by Lesley Kagen
The moody lighting and the hazy clouds of cigarette smoke made it hard to see, so it took me a few minutes to spot our aunt in the last row. I only did so because her rigid posture, auburn hair shot through with gold, and pretty lilac dress were real standouts. I’d understand if Uncle Walt was in love with her, because she was a real knockout. Especially in comparison to the rumpled gal she was sitting next to. The two of them reminded me of those before and after snapshots Viv’s mother tacked to the House of Beauty bulletin board to show off her skill at turning plain Janes into Jayne Mansfields.
The church gals played Bingo on Tuesday nights to raise money to send to Father Damien’s lepers, sold pastry to help out pagan babies, and donated their kids’ outgrown clothes to the Burkes, a family of fourteen, but when it came to other gals’ appearances? They weren’t so charitable. Aunt Jane May’s seatmate had to know that wearing a shapeless beige shift and a battered hat pulled down too low on her face would make her an object of ridicule at the coffee klatches for the next week. To show up at a town function looking like she didn’t give a hoot what anyone thought of her? That took the kind of moxie I wished I had more of and I wondered—who is that?
Like she read my mind, the gal plucked the ratty straw hat off the top of her head, began fanning herself with it, and when I saw who it was, I almost tumbled backward off the catwalk.
What in God’s name was Audrey Cavanaugh doing at a town hall meeting?
Was she with Aunt Jane May or was the seat next to her the last one up for grabs? The Summit Witch didn’t seem to care about anything else that went on in town, so why’d she care about what went on at Broadhurst?
The girls and I had never seen her out and about and we always kept an eye out for her, for Viv’s sake. But plenty of other kids bragged that they’d spotted her skulking around the woods that encircled Broadhurst when they were playing hide ’n’ seek or cowboys and Indians up there. The latest word at the fountain counter at Whitcomb’s Drugstore was: “I’m tellin’ ya, I seen that witch with my own eyes. She had scraggly hair and she was holding a big, long knife in her talons. If I hadn’t gotten away, she was gonna drag me back to her house, chop me up, and throw me into her bubblin’ cauldron ’cause … witches can give harelips to unborn babies after they eat a kid’s heart out!”
The girls and I were entertained by the ghastly descriptions of Audrey Cavanaugh that we heard at the fountain counter, but we didn’t believe them, because we knew what she really looked like. I caught a glimpse of her about a week after she moved into the old Jenkins place down the block from us.
I was trying on my trick-or-treat costume that morning and having no luck gluing the bolts I’d fashioned out of empty toilet paper tubes to my temples and the Aqua Net spray was refusing to make my hair stand on end—I was planning to beg for candy that night as the bride of Frankenstein—so I was in a foul mood. To add insult to injury, after I came downstairs and took my seat at the kitchen table, Aunt Jane May set my breakfast in front of me and said, “Eat fast. I want you to deliver a housewarming gift to Miz Cavanaugh on your way to school.”
I snapped at her, “Do I look like the Welcome Wagon?”
“Do I look like I’d tolerate that tone of voice?” she snapped back. I thought she might haul off and swat me one, but what she did hurt even worse. She looked disappointed. “Your mama would be appalled if … have I not done a better job raising you? Miz Cavanaugh is a widow who moved here all the way from Chicago and she doesn’t know a soul. She could use a slice.” The woman who thought baked goods were the first course of treatment for many of life’s ills set a white bakery box down in front of me. “And y’all can forget about helpin’ yourselves to the pie, sticking the box down the sewer drain, and using the string for cat’s cradle.” As upset as I was, I couldn’t help but be impressed—and horrified—because that’s exactly what was on my mind. “Less’n you want to spend tonight saying a rosary instead of going door to door and askin’ for sweets, missy, you’ll drop that pie off and be quick about it.”
Of course, the girls questioned why I had a bakery box lying on top of the books in my arms when I joined them out in front of the house for our daily walk to school. After I explained what Aunt Jane May was forcing me to do, Viv’s eyes turned the size of poker chips, so Frankie ushered her around the corner and kept her company while I ran up the house steps and set the pie on the Summit Witch’s front porch.
I really hated to see our vivacious girl a slave to her fear, so I’d been searching Doc’s medical files to find something that might cure her. What I’d learned was that what Viv grappled with was not an ordinary fear, like being afraid of the dark or the bogeyman. She had something called a “phobia.” Town clerk Lester Maddox had one, too. Only, instead of witches, Lester told Doc he was terrified of falling into quicksand because “You try to fight, you sink, and if you don’t fight, you still sink.” Doc pointed out to him numerous times that there was no quicksand in Summit and tried to reason Mr. Maddox out of his fear, but ended up noting in his file, “The patient does not respond to logic.”
By the time I caught back up to them, Viv’s breathing was coming too fast for her to quiz me, but Frankie couldn’t wait to learn more. “Did you get a look at her?” she asked.
“She walked past the door, but …”
Viv was making such a wheezy racket that I told her to put her hands over her ears so she’d be spared further description, but I knew she’d probably eavesdrop on us anyway.
Once Viv was squared away, Frankie asked me, “Did you hear her cackle?”
“Nope.”
“She got a humped back like Edith Dirks, bless her heart?”
I shook my head.
“Talons?
“Uh-uh.”
“What about the cat? Charlie Fleming said at the drugstore that it had rabies and—”
“No cacklin’, no hump, no talons, no cat frothin’ at the mouth—nothin’ like that,” I told Frankie. “From what I could see, she didn’t even look witchy except for her hair.”
As I suspected, our little gossip monger had been listening in, because no matter how terrified she was, Viv couldn’t bear not knowing something Frankie and I knew. She was probably picturing the Summit Witch’s hair to be “puke green and made out of snakes,” like Mickey Hodges had told everyone at Whitcomb’s.
“What’s … wrong … hair?” Viv struggled to ask between breaths.
“It’s black, but she’s got this wide white streak that starts right here,” I pointed at my widow’s peak, “and runs down the middle, so her head kinda looks like …” I closed my eyes and pictured what I’d seen through the gauzy curtain covering her door window, “the stretch of County C that runs past Broadhurst.”
That’s when Viv crumpled to the ground and passed out cold on the Henderson’s front lawn and Frankie gave her the “kiss of life” whether she needed it or not.
Of course, I desperately wanted to avoid a repeat of that chaotic scene during the emergency meeting, but if Viv’s eyes landed on the Summit Witch fanning her face in the back row, her fight-or-flight response would kick in and there wouldn’t be a thing I could do to stop it. If she fainted or tried to scramble off the wiggly catwalk in an attempt to put as much distance as she could between herself and the source of her anxiety, the three of us would slip off and tumble down to the stage. Never mind the broken bones or bumps and bruises—they’d be nothing compared to the pain Aunt Jane May would inflict on us. She’d be “angrier than Jesus at the Temple” that we’d disobeyed her order to stay away from the meeting and mortified that we’d caused a scene in front of Doc, Uncle Walt, and the rest of the town. The girls and I could find ourselves up shit creek without a paddle trying to navigate the “severe consequences” she’d warned us about.
My knee-jerk reaction was to hope that Lance Howard would be unable to fix the lights, so the meeting would be called off, but deep down I knew something that miraculous only happened to Nancy Drew or some kid in the
Bible or Timmy from Lassie, not me. Viv’s right, I told myself. I am a dumb chump. I need to stop waiting for hope to throw me a bone and take matters into my own hands. Or better yet … pass them on to hands more capable than mine.
Frankie was the best at riling Viv up, but she was also the best at soothing her ruffled feathers. If Viv had spotted Audrey Cavanaugh sitting in the back row next to Aunt Jane May, Frankie would know what to do. But I didn’t want to scare her, too, not until I knew for sure where we stood, so I stole a quick peek at Viv to see if she was exhibiting any of the early symptoms of panic.
Her chest was heaving slightly and her breathing was a tad gaspy. Her green eyes were wider than normal and her nostrils were flared, but … if she was truly scared out of her skull, she would’ve looked like she did when the Wicked Witch of the West appeared on the screen at the Rivoli and she didn’t. Viv looked the same way she did when she’d stare at a box of chocolate mint Girl Scout cookies, and I thought, Lord Almighty. She’s seen the Summit Witch and gone straight into catatonic shock!
I was just about to lean over and whisper Help! into Frankie’s ear when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the curve of a mysterious smile appear on Viv’s lips. At first, I thought this was another symptom of losing her grip on reality, but when I followed her line of sight, she wasn’t staring at Audrey Cavanaugh. That little vixen was locking eyes with the “double your pleasure, double your fun” Jessop twins in the third row!
Glad that I hadn’t alerted romance-hating Frankie and grateful that God had not answered my prayers beseeching Him to cure Viv of her boy craziness, I was wondering if hope was suddenly on my side when the lights bloomed back to full power. Dr. Cruikshank broke away from Nurse Holloway to resume his position behind the podium, and those in the audience who’d risen to stretch their legs or visit with their neighbors returned to their seats.
Picking up where he’d left off, the psychiatrist turned to Mr. Willis. “I assure you that dangerous patients are not allowed in the recreation yard,” he said. “They’re confined to the top floor of the hospital and locked in cells. The patients who are allowed time outside each day are harmless. They are their own worst enemies.”
That was true, but the doctor would have a hard time convincing the audience of that. Since the bulk of their knowledge of mental illness had been garnered from movies and books in which the mentally ill were almost always portrayed as deranged monsters, I was fairly sure that everyone in the hall was envisioning the Broadhurst patients as vultures circling the countryside for their next meal instead of sparrows who’d had their wings clipped.
But even people you think you know inside and out can surprise the heck out of you sometimes, can’t they. When I looked into the crowd to assess their reaction to Cruikshank’s words, many of our neighbors were staring at him less skeptically. Judging by the desperate look on Mulrooney’s face, she might’ve sensed the tide was turning in the psychiatrist’s direction as well. Anyone else might’ve given up at that point, but even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. Not if she wanted to be mayor, and impress the sheriff into marrying her when she closed Broadhurst down. If Summit had a town motto, it would’ve been “Hard work pays off,” so perseverance wasn’t just a highly regarded quality in a candidate running for office—it was a prerequisite.
To convince the crowd of her grit, Mulrooney dug deeper into her bag of tricks and said to Cruikshank, “But what if one of your so-called harmless patients did get it into their twisted mind to climb that fence and head into town to do our children harm?”
Over an escalating buzz, Cruikshank rushed to say, “As an additional safeguard, a siren alerts the staff if one of the patients should attempt to leave the grounds, which I assure you, they have no desire to do. Any more than any of you would if you had a serious illness and were receiving excellent care.”
Viv was still focused on the Jessop boys, so she hadn’t heard what Cruikshank said, but Frankie and I gave each other knowing smiles because we knew of at least one patient who did want to escape the hospital and had. Mr. Ralph Greer pulled off a disappearing act that would’ve humbled Houdini and what a story that was.
“Tell me, Doctor, if, as you say, the patients don’t wish to escape,” Mulrooney spun around to face the crowd, “then how do you explain the ones we’ve found wandering our streets countless times?”
On account of Jimbo’s stories and all the time the girls and I spent up at Broadhurst, we knew the patients who wandered around town sometimes were harmless, but Mulrooney’s attempt to antagonize the less informed crowd had the desired effect. When a handful of men leapt to their feet, raised their fists, and yelled, “Yeah, yeah!” it reminded me of the scene in Frankenstein when the villagers came hunting for the monster with torches blazing and pitchforks waving.
As much as it must’ve irked him, the sheriff rose from his chair again and told the crowd to quiet down, but the psychiatrist didn’t need his help. He was an old hand at dealing with the emotionally unstable.
“Those patients have not escaped the hospital grounds,” Cruikshank reassured everyone. “They are cured individuals who are being reacclimatized to the outside world before their approaching release dates. And yes, a few of them have become overwhelmed by the unfamiliar sights and sounds of your fine town, but”—he looked over at the sheriff like he wanted him to pay special attention to what he was about to say—“there will be no more incidents of that sort. Our escorting staff has recently undergone advanced training and will deal more effectively with panicked patients in the future.”
When the lights flickered again and couldn’t seem to find the energy to restore themselves, Lance Howard announced to the room, “It’s them fans. They’re drainin’ the power. Ya want, I can close ’em down.”
Nobody, not even the farmers, the toughest among them, would remain in that room without ventilation, and when everyone began to gather their belongings, Dr. Cruikshank quickly wrapped up his presentation.
“Your commitment to your community’s well-being is admirable,” he said, “and should you think of any other questions, or if you’d like to pay a visit to the hospital to put your minds further at ease, please do not hesitate to contact Nurse Holloway.” When he pivoted toward her, she nodded and left the stage. “She’ll be happy to arrange a tour at your convenience.”
For the first time that evening, he smiled, or at least I thought he did. It was hard to tell what was going on underneath the handlebar of hair above his lip, but he must’ve felt pleased with himself. Doc told Aunt Jane May that he’d received his degree in psychiatry from Harvard Medical School, one of the best in the country, so given the crowd’s fear of mental illness, Cruikshank must’ve known that no one would take him up on his offer. Except for the girls and me. We would’ve begged, borrowed, and stolen to take one of those tours that might include a visit to the Chamber of Horrors.
“Again, thank you for attending and allowing me to address your concerns,” the doctor said to the dispersing crowd. And then, like he was Pavlov rewarding dogs for good behavior, he added, “Please be sure to help yourselves to the complimentary refreshments Nurse Holloway has laid out near the doors.”
Evelyn Mulrooney and her followers left the meeting in a huff, likely because it’d not gone anything like she’d envisioned. Her efforts to impress Uncle Walt and close the hospital down fell flat, and the townspeople had not lifted her onto their shoulders and paraded her around the hall calling for her to be our next mayor. But when Doctor Cruikshank strode off the stage, it was to a round of applause and our neighbors emptied out of the hall in a much livelier way than they’d entered it.
In fact, he’d done such a good job of assuring them that their fears about the Broadhurst patients were unfounded that after the good folks of Summit bid good night to one another and returned to their homes, they made their way out to their front porches and allowed the soothing sounds of a hot summer night and a bottle of cold beer further convince them that they were a lot
safer than they were.
Chapter Eight
That unforgettable summer wasn’t the first one the girls and I had spent time at Broadhurst.
We’d started pedaling up there the year before, shortly after we’d seen The Snake Pit at the Rivoli. We didn’t know it was about mental illness, of course. Hollywood was releasing movies left and right with insects and reptiles that’d been exposed to radioactivity, so the girls and I assumed it was about a gigantic snake squeezing the life out of Pittsburgh and Mr. Willis had just run out of room on the marquee.
When Frankie and Viv exited the theatre that afternoon, they were quaking in their boots, I mean, really shook up. Not me. The Snake Pit fueled my interest that had already been piqued by Jimbo’s marvelous porch stories and I rushed straight home to page through Doc’s medical books. Mental illness was covered, but only briefly and in terms I didn’t understand, so that left only one other resource at the time—the Summit Library.
Unfortunately, the only relevant information I could find in the children’s section was The Tale of Samuel Whiskers, in which Tom Kitten developed a paralyzing fear of rats, and I had to send Frankie and Viv over to distract Edith Dirks so I could sneak upstairs and search the adult section. Years later, I’d write stories about mental illness, but at the time, the mostly taboo subject was rarely tackled. I found a few novels, but I was a kid and wasn’t allowed to check them out. Unless I stuffed The Three Faces of Eve or Rebecca down my shorts and ran out of the library—Viv’s suggestion—I had to resort to camping out in the stacks to read them. All by my lonesome. It wasn’t until I harped about being all for one and one for all for a couple of days that Frankie and Viv began to see things my way.