got sweaty and thirsty and lost track of time. He sort of lost track of himself too, forgetting to think or worry or feel self-conscious. It was nice, but he eventually realized he was exhausted. He pressed his way off the dance floor, excusing himself the entire way even though nobody could hear him. He ran the gauntlet to the bathroom. When a hand reached for him and caressed his hip, he startled only a little before pushing it away gently but firmly. He barely even blinked at the two blowjobs-in-progress inside the bathroom, or at the harmonic grunting and moaning coming from the handicapped stall. The urinals were crowded, and everyone seemed to be openly checking out everyone else’s dick.
He made his way back to the main room. He intended to buy something cold and nonalcoholic and then return to dancing. But halfway to the bar, he stopped. He felt his body buffeted by passersby, but only dimly, because he was also being rocked by an epiphany. Surrounded by men with a variety of physiques, of coloring, of temperament, he suddenly knew what his type was. He felt it in his gut, his bones, and yes, his heart. And although the entire gay male population of the central San Joaquin Valley seemed to be packed into the Stockyard that night, not a single one of them was his type—because none of them were Colby.
Colby Anderson was his type, and anyone else would be a poor substitute.
But, to put it as bluntly as Colby might, it sucked balls that Colby couldn’t be convinced to have him.
William pushed his way outside to the relative quiet and coolness of the parking lot. Even here there was activity. Four men were leaning on a pair of cars, talking and laughing, and two men were making out in the front seat of an SUV, their radio playing a pop tune William vaguely recognized.
He walked around the corner and leaned against the wall. It was dark back there and smelled faintly of piss. But he was thankful for the seclusion because his body parts were having a vicious argument with each other.
His brain—his trusty, busy brain—was insisting that he ought to march right back inside the Stockyard and have sex with the first available man. And then another one, and another. Well, not necessarily all in one night. But William could return to the bar often, or he could try some of those online hookup sites Colby had told him about. He’d get laid that way and he’d get exactly the type of experience Colby insisted he needed. Hell, maybe he’d find someone better than Colby. The Stockyard guys wouldn’t resist him because most of them weren’t looking for something more meaningful. Men who groped strangers in dark hallways probably weren’t searching for commitment and a walk down the aisle.
His dick agreed with his brain.
But his heart…. William’s heart said that sex with anyone but Colby would be cheating.
Ridiculous! his brain replied. We’re not dating. We haven’t even spoken with him in well over a month.
It’s still cheating, said his heart.
What the hell happened to your scientific objectivity? You’ve spent way too much time in that mental hospital. Now you’re crazy too.
Fuck scientific objectivity. And fuck sanity.
It turned out that William’s heart was very stubborn.
With two of his most important organs grumbling in protest, he returned to his car and headed back to the asylum.
Twenty-Two
ON THE first day of August, William awoke before dawn in preparation for his daily run. He’d been doing this every morning lately, because if he waited any later the sun would be unrelenting. A few weeks earlier, he’d mapped out a route through the grounds that was relatively free of hazards he might trip over in the dark. According to one of his phone apps, the route was just under a mile long, and he usually ran it four or five times. Today, as usual, he put on the exercise shorts he’d recently bought in Mariposa, then his old gray tee, socks, and running shoes. He climbed through his apartment window—faster that way, if ungainly—and started to jog.
He had big plans for the day. After the run, he intended to shower and eat, do some laundry, then read Clive Barker, nap, play solitaire, and watch porn. He might spend a little time in the records room, browsing the files. They were fascinating. His dissertation was currently in the hands of his committee members and he couldn’t work on it even if he wanted to. It was a wonderful feeling.
By the time he was midway through his third lap, the sun had risen. The birds were in full concert and the sky was a flawless blue, like Colby’s eyes. William rounded a building and then broke into a full run at what he saw: a car was parked at the gate, and a man was trying to scale the fence.
>
William arrived, puffing loudly, just as the man dropped to the ground inside the fence. He was maybe forty, deeply tanned, and wearing khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and a khaki vest with a zillion pockets. A large camera hung on a strap around his neck.
“Hey!” William said. “This property isn’t open to the public.”
The man eyed him. “Who’re you?”
“Caretaker. You’re going to have to leave.”
“Look, man, I just want to take pictures. It’s a project I’m working on—a photographic history of mental hospitals. Here’s my info.” He pulled a business card from one of the pockets and handed it over. Chet Gonzalez, MFA, Fine Photography, it read, along with e-mail, web, and Twitter addresses.
“Sounds interesting,” said William. “But you need permission.”
“Yeah, I know. I was supposed to head up to Stockton and take some shots there. But I kinda got sidetracked at Yosemite—I know, not an asylum, but wow—and I spent the night near here last night. I figured since I’m in the neighborhood anyway….” He grinned hopefully.
William frowned. But he slipped his phone from the case on his arm and dialed Jan Merrick. He hoped it wasn’t too early for her. She picked up quickly. “William. Is something wrong?”
“No, everything’s okay. But there’s this photographer guy here, Chet Gonzalez. He wants to take photos of the place for a project on mental hospitals.”
There was a brief pause while she thought. “He looks on the up-and-up?”
“I guess so.” William wasn’t sure what a bona fide photographer was supposed to look like.
“Okay, then. I guess it’s okay. But get his contact info, please. I’d really like to see the results of the shoot.”
Gonzalez was waiting anxiously. “She says it’s fine,” William said, and Gonzalez beamed.