The Treatment and the Cure

by Peter Kocan

  Cheryl and Janice sympathise. Sometimes when you get to OT after a Group Therapy session you make a joke of it.

  “Do you know what Miss Muffet sat on?” you ask.

  They think hard.

  “A pin?” suggests Cheryl.

  “The Three Bears’ porridge?” offers Janice. “Her tuffet!” you cry, clapping your hands in infant glee. They look astonished.

  But you don’t often feel like joking.

  Con Pappas envies you being in an open ward. You try to tell him what it’s like but he doesn’t get your gist. Besides, you told him about Deirdre wanting sex and it’s all he can think of.

  You’ve begun walking in the hospital grounds. It’s a bit awkward: you are allowed to go to and from OT and the Charge Sister lets you go to the Monday night films by yourself, but you don’t know whether you actually have ground parole. In an open ward ground parole is probably automatic but being a criminal patient it may not be automatic for you. You don’t ask. Better to play it by ear. You begin walking back from OT each evening by a longer route—along past the library and the morgue and then past the canteen and along the road by the lake shore, until you turn up the hill across an open stretch of paddock to the scrubby path which brings you to the ward courtyard. There are kangaroos lazing on the paddock sometimes. They are very tame and live by raiding rubbish bins outside various wards.

  You walk briskly the first few times, to show you aren’t loitering in places you’ve no business in. Gradually you relax your pace until you feel able to stop at the canteen for a few minutes each evening. You buy a milkshake most times. Girls serve behind the counter and you sit and watch them from the corner of your eye. Some of them are pretty. They’re just ordinary girls from outside and you can listen to them talking to each other about outside things. Of course you mustn’t act like a normal customer. You mustn’t say anything if they give you the wrong change or if they ignore you when you are waiting to be served. If you said anything it would mean you were dangerously aggressive and ought not be loose. But you still like going there.

  The evening walk is the best thing in your life now. When you come out of OT the noise and dust and the cooped-up feeling go out of you and you walk along feeling free as a bird, and when you go over the rise near the canteen the lake is suddenly spread in front of you and you feel the lovely rush of salty breeze. However bad you feel, that first sight of the lake perks you up and for a while you feel able to face anything. It isn’t happiness, but just a sense of there being permanent and beautiful things in the world which will not be spoiled no matter what happens to yourself. Poetry is like that too. Every evening when you see the lake you get an urge to write again. But the urge is gone after five minutes back in the ward.

  You have walks at weekends too. Not too conspicuously. You just wander to one or two special spots at the lake shore where you are screened from view and can read or simply stare at the sky and water and the line of green shore far away. The first couple of weekends, when you stayed in the ward the whole time, you got so desperate you decided you’d get away to your private spots even if they hanged you for it.

  You can’t make a stable relationship with the staff here the way you could in MAX or REFRACT. In those wards the screws tended to be the same ones most of the time, so they got to know you: not as a person, exactly, but at least as a name and a face and a pattern of behaviour. And being male screws they weren’t interested in playing Florence Nightingale. You could come to a sort of understanding—the less trouble you caused them the more time they’d have to play cards or read the paper or listen to the races. In return they’d leave you alone in all sorts of small ways which were trivial in themselves but important to you. The understanding wasn’t perfect. There were always a few screws throwing their weight about. The understanding worked in a general way. In this ward the atmosphere is always brisk and bustling and emotional. Florence Nightingale is big here. Not the saintly lady with the lamp but the organising busybody. The staff here don’t know you. They chop and change. They have dozens of shitty bums and dribbling mouths to busybody with, and since bums and mouths are anonymous and interchangeable you’re seen as a bum and mouth too. The screw who grabs your collar at the stairs might be male but the atmosphere that makes it happen is created by the Charge Sister and her petticoat government.

  What really frightens you is that once the staff have made the assumption that you’re a bum and mouth nothing you say seems to register.

  It is the end of the midday meal and we are being herded out to the verandah for The Gauntlet. Mostly you slip through, but today a nurse grabs your arm and begins walking you to the lavatory. You can’t pull away or throw her hand off—that’d be aggression—so you must let yourself be pulled along. The way a retard would.

  “I’m afraid this is a mistake,” you say as clearly and precisely as you can. “I’m quite able to arrange my own toilet habits.”

  But it doesn’t register.

  “Look,” you say. “If you check with the Charge Sister I’m sure she’ll confirm what I say.”

  But it doesn’t register.

  You take hold of the lavatory door as she tries to bundle you through. Passive resistance. Just like a retard. A screw sees you giving this nurse trouble and yells at you to get in the bloody dunny before he knocks your block off.

  “Look, this is unnecessary!” you tell him. Your voice has gone trembly and you have an awful thought that maybe you only think you are speaking normally. You might be grunting like a retard and don’t realise it.

  The screw starts bending your arm up your back and the nurse walks off. Then a scuffle begins beside you and the screw turns to deal with it and you are able to slip away.

  You don’t want to exaggerate. You aren’t treated as a retard all the time. Twice a week at Group Therapy you are promoted to a bright five-year-old.

  9

  The lake shore is often quite busy at weekends. Patients wander about, coming and going from the canteen, and sometimes there are people swimming or boating. Visitors have picnics on the grass with the patients they’ve come to see. You often find Stark there with his mother on Sunday. She’s a quiet, elderly lady who brings sandwiches and cake and lemonade. She lays the stuff out on a cloth and they sit on either side of it. Stark is sometimes docile and sits chewing at the food and letting his mother wipe his mouth with a bib. Other times he’ll spit and gurgle and toss the food away and kick the lemonade over. His mother’s manner never changes. She talks to him quietly about the weather or something, as though it’s really very pleasant to be having this picnic.

  “What are those birds, Clifton?” she says when some pelicans fly overhead and settle on the water. “Pelicans I suppose. I don’t know about birds much. You’re lucky to have so many birds here, aren’t you, Clifton? Had enough sandwiches? Do try some cake, dear. I’d hate it to go to waste. Gosh, isn’t the sun warm now? Would you like your sunhat, Clifton? Yes, I think so …”

  When patients wander past and eye the food and lemonade Mrs Stark will treat them as friends of Clifton and invite them to share the picnic. She seems relieved when someone else is there. The conversation goes better. You and Con Pappas are going past and Clifton’s mother calls hello and asks if we’d like to help finish up the sandwiches. You’d rather not. It’s too sad. And you see enough of Clifton in the dining room. But Con Pappas wants to.

  “It’s nice to meet Clifton’s friends,” Mrs Stark tells us.

  “Ah, Clifton is good man,” says Con Pappas. He doesn’t know Clifton from a bar of soap, but Greeks are polite.

  “Which ward do you belong to?” asks Mrs Stark.

  “REFRACT,” says Con Pappas.

  “Is it nice there?”

  Con Pappas understands that it has to be nice. All the wards are nice. This is a nice institution.

  “Is nice,” he tells her. Maybe he really thinks so. He’s awfully glad to be out of MAX and to have parole like this.

  “You’re from that wa
rd too?” she asks you.

  “I’m from Ward 24,” you say.

  “Oh, that’s Clifton’s ward. I didn’t realise you and Clifton were such close friends.”

  “Yes, we’re good mates,” you say.

  “Isn’t that lovely!”

  Mrs Stark gives us more cake and lemonade and we sit talking in the sun. She seems almost happy. A girl comes along the water’s edge, walking a bit aimlessly and twisting some beads around her neck and stopping to stare at the lake. Mrs Stark calls to her about helping to finish off the food. The girl hesitates and twists the beads. Mrs Stark prompts the girl with the bit about the food only going to waste if it isn’t finished up.

  “Alright,” the girl says. She sits cross-legged and accepts some cake and nibbles it. She keeps her eyes down, not from shyness but as though she’s thinking her own thoughts. She doesn’t seem shy.

  “I suppose you all know each other,” says Mrs Stark.

  “No,” says the girl, looking up briefly.

  “Well,” says Mrs Stark, “these are two of Clifton’s friends.”

  We stay there, awkwardly, until Con Pappas says he must get back. His parole ends at twelve and begins again at two. You and the girl rise also. We all thank Mrs Stark for our nice time. Con Pappas goes. Mrs Stark is looking intently at you.

  “Can I ask you a favour?” she says.

  “Sure,” you reply. She probably wants you to do an errand to the canteen.

  “Look after Clifton. I mean, keep an eye on him if you can.” She’s a sad old woman.

  You don’t like to say that you’ve nothing to spare from looking after yourself and that Clifton would be better off dead, so you just nod and smile as though you appreciate the gravity of it.

  You walk away and to your surprise the girl walks with you.

  “What’s wrong with Clifton?” she asks.

  “He’s a cabbage.”

  “She shouldn’t have asked you that favour.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s just words.”

  “Won’t you be able to look after him?”

  “Oh, he’s in his element in Ward 24. He should be looking after me.”

  “Ward 24 sounds awful.”

  “It is.”

  “So’s Admission.”

  “I thought you were from Admission.”

  “Why?”

  “You look the type.”

  “How does the type look?”

  “More normal, less downtrodden.”

  “God! If you only knew!”

  “A bloke I know calls Admission types the ‘Silk Hankies’.”

  “Why?”

  “He reckons you’re all pampered.”

  “He should try it some time!”

  The girl sounds offended. You don’t want to offend her. It’s lovely walking along like this, being able to talk so easily. You’ve never felt this comfortable with a girl. And she’s nice-looking.

  “I’m just telling you this other bloke’s opinion. I wouldn’t know, myself.”

  “Have you been here long?” She’s lost the offended tone.

  “Five and a half years.”

  “Jesus! What for?”

  “It’s a long story. What about you?”

  “A fortnight, this time.”

  “I saw you at the Monday night film a couple of months ago.”

  “I’ve been home since then. Now I’m back.”

  “You were wearing those same beads.”

  “They’re stupid, aren’t they? Worry beads. I wear them to fiddle with.”

  “They’re okay.”

  We are at Ward 24 now. You feel hollow at having to leave her.

  “I have to go in,” you say. “We get in trouble if we’re late for meals.”

  “Alright,” she says.

  “Thanks for walking up with me.”

  “I was coming this way in any case,” she says.

  You feel as if she’s slapped you. She didn’t have to say that.

  “Bye then,” you say curtly, to show you don’t give a stuff.

  “Listen, would you like to have another walk after lunch?”

  “If you like.” A great relief is flooding you.

  “I’ll meet you at the canteen. Okay?”

  “See you there.”

  You start up the scrubby path to the courtyard and she begins going along the road towards Admission.

  “Hey!” she calls.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Len. What’s yours?”

  “Julie.”

  “I don’t want to sound awful, but would you mind telling me why you’re in this place?”

  You are sitting with Julie at the lake shore. “It isn’t especially interesting.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s just that we’re warned in Admission to be careful who we mix with.”

  “I’m not an axe-murderer.”

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes. Are you shocked?”

  “Not at all. Some of my best friends are axe-murderers.”

  Julie stares at you.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I have known a couple.”

  “How?”

  “In MAX.”

  “What’s that?”

  You tell her about MAX.

  “Why were you there? Please tell me. I’ll feel scared if I don’t know.”

  “You might be more scared if you do,” you say, then regret it. She does look slightly scared. So you tell her what you did to get the Life sentence.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “To make a name for myself.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Well, it was more complicated than that, but that’s how the media simplified it.”

  “I vaguely remember now. It was big news.”

  “They were wrapping fish and chips with it the next day.”

  “I’m glad you’ve told me. It’s weird, but sort of normal weird. Not like being a maniac.”

  “I’m glad you think so. And what about your axe-murders?”

  “Nothing so dramatic. It was just drugs. My family was hassling me so I went and lived with this guy for a while. I was only fifteen then. The cops got him.”

  “Carnal knowledge?”

  “No, he was stripping cars more than he was stripping me. Anyway, my family arranged that I’d come here for treatment for the drugs. Mainly to save me from being declared ’in moral danger’ or whatever they call it.”

  “Are you still a drug fiend?”

  “Never was, really. It was pot mostly. I sniffed cocaine a few times but I didn’t get wrapped in it. My family is very straight. They think anything stronger than a Bex and you’re doomed.”

  We are leaning back on our elbows, watching little waves break at the edge of the grass near our feet. Julie’s feet are small, but not dainty. They’re strong and tanned in open sandals. You’ve always found feet vaguely embarrassing, but not Julie’s. It’s strange how easy it is to be with her. You read once that when you meet a girl you really like there aren’t any lightning flashes or bells or great spasms of desire, just a relaxed warmth. That’s how it is now. Julie is exciting and ordinary at the same time. Exciting because she’s a girl and you can see her small firm breasts against her shirt, and ordinary because she’s just a person and not a goddess or anything.

  “How long will you be here this time?” you ask.

  “Don’t know. A few weeks I s’pose. I could sign myself out if I wanted but my family hassles me at home so I might as well be hassled here by professionals.”

  You don’t know what to say to that. You’ve never met anyone who was here without having to be.

  “What about you?”

  “Life sentence,” you say with a shrug. “I told you.”

  “What does that actually mean?”

  “About seventeen years in this State.”

  Julie looks pained. You explain that you don’t really kn
ow how long it’ll be. Your position is complicated. Your crime was unusual and nobody knows exactly how much punishment it deserves. And you’re doing your time here instead of in gaol, which complicates it more.

  “Don’t you ever think of escaping?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want to be free?”

  “I’m only interested in being free in here,” you say, tapping your head.

  “And are you?”

  “Not entirely, but I’ve no reason to think escaping would help.”

  Julie is gazing into your eyes. You gaze back. She has nice eyes and you don’t mind them on you.

  “You’re supercool aren’t you?” she says. “If they told me I might be here for seventeen years I’d die of fright.”

  “I have done many times.”

  “No you haven’t. You’re supercool. That was the first thing I sensed about you.”

  This is fascinating. You have spent years wondering how you appear to others.

  “Supercool, eh?” you say, hoping she’ll continue.

  “Maybe that’s the wrong word.”

  “What’s the right word?”

  “I don’t know. It’s as if nothing could ever surprise you. As though you know some big secret about life.”

  “I do.”

  “What is it?”

  “Fatalism, basically.”

  “Which means?”

  “That there’s a bullet somewhere with your name on it. Or an accident, or a disease, or old age. Old age is the biggest bullet of all.”

  “Why d’you think that way?”

  “I’m a spiritual member of the Lost Generation, living on borrowed time from Flanders.”

  You’ve never said it straightforwardly like that to anyone before. Julie at least half-understands. Wonderful girl! You tell her about The Survivor and David Allison and the poetry. As soon as you mention the poetry Julie recites some lines to you.

  “Who’s that by?”

  “Emily Dickinson. I wrote a prize essay on her at school.”

  Astonishing girl!