by Fran Friel
"Okay, Doc. Whatever you say."
Frank smiled and paused; his gaze softened with nostalgia.
"What I remember is keeping my buck knife sharp as a straight-edged razor. Just like my daddy taught me. Besides, it made taking mementos quick and clean. Like the last one in Baltimore—a firm chop across the bone, ‘Thwack!’ Popped it in a baggy, and I was on my way. Is this okay, Doc?"
"Yes, Frank,” she said, a strained calm in her voice. “Please go on."
"Well, don't get me wrong, it sounds bad, but that doesn't mean I didn't care. As a matter of fact, I thought she was the one. Her sleek black hair, the almond eyes—she treated me like a prince ... well, that one time, anyway. But Mama didn't approve, and Mama's opinion was gold. She always knew what was best for me, so when she said that girl was a dirty foreigner, I knew what I had to do."
He looked up at Rebecca. “But don't worry, I didn't take the goodbyes to heart. I knew that Mama just wanted me to find the right girl, that's all. I missed each of my girls for a little while, but the mementos kept me company, especially late at night. Mama wasn't much comfort anymore, not in that way. I was too grown, she said. But I made do. She was suspicious, but she didn't say anything about my black bag of mementos, and I didn't say anything about the little boys that visited her room."
January 10—Personal Journal
I tracked down Doctor Silvani in the hall this morning. He filled in some important information...
Rebecca quickened her stride to catch up with the director as he marched down the long grey corridor of the maximum security psych ward of Penn's Asylum. It was clear that his advanced years didn't slow him down.
"Doctor Silvani,” she said, keeping pace with the tall, distinguished man. “I just wanted to thank you."
"What's that, Doctor?"
"I said, I want to thank you. I know you've taken a chance by hiring me, and I'm truly grateful."
"You're young, but it's seldom—well, actually never—that a doctor graduating near the top of her class at UPenn would seek us out. But frankly, if you weren't qualified you wouldn't be here."
"Thank you, Doctor,” she said.
"And I've heard about the progress you've made with Frank Doe. I've been here since the day he was admitted, and he hadn't spoken a word until you arrived. That seems testament enough that I made the right decision."
The young doctor blushed at the compliment. “Well, my mother inspired my work. Her painful struggle with severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is why I became a doctor. I researched a lot of facilities before I applied, sir, and I was certain that this was the place I'd been looking for."
"Uh-huh, I see.” The director marched on, shooting out his left arm for a quick watch check. Rebecca kept pace.
"Is there something else, Doctor?” asked the director, glancing over at her, his reading glasses resting on his shiny forehead.
"Actually, yes,” she said. “Since you were here when Frank Doe was admitted, maybe you could could tell me a little about his history. Nobody seems to know anything about him, and his admission records consist of a single medical discharge file. No intake interview. No history. Just his treatment schedule and evaluations since his arrival."
Lowering his voice, the director leaned in toward Rebecca. “Well, let's just say we had some problems back then, and I'm not surprised there's paperwork missing. It's a wonder the patients didn't go missing,” he said. “Patients like Frank Doe were low priority. He was medicated and housed. That's all we could really supply at the time. Our budget was worse back then than it is now."
"Is there anything you remember that might help me?” asked Rebecca. “We have a session today, and I think we're close to a breakthrough.” Long-legged, Rebecca matched strides with the director as he contemplated her question; their heels echoed a cadence down the length of the grey corridor.
"Well, it's been more than twenty years,” said the director, “and as far as I know, he has no known history. He was a John Doe. If I remember correctly, they found him near a burned out van on the side of a road somewhere north of the city. Blue Bell, I think. His license was fraudulent and the scarring from his burns made him impossible to ID. Apparently, dentals turned up nothing.
"Ultimately, he came to us because of violent outbursts, but he arrived mostly non-responsive,” said the director. “We suspected that he couldn't speak because of his injuries, but the transferring physician assured us that it wasn't physical."
"He's made excellent progress in communication,” said Rebecca. “And he's even participating in general activities."
"Yes, apparently the meds are working. Seems you're a wizard in the area of psychopharmacology, as well as therapeutic technique. As a matter of fact, Mister Doe is scheduled to be moved to another facility. Your work has proven that he no longer requires high level security, and I can't justify the cost of continuing to house him here."
"What?” said Rebecca, a frantic pitch in her voice. “His progress has been good, but there's so much more to do.” She tightened her jaw, struggling to remain calm.
"I know, his progress is a double-edged sword, but you'll have a few weeks with him before the paperwork goes through. And trust me, we'll keep you busy when he's gone. Now, if you'll excuse me."
"Just one more question,” she said.
The director exhaled with an impatient sigh. “Yes?"
"Why do they call him ‘Frank?’”
The director paused, as if deciding whether to reply. “Well, all I can say is, because of his injuries, he looked like quite a ... monster when he arrived, and amongst the staff, it was a bad joke that stuck."
With a nod, the director turned off into an open conference room, greeted his waiting colleagues, and closed the door behind him.
January 10—1:02PM: Frank Doe Session,
continued.
"And how did your father feel about your ‘activities,’ Frank?” asked the doctor.
"I don't know,” he said. After a pause, “He died when I was a kid."
"What happened to him?"
Frank looked down at his hands. Rebecca waited a few moments for his response.
"What happened to your father, Frank?” she asked again.
Frank's lips clamped shut and his eyes went dull.
"Frank?” Rebecca reached forward and touched his scarred hand. His shoulder twitched, but his stare remained unfocused.
Crossing the room, she opened a tall cabinet and removed the plastic covering from a clay sphere resting on a square of plywood. Chewing on her lip, she slipped a small glass vial from the pocket of her white jacket and emptied the clear liquid into a spray bottle filled with water. Giving the clay a thorough spritz, she squared her shoulders in preparation for the next phase of her plan for Frank.
She sat the clay in front of him, lifting his right hand onto the slick surface.
"How's that feel, Frank? You did some beautiful work with the clay last week. Would you like to continue?"
She lifted his other hand to the clay, and his fingers began to squeeze in small, slow movements. As Frank continued to knead with his fingertips, the dullness in his eyes cleared. He focused his attention on the clay form in front of him.
Patiently, the doctor waited and observed. This was Frank's normal pattern at the mention of his father. As if nothing unusual had happened, he started to speak again.
"When I was thirty, we got the news about the inheritance. My daddy left us well cared for when he died years before, but this news was unexpected. Seemed a relative passed away, and I was next in line to inherit a Pennsylvania estate that had been in my daddy's family for generations. I didn't even know my daddy had any family, and a rich one at that.
"The papers from the lawyers said that most of the wealth from the estate had been siphoned off for taxes, but a large family mansion and some land still remained in a rural suburb just outside of Philadelphia-Blue Bell, Pennsylvania.
"We got the news just after I said goodbye to my alm
ond-eyed Keiko in an abandoned warehouse near the Baltimore harbor. It was definitely time to move on. When Mama said we should head north to Philadelphia, I ditched our old Chevy Nova. It was on its last leg anyway. So I doused it with gasoline and made sure it burned real good to erase any evidence of my fling with Keiko. Best to make a clean break and not leave painful memories behind that other people might misunderstand.
"We cashed the inheritance check and hopped the Greyhound bus north to Philadelphia."
Frank paused to fashion a crude nose in the center of the forming face. He smoothed the clay with care, tilting his head to inspect the placement. Rebecca added a spritz from the water bottle and left it where Frank could reach it himself. Without looking at her, he continued.
"From years of practice we traveled light, but it had gotten harder for Mama to move to new places. Her dizzy spells were getting worse, but we had to go. If we stayed in one place too long, the past had a way of creeping up on us. I didn't mind moving—I loved the adventure of it.
"I had never been to Philadelphia, and I couldn't wait to see the sights and look for my new girl. I knew Mama wasn't keen on Yankees, but maybe since my daddy's folks were from those parts I thought she might make an exception. Sure enough, we rolled into the summer heat of the City of Brotherly Love, and like fate, it wasn't long before I found my girl.
"Not far from the bus terminal, I left Mama in the taxi's A/C, parked outside of the convenience store on Arch Street. She needed some aspirin for a headache, and heat or no heat I was hankering for a cup of strong black coffee. My new girl was right there at the counter. She was busy with the rush hour crowd, shaking her little fanny as she bustled around behind the cash register. Tall and fair skinned, she had her thick black hair twisted up in a messy knot. I resisted the urge to reach across the counter and pull it loose. I just wanted to watch it fall down around her shoulders, but I had learned that it wasn't good to be too forward, at least not right away. So I waited my turn to pay for my coffee and Mama's bottle of aspirin.
"When I got up to the counter, I smiled and said, ‘Good mornin',’ but the girl just turned away without a word. Now, I'd heard that Yankees could be rude, but I would have at least expected a simple ‘Good morning’ in return.
"I continued to smile as the girl took my money. Vicki Lystner, it said on her name tag. As she turned to the register for my change, I admired the curve of her breasts in the clingy white T-shirt. Without even a glance at me, she put the change in my palm. I saw my opening—you know, carpe diem and all that—so I grabbed her hand and flashed her my biggest smile. I squeezed hard so she couldn't pull away, until finally she looked up at me with her beautiful blue eyes all wide—no doubt surprised by my friendliness.
"Hunching up her shoulders, she tried to get loose but I held on tight. With my best southern manners, I said, ‘Good mornin', Miss.’ Then I nodded, giving her the hint that it was her turn to reply. She was so touched that tears welled in her eyes, and she replied in the softest little voice ‘Good morning.’ With one last squeeze, feeling her delicate bones crushing together in my grip, I said, ‘Thank you, Miss.'
"When I released her, she slipped and fell backward into the bagel bin. Bagels flew everywhere. Looking dazed, she gripped the counter to steady herself and just stared after me as I waved goodbye."
Unconscious of her actions, Rebecca glared at Frank as he rested his clay-covered hands on the edge of the table. She was speechless, her knuckles white from a death grip on her pen. Her notepad remained empty. Frank smirked at her and continued on with his story.
"I admit,” he said, “I wasn't the best looking guy, but Mama helped me accept that reality early in life. ‘Henry, you're one homely boy,’ she'd say, ‘but you know your mama will always love you.’ And she did. When I met Vicki, I was a hundred and sixty pounds, five ten and balding, but I still knew I had a powerful affect on her, as I did with all women. My teeth weren't so good—kinda nasty from a lack of doctorin'—but still women were stunned by my smile. Southern charm, I guess.
"What a nice name—Vicki. Don't you think, Doc?"
There was so much she wanted to say, but Rebecca forced herself to be silent. She simply nodded. Frank turned back to his work, poking his thumbs deep into the clay eye sockets.
"But we had to go with the name ‘Victoria,'” he continued. “I realized the sooner Vicki accepted that name, the sooner she'd be a good bride in Mama's eyes. Mama didn't approve of nicknames."
A sheen of sweat surfaced on Rebecca's face, dampening the black tendrils of hair around her forehead. She rose to switch on the fan, a necessity in the unpredictable heat of the ancient building.
"Please go on, Frank,” she said as she sat back down with forced calm. “Your account is ... fascinating."
"Well, Mama was miffed when I got back to the taxi. ‘What in god's name were you doing in there, boy?’ she said. ‘You know my head's splittin’ out here, but do you care that I'm sufferin'? Of course not! You don't think of nobody but yourself.'
"I saw the driver scowling at me in his mirror, but he glanced away when I noticed.
"'Here's your aspirin, Mama,’ I said, handing her the bottle.
"'Where's the water, Henry? You expect me to take them damn pills dry? They'll scratch my throat raw.’”
Frank's imitation of his mother's voice was eerie, and Rebecca felt a shiver slip along her back.
"'Sorry, Mama,'” he went on. “'I'll go back and get your water.'
"'No, I can't wait no more,’ she said. ‘God only knows how long you'd dawdle around in there. Give me some of your coffee.'
"'But you don't like coffee, Mama. Let me go get you some water.'
"'No, goddamn it! Give me the coffee and open this godforsaken bottle. Can't no normal people open these damn things.’ I handed her my coffee and opened the bottle. ‘Give me three!’ she said. She took the pills and slurped the coffee. Screwing up her face, she said, ‘I don't know how in hell you drink this slop.’ She shoved the coffee cup back at me, but I couldn't bring myself to drink after her and her ugly lipstick smear, so I stuck it in the cup holder and tried to ignore the red stain.
"The cabbie was getting impatient. ‘Have you folks decided where you're going yet?'
"'We need to get out to Blue Bell,’ I said.
"'Well, that'd cost you a pretty penny for me to drive you out there, and the thing is, buddy, it's getting near the end of my shift. You'd be better off renting a car, if you asked me.'
"Mama grumbled, ‘So who asked you?'
"The driver looked at me in his mirror and raised an eyebrow.
"'How about you take us to the nearest car rental place? Thanks for the tip,’ I said.
"The cabbie edged into the rush hour traffic without another word. I glanced down, and there it was again: the red stain of old lady lipstick on the lid of my coffee. The sight of it turned my stomach, and my mind flashed to the first time I ever saw that stain up close."
Rebecca remained quiet. Listening to Frank's story, she reminded herself to breathe. Even with all her training, the account was excruciating to witness, but she didn't dare interrupt as Frank's memories continued their rush to the surface. Her years of work were finally paying off, but all her preparations didn't lessen the impact. Forcing herself to relax, she listened as Frank continued.
"I saw it on my first day of fourth grade. It had been a good day,” Frank recalled. “We were still living with my daddy back then, in a nice little house in a nice little neighborhood. There were always lots of kids around, and I raced home from school so I could go back out to play before dinner.
"In September it was still hot in Texas, and when I ran into the house, I saw Mama in front of the oscillating fan. She was slumped on the sofa with her dress hiked up above her bare knees, and her long red hair lifted as the air blew around her. Her eyes were shut, and I thought she was sleeping. She didn't like being disturbed during her naps, so I tiptoed by. Just as I thought I was clear, she reached out and grab
bed me by the arm.
"'Where do you think you're goin'?’ she hissed.
"As she turned toward me, I could see her eyes were red and puffy and her cheeks were wet. I smelled the stink of liquor on her breath as she hauled me closer. I stayed quiet—I had learned the hard way that it was better not to speak when Mama had been drinking. But I could tell something bad had happened. She looked more miserable than drunk. Digging her nails into my arm, she said, ‘I asked you a question, boy. I know you're dumber than a board, but are you deaf, too?'
"I bowed my head. ‘No, Mama.'
"'Well, I'm sick of you. You hear me? I'm sick of the whole damn lot of you!'
"I stayed quiet and kept my head down.
"'Look at me when I talk to you!'
"She hauled herself upright on the sofa, grabbed both my arms and pulled me between her knees, forcing me to face her. The smell of the alcohol burned my nose, and I must have made a face. That's when she slapped me—hard. My head swam, and I could feel a trickle of blood seeping from my throbbing lip. I didn't dare touch it, and I knew I didn't dare pass out. I gritted my teeth and tried to look at her without looking into her eyes.
"'Pathetic! All men are pathetic. Especially that filthy excuse for a father of yours. Taking the word of a stinkin’ neighbor boy over his own wife.'
"I tried hard to wait out the storm, but the blow to my face had rattled my head so hard that I began to swoon.
"Mama shook me. ‘Stand up, you lazy sack of shit!’ I slipped from her grip and crumpled to the floor.
"As I came to, I could feel cold pressure on my mouth, and I opened my eyes to the pain in my head and the cut on my busted lip. My mama was kneeling beside me with a bag of ice on my mouth, stroking the sweaty hair back from my forehead.
"'I'm so sorry, baby. Mama didn't mean to hurt you so bad,’ she said. ‘It's just that your daddy doesn't understand my needs. He said he'd leave us, if I didn't stop. You love me, don't you, Henry?'
"She removed the ice pack and pressed her red lips against my mouth. She held me there, hot breath spilling out of her nose until finally she moved away with a dreamy look in her eyes. She was waiting for my answer.