by Peter Straub
“Are you the people for Dr. Greengrass, or is one of you our new admission?” she asked, flicking her eyes to Don Olson.
“We’re here for Dr. Greengrass,” I said.
“And you’re here about Mr. Bly. Howard.”
“That’s right,” I said, marveling at how much information Dr. Greengrass shared with his staff.
She beamed. “We all love Howard.”
The pretty Asian woman came back through the door with a thick manila file in her hand. “Don’t we all love Howard, Pargeeta?”
Pargeeta gave me a questioning glance. “Oh, we’re all crazy about the guy.” She sat down and peered at her monitor, excluding everybody.
Undaunted, her companion reached up to push one of the clipboards toward me. “While I inform Dr. Greengrass you’re here, please take the time to fill out and sign these liability forms. Howard is so excited about your visit! He couldn’t figure out what to wear, it was such a big deal for him. I let him borrow one of my husband’s shirts, and it fit him perfectly. So compliment him on his shirt.”
I signed the form without reading it and passed the clipboard to Don Olson, who flipped to a fresh page and did the same.
“Now please take a seat against the wall, and I’ll call the doctor.”
We sat down and watched her make the call. Pargeeta frowned at her computer monitor and flicked a few keys.
“Are you two in Howard’s extended family?” the woman asked them.
“In a way,” I said.
“He was so cute, the way he asked me to help him. He said, ‘Mirabelle turned to him and asked, “John, is that a new shirt? I love seeing you in new things.” ’”
“That was from this Moondreamers novel?”
“You can always tell when Howard falls in love with a new book. It’s the only thing he’ll quote from for a long, long time.”
Pargeeta sighed and stood up again. She vanished through the door next to the picture of the abandoned barn.
“Nice photograph,” I said.
“Thank you! One of our patients took that picture.” A wistful expression crossed her face. “A few days after the photo went up, she killed herself! The poor woman told Dr. Greengrass that when she saw her picture hanging in here, she realized nobody in the whole wide world had ever understood her and nobody ever would. He raised her medication, but not by enough, is what Pargeeta said. Not that she’s an expert.”
I could think of nothing to say to this.
During this moment of subtly charged silence, a man in clear plastic eyeglasses and a coat as white as his hair burst through the door at the back of the office. He was rubbing his hands together, grinning, and glancing from me to Olson and back again. Pargeeta came through a couple of seconds later.
“Well, well, this is a fine day, welcome, gentlemen, welcome. You are, I take it, Mr. Harwell and Mr. Olson? Of course you are. All of us here are very pleased to see you.” He came around the end of the white counter, still trying to make up his mind. In the end, he made the right guess and reached for my hand.
“In your case, Mr. Harwell, it is a special pleasure. I am a great admirer, a great admirer.”
This probably meant, I knew, that he had read The Agents of Darkness. My real fans tended to say things like “My wife and I read The Blue Mountain out loud to each other.” It was always rewarding to hear from someone who had enjoyed something I’d written, however, and such is my disposition that praise seldom seems misplaced.
I thanked the doctor.
“And you must be Mr. Olson.” He grasped Don’s hand. “Also a pleasure. So you knew Howard well, back in the sixties?”
From behind the counter came Pargeeta’s dry, sardonic voice. “In case you hadn’t guessed, this is Dr. Charles Greengrass, our chief of psychiatry and chief of staff.”
He whirled to stare at her. “I didn’t introduce myself? Really?”
Pargeeta swung herself into her chair with the economy of a dancer. She glanced up at Greengrass for a moment only. “They knew who you were, Charlie.”
I caught myself beginning to speculate about the relationship between this young woman and Dr. Greengrass and declined to go any further than I already had.
“Gentlemen, forgive me, please. As Miss Parmendera reminds us, this is indeed an exciting moment. Very shortly, we will be going up to the ward to visit Howard, but first I would like to have a little chat with the two of you in my office. Would that be satisfactory?”
“Of course,” I said.
“This way, then.” He turned away and led us back into the wide corridor with its shining lights and black doors. Before passing out of the office, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Pargeeta monitoring our departure with a smoky, sardonic eye. The woman beside her, who had been quivering with silent laughter, instantly froze into immobility. I closed the door, then hurried a little to catch up with the other two.
“Pargeeta Parmendera?” Olson was asking.
“Exactly.”
“Where’s she from?”
“Right here in Madison.”
“I mean, what’s her background? What is she?”
“You’re asking about her ethnicity? Her father is an Indian, and I believe her mother is Vietnamese. They came to Wisconsin in the seventies and met as graduate students.”
At the end of the wide corridor, he opened a door labeled PSYCHIATRY.
“The Parmenderas lived next to us for many years. When my children were small, we often used Pargeeta as our babysitter. Wonderful girl, very adaptable.”
“And the other woman, the one with bangs?”
“Oh, sure, that’s my wife,” Greengrass said. “She comes in whenever poor Myrtle can’t get out of bed in the morning.” He ushered us into a space similar to the reception office where a wide, extremely ample woman in her forties, her cheeks creased into dimples, smiled up at us from a desk that seemed far too small for her. She wore a shapeless teepee-like dress in a pattern of pink roses, and when she smiled her dimples looked aggressive.
“I’ll be in my office for a minute, Harriet. Please hold my calls.”
“All right, Doctor. Are these Howard’s visitors?”
“Yes, they are.”
“We just love Howard,” said Harriet, her dimples growing even deeper. “He’s what I call a real gentleman.”
“Ah,” I said.
“In here, please.” Greengrass had opened a door behind Harriet’s desk.
The doctor waved us to the near side of an oval wooden table with a bowl of peppermint candies placed equidistant from two padded chairs. He took a rocking chair on the table’s other side. “Well,” he said. “As you have seen, all of us in this institution hold Howard Bly in a good deal of affection.”
“So it seems,” I said.
“He’s our oldest patient, not in years, mind, some of our people are in their eighties now, but in the length of his confinement here. He has seen them come and go, has Howard, and through many, many changes of staff, changes in leadership, he has remained the same sweet, good-hearted fellow you will meet today.”
The doctor looked upward for a moment and steepled his fingers before him, as if praying. A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “Not that he hasn’t had his moments. Yes. We have seen Howard very fearful. On two or three occasions, quite aggressive. He seems in particular to fear dogs. One might call it a phobia. Cynophobia, to be exact. Not that such terms are very helpful. I prefer to think of it as a panic disorder. Thankfully, we have techniques for treating panic disorders. Howard’s phobic reaction to dogs has moderated significantly over the past decade.”
“You allow dogs in this hospital?” I asked. “Do they wander through the mental wards?”
Dr. Greengrass regarded me over his steepled fingers. “Like many institutions of our kind, we have had excellent results with animal companion therapy. At certain hours, dogs and cats are permitted in certain areas. An animal companion, combined with more conventional therapies, can be quite helpful in
bringing people out of themselves.”
He smiled at us and gave his head a little shake, conceding a point long ago abandoned. “Howard has refused all offers of an animal companion. Once, before I came here, he attacked an attendant who led a dog into the common room. These days, dogs are not permitted in the common room, and Howard can meander around in there perfectly safely. There have been incidents, however …”
Dr. Greengrass bent over his desk and lowered his voice. “Incidents in which Howard happened to find himself in the same quarters as a man with a canine animal companion. No one to blame. Simply strolled in, probably with an open book in his hands, and there it was, right in front of him. A man petting a dog. Result? A high-pitched noise of distress, and immediate flight back to his room, where he closes his door and lies on his bed, trembling. But for Howard’s, well, terror is not an inaccurate word, but for his terror, he would have been released into a group home five or six years ago. I should tell you that he has refused even to consider the possibility that he will ever leave this hospital.”
The doctor gave us a look of absolutely impersonal and scientific curiosity. “You are his first visitors in three decades. Can you help explain what I have just described to you? To put it simply, what happened to Howard Bly?”
“It’s hard to describe,” Olson said, glancing at me. “Along with a few other people, we, a few of us, did something in a meadow. A kind of a rite. A ceremony. Everything became dark, confusing, scary. A boy died. Whatever Hootie—Howard—saw, it frightened him very badly. Maybe a dog, or something that looked like a dog, attacked the boy. I was there, but I didn’t see that happen.”
“Something that looked like a dog?” asked Greengrass. “What do you mean, a wolf? Something unnatural?”
“You got me,” Don said.
“We have files, we keep records. We are aware of the Spencer Mallon incident. It appears that your group succumbed to a mass hysteria. A shared delusion. Howard Bly has been living with the consequences of that delusion for all of his adult life. He has been showing us real improvement, but I would still like to know more about the origins of his pathology.”
“We would, too,” I said.
“Good. I was hoping to hear from you, Mr. Harwell. Can you offer me any information concerning the root of this patient’s drastic panic response to dogs?”
I thought for a second. If there was a root cause, it would have to be that silly painting of poker-playing dogs the Eel’s father had brought home one night from a Glasshouse Street bar. But of course, the painting was not the cause. The painting had been no more than a convenience for the terrible circus Mallon had awakened or brought into being.
“Nothing concrete. As yet.”
“So you are working on this matter, this enigma.”
“It’s more like a personal compulsion. It feels like I just simply have to know what actually happened out there. I think it would be beneficial to all of us.”
The doctor considered him. “Will you share with me any insights or new information that comes to you in your conversations with my patient?”
I nodded. “If I have anything to share.”
“Of course.” Dr. Greengrass turned to Don Olson. “Maybe you can answer this question for me. Twice, the first time a number of years ago and the second yesterday, Howard said to me, ‘Words create freedom, too, and I think it is words that will save me.’ Very striking, I thought, since in a sense it is words that have imprisoned him. Do you have any idea what he was quoting from?”
“It’s not from a book. Spencer Mallon told him that, three or four days before the big ceremony.”
“Like most oracles, Mr. Mallon apparently spoke in riddles.” Dr. Greengrass shook his head. “No offense, but what occurs to me is the phrase ‘the bottom of the barrel.’”
Don said nothing. The only part of his face that changed were his eyes.
“Well, now,” Dr. Greengrass said. “Let’s find your friend, shall we?”
He conducted us into the hall and up a wide flight of stairs. At the second floor we continued on up to the third, where Dr. Greengrass pushed open a set of swinging doors and led us into a combination of office and antechamber. Behind a narrow desk that held only a transistor radio, a buzz-cut man in a short-sleeved white jacket that showed off his bulging arms reached out to switch off a talk show. As we came into the anteroom, he stood up and tugged at the hem of his jacket.
“D-Doctor,” he said. “We been w-w-waitin’ for you.” From a man so physical, the stutter came as a surprise. The attendant took a moment to inspect us. “The two of you are Howard’s old friends?”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“D-Don’t look m-much like him, d-do you?” He grinned and stuck out a giant hand. “My name’s Ant-Ant-Antonio. Thought I’d sort of greet you here. I take g-good care of Howard. Him and me get along fine.”
“All right, Antonio,” said Dr. Greengrass. “Where is he?”
“C-Common Room, last time I saw him. He’ll still b-be there.”
The doctor took a fat key ring from his trouser pocket and opened the stout black door next to the little desk.
“I’ll c-come in with you,” said Antonio. “Maybe I’ll … Who knows? Howard’s b-been kinda emotional lately.”
With the attendant following along, we trooped into a long, bright corridor hung with photographs and clumsy paintings on either side of two long bulletin boards blanketed in announcements and flyers. On the left side of the corridor, a series of doors punctuated the artwork. Dr. Greengrass opened the single door on the corridor’s right side, which said PATIENT FACILITIES. At the side of a little lounge decorated with framed drawings, another door admitted them to a colorful room nearly the size of a gymnasium that was divided into separate areas by game tables and groupings of sofas and chairs. Other chairs and benches lined the walls. The cheerful colors of the walls and the pattern on the carpet made the room feel like a preschool.
Thirty to forty men and women of widely varying ages sat on the furniture or played checkers at the game tables. One older man was assembling a giant jigsaw puzzle with great concentration. Only a few of the patients looked up to see who had come in.
“Dr. Greengrass,” said a tall, smiling blond man with biceps as prominent as Antonio’s. He had evidently been waiting beside the door. “We’re ready for you and your guests.”
“Oh, yes,” said Antonio. “Yes, we are.”
“This is Max,” Greengrass said. “He has spent a good deal of time with your old friend.”
“Let’s get over there,” Max said. “He’s pretty eager.”
“Where is he?” asked Don, scanning the room. No one before them looked anything like Howard Bly, and none of them looked eager. They might have been filling in the time before lunch at a mediocre resort. Some of them wore pajamas, the rest ordinary clothing: khakis, jeans, dresses, shirts.
“Back there in the corner,” said Max, pointing with his thumb.
“Stay here, Antonio,” said Dr. Greengrass. “We don’t want to alarm him.”
With ill grace, Antonio consented, and twirled away to park himself on an overstuffed chair.
Max and the doctor led us through the Common Room, and a low bubble of conversation trailed along through the nests of furniture. When we rounded a wide, bright blue pillar near the far end of the room, Max and Dr. Greengrass parted to reveal a bald, round-faced man leaning forward on the edge of a worn blue armchair. He was clenching his hands over a substantial belly and a plaid shirt slightly strained at the buttons. The round face seemed curiously innocent and untouched. This man did not look anything liked Hootie Bly, but his eagerness could not be questioned.
“Howard, say hello to your friends,” said the doctor.
Nodding, the old man glanced from face to face and back again. The baffled expression in his eyes made me feel that we had made a mistake, that this poor old duffer should have been left in peace. Then the duffer broke into an ecstatic smile, nodded rapidly, and did a
n odd thing with his hands, spreading them wide, then bringing them close together. “Dill!”
“Hi, Hootie,” Olson said.
Dr. Greengrass whispered, “He’s telling you that he’s pulling the word from a longer sentence. He does it to save time.”
I watched the man in the armchair turn his rapturous gaze upon me and knew with absolute certainty that we had done the right thing. Again, the fat old man did the strange thing with his hands, isolating a word within a preexisting sentence.
“Twin!” he cried. “Oh, Twin!”
He pushed himself upright and on the spot revealed, at least to me, that he was indeed Hootie Bly: the shine in his eyes, the shape of his shoulders, the way he held his right hand at his waist while dropping the left. A complex mixture of happiness and sorrow brought tears to my eyes.
Hootie stepped forward, and, uncertain, we moved nearer to him, too. For a moment both awkward and overflowing with emotion, Don and I each clasped one of Hootie’s hands. For a moment, Howard quoted something indistinct about Aunt Betsy declaiming that this was a fine, fine day. Then he threw his arms around Don and rocked back and forth for a couple of seconds. Tears spilling from his eyes, Howard turned to hug me in the same way, rocking with glee.
Hootie let go of me, wiped his hands over his shiny face and, eyes glowing, spoke directly to me. “Skylark, have you anything to say to me?”
I glanced at Dr. Greengrass, who raised his hands in a shrug.
Don Olson said, “I guess you didn’t know. One day, Mallon told the Eel she was his skylark.”
The moment he said the word, I was pierced by the bright, sudden memory of a skylark my wife and I had seen soaring above the garden of a pub in North London.
meredith bright walsh
Don Olson and I occupied a side table in the Governor’s Lounge on the twelfth floor of the Concourse. A delicate-looking young man and an athletic young woman, both blond and uniformed in white shirts and bow ties, were settling trays of hors d’oeuvres into pans on a long table against the wall. Bored as a goldfish in a goldfish bowl, a bartender in a brocade vest drifted to the far side of his circular domain. A fresh margarita sat on a white square of napkin before Olson, a glass of sauvignon blanc before me. At a few minutes before 6:00 p.m., the hotel’s shadow fell across the half-empty streets that lay between it and Lake Monona. A shadow had fallen on us, too. We had a lot to think about.