M.C.’s head shook a soft no. I turned to Dr. Winning, who watched with sad paternal eyes. I was one of his now.
I made my move and threw my shoulder at M.C. He side-stepped and grabbed for my arm. He missed. I pushed Nurse Grace and headed down the hall. I got no more than ten feet before M.C. caught me around the waist and lifted me in the air. I felt like a football about to take part in a brutal punt return.
“Go easy, my man,” he said in my ear.
I threw an elbow at his head and felt it connect. My elbow hurt but he didn’t loosen up. Instead he sat me on the ground. I could hear footsteps coming up behind us and caught a glimpse of Nurse Grace’s white shoes.
“You need some help?” she said.
“Just put him out,” said M.C. still softly, as if he wanted this over with so he could get on to more important things. He grabbed my right wrist and clamped it tight. Nurse Grace was on her knees, and I could see something in her right hand, a hypodermic needle.
“I’ve been vaccinated,” I said, struggling to get free.
“Not for this trip,” said M.C., and the needle went into my forearm.
I think Koko tried to stop them. At least he was there almost instantly and happier than ever before. He was beautifully clear and, for the first time, in color. I wanted to open my eyes and tell M.C. and Nurse Grace that Koko had appeared in color, but I couldn’t. Koko took my hand and led me to the inkwell. I had things to do, people to save, but he was not to be denied. We balanced at the end of the inkwell, and just before we plunged in, I could see a pen descending on us. The pen looked suspiciously like a needle.
When I awoke, I had the feeling that just seconds had passed. I was lying on a bed. To my left was another bed. Beyond that bed was a wall with a small, barred window leading to the night. A circular fluorescent light fixture in the low ceiling revealed white walls. On the other bed, a powerful-looking man with brownish-yellow hair reclined comfortably in bright green and red pajamas and read a book. It was Frenchman’s Creek by Du Maurier.
We looked at each other for a few moments before I turned my back and closed my eyes. But I couldn’t sleep and knew it. If anything, I had a headache from too much drugged sleep. When I was feeling under the blanket to find out what I was wearing (it turned out to be a pair of hospital gray pajamas), I realized that since I was a potential psychotic, my roommate must also be a mental patient. I might be unwise to turn my back on him. In turning quickly to face the man in the bright green and red pajamas, I forgot about the stitches in my head.
“You got a headache?” the man said. “You want a drink?” He leaned forward, blinking.
“No. No thanks.”
“Mind if I exercise?” He put his book aside and stood next to me between the beds.
“No.”
The man suddenly disappeared, and it took me a few seconds to realize that he had dropped to the floor. Leaning dizzily over, I found him sitting crosslegged, teeth clenched, and red-faced. He grunted slightly and turned redder. As the red began to turn to white, he relaxed and turned on his stomach. It seemed as if he had gone to sleep, but instead he threw his arms back and lifted his legs from the floor so that he was carefully balanced on his stomach and looking in vacant agony at the wall ahead of him. Again he failed to make any impression on the wall except for fingerprints, which joined the pattern of other, older fingerprints at approximately the same point.
“You were wondering why I waited till you woke up to do my exercises, weren’t you?”
“No,” I said, trying to shake the drug dryness from my tongue and brain.
“Truth is I like an audience. I used to feel guilty about that.” He dabbed his perspiring face with the corner of his bright pajamas. “Used to find myself exercising whenever company came over, and my wife would say I was just showing off. I never thought I was showing off. Just did it when the mood took me and didn’t stop to analyze it. The hell with her. I said it then and I say it now.”
We looked at each other in silence for a minute or longer.
“My name is Sklodovich, Ivan Sklodovich,” he said, extending a hand, which I shifted to meet with my unsteady grasp. “Don’t worry, I won’t squeeze. I don’t believe in tests of strength on a first meeting. It creates a competitive tension that’s hard to overcome. You know what I mean?”
“Yes. My name is Peters, Toby Peters.”
“Nice to meet you. Listen, Toby. They call me Cortland around here. The staff, I mean. I don’t like it, but live and let live. It doesn’t cost me anything to be called Cortland, does it?”
“No.”
“You see my father was a welder in Russia and when he came to America he invented a new welding process, Slig. A big tycoon was what my old man wanted to be, so he changed his name to Cortland. But it didn’t help. Nobody wanted Slig welding, and nobody wanted a roly-poly bearded Russian with a name like Cortland. They thought he was a Bolshevik spy or something. For twenty years my family has hidden the solid, black-bread name of Sklodovich behind the chewing-gum name of Cortland. But no more. I am Ivan Sklodovich. Peters. Are you the Peters who paints murals in sewers?”
“No, I’m a detective.”
“A defective?”
“Detective. A private eye.”
“Oh. I couldn’t figure out what the hell a defective was. This is a mental hospital, you know?”
“Yes, I know,” I said and told him my story in condensed form, during which he blinked frequently and ate an orange pulled from under his pillow after first offering it to me.
When I mentioned Ressner, Cortland-who-would-be-Sklodovich paused in his citrus munching and nodded wisely.
“I know Ressner,” said Cortland, after I had finished telling him of how I became a prisoner in Winning. “I used to work in an office, sold carbon paper, Whitney Carbon Paper, the carbon paper that leaves a clean impression on the paper and no smudges on your hand. You’ve heard of them? From salesman, trudging from stationery shop to drugstore to school supply store, I was promoted to North San Diego regional director of sales with a nearsighted secretary and my own office in an old building with windows that looked like rejects from the Union Station bathroom. My secretary, Phyllis, took off her glasses one day, and I fell in love and married her. Carbon paper sales rose in North San Diego, and I moved up to assistant Midwest sectional division manager in charge of complaints. This brought me to L.A., where Phyllis learned to play bridge, and sales boomed.”
At this point I must have made a face, for Sklodovich said: “Be patient, I’ll get to Ressner.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Now that I think about it, I don’t really know what I did those four years in the main office. Then sales fell. Who knows why? Carbon sales depend upon little competition and a triplicate society. In any case, bills mounted, my commission dropped, Phyllis had an abortion, skinny old John Whitney Lickter began to get on me, and I began to worry seriously about Hitler. But Lickter was the worst of all because I had to face his shriveled, frowning face every day with excuses. It got to the point where I couldn’t stand to hear his ‘Is that your total and complete report, Mr. Cortland? It leaves much to be desired.’ If any single thing drove me mad, it was that statement from him each morning while he sipped tea from a mug marked J.W.L. and played with the perpetual mole on his chin, the old fart. You don’t mind if I use a bit of profanity to color my speech, do you?”
“Not at all.”
“We do have to make some allowances for each other. After all we are mentally unwell. You don’t mind if I refer to our mental problem, do you?”
“I haven’t got any mental problem. They’ve made a mistake, I told you.” I tried to sit up and swallow, but the will was not enough. Ressner could be merrily hacking away at Mae West while I pretended to listen to this ranting maniac.
“Perhaps,” said Sklodovich, lying back on his bed. “It wouldn’t be the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. I hope you don’t mind the homilies. Do you? Actually I shouldn’t
spend so much time apologizing. That was one of my problems. Always apologizing to my wife, to Lickter, to stationery store owners.”
“You were going to tell me about Ressner?”
“Oh yes. Well, one morning after I had lost my bus transfer and fought with the driver over changing a five-dollar bill, old Lickter called me into his office to grumble and complain about the lack of sales. You wouldn’t think to look at me, but I used to be a real worm; that’s a fact. I was home and office doormat. I handed old Lickter my report as usual and he read it grim-faced, glancing up at me through the smoke of his cigar or the steam of his tea; either of the two was constantly at his mouth. ‘Is that your total and complete report, Mr. Cortland? It leaves much to be desired.’ Instead of nodding in fear for my fragile reputation as I had previously, I grabbed the old man, took his damned cigar, tied him with the cord from his draw drapes, and dangled him out of the window fifteen stories above the sidewalk. He was too frightened to say much at first, but as soon as I tied one end of the cord to his desk I heard him screaming to the sunny sky. ‘The situation does leave a great deal to be desired, doesn’t it, Mr. Lickter?’ I called out the window and peered over to see a crowd gathering. ‘Cut the rope, man,’ someone shouted. ‘No, no,’ said another guy, ‘wait till I get my camera.’ Mr. Seymour, my immediate superior, chief Midwest sectional division manager in charge of erasers, came into the office about five minutes later with a smile on his false and lecherous face. ‘What’s going on here, Craig? Some kind of misunderstanding with Mr. Lickter? Can I help in any way?’ ‘I hung him out the window, you queer bastard,’ I said, tweaking his effeminate nose. I pulled him by the nose to the window and shouted down to the waiting crowd, ‘Mr. Seymour here is a queer.’ ‘Wha’ he say?’ I heard a woman shout. ‘He says Seymour is a fairy,’ said another voice. ‘Which one’s Seymour?’ ‘This one,’ I shouted. ‘Atta boy, Mac, toss him down here.’ Seymour, nostrils stopped, pleaded ‘led me go, please,’ ‘Mr. Lickter, you knew Mr. Seymour here was a queer, didn’t you?’ ‘Let me up, Mr. Cortland, I promise I’ll pay you anything,’ shouted Lickter, whose upside-down face was quite red. I shoved Seymour, the corrupter of office boys, into the large closet behind the huge desk. Next a cop came up and talked to me through the door, though the door wasn’t locked. ‘This is Sergeant Derk, Cortland. What have you done with Seymour?’ ‘He’s in the closet,’ I said, ‘but why you should care is beyond me.’ ‘Now,’ said Sergeant Derk slowly, ‘I want you to listen to me. Cutting that rope isn’t going to solve any problems,’ Do you think this whole thing sounds Freudian? I mean their fear that I might cut the imaginary umbilical cord that bound me to his authority.”
“It does sound a little Freudian,” I said, feeling a little reasonable fear of the orange-eating, talkative lunatic in the next bed.
“I didn’t even think about cutting the cord until he brought it up. But I didn’t answer Sergeant Derk, who went away after a few seconds. ‘Is there anything to be desired out there?’ I asked Lickter. He said nothing, and I noticed that the fire department had spread a net below the window and was busily at work on an additional net a few stories below. I helped Lickter up, and the now-massive crowd groaned. ‘Don’t worry,’ I shouted. ‘He’ll be right back.’ ‘Please Cortland,’ he sputtered, seated upright on the window ledge. ‘I’ll make you a partner.’ ‘Be realistic,’ I said, turning him upside down again when the normal paste color had returned. The crowd cheered. ‘How can you make me a partner? You know as well as I do that if I let you in, I’ll be thrown in jail and fired. You’d have to be crazy to make me a partner.’ Toby-do you mind if I call you Toby?”
“Not at all.”
“Next they sent a priest up to talk to me even though I’m not a Catholic. Why is it they always send a priest even though most people are not Catholics?”
Before I could answer he continued talking.
“The priest was a pleasant, chubby guy who looked scared to death but determined, so I let him in. ‘This is not the way, Craig. You can gain nothing from this. Let them go, and I’ll do what I can to help you.’ ‘You don’t even know me,’ I said. ‘I don’t have to know you, but I can see that you are a man who respects the laws of God.’ ‘I respect neither God, man, nor the Internal Revenue Service, father.’ “That is blasphemy, young man,’ he said gently. “Yes,’ I replied, wishing they had sent a more capable priest. But I’m sure they sent what they had on hand. ‘I’ll have to insist that you let that man in,’ said the priest. There was no choice for me.”
“You let him up?”
“No, I tied up the priest with the cord from the other drape, and he joined Lickter out the window. I’m not boring you, am I?”
“No.”
“Good. Well they sent Phyllis, but I wouldn’t let her in. There was no more drape cord, and I already had someone in the closet. She cried for a while and went away. You’re wondering about Ressner, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“The phone had been ringing the moment I lowered the priest out the window and heard the faraway voices below: ‘It’s a priest.’ ‘God no.’ ‘He gonna drop a priest?’ ‘That’d be something.’ ‘Oh, they’ll fall in the net.’ ‘Father,’ I called. ‘That is Mr. Lickter.’ ‘Courage,’ said the priest. ‘That’s the spirit, father,’ I shouted before answering the phone.”
Sklodovich reached under his pillow for a fresh orange.
“Then a red-faced old cop with a gun in his hand came outside the door and fired a bullet in the air. ‘Come out of there with your hands on your head or I’ll come in there and shoot you in the balls,’ he shouted indiscreetly. I was wondering why no one had thought of doing this earlier.”
“What did you do?”
“What did I do? For Chrissake I opened the door and let him in. I’m crazy, but I’m not stupid. I could tell that little son of a bitch meant business. I found out later he got a medal and they fired him for risking all those lives. A few months afterward I read in the paper that he was suspected of working for the syndicate.”
“Ressner?” I reminded him.
M.C. walked in as Sklodovich was about to speak again. He motioned to me to follow him, and I looked at Sklodovich, who was smiling at M.C.
“When are we going to arm-wrestle, M.C.? You know you’re going to give in eventually. Now is as good a time as any.”
M.C. paid no attention to Cortland’s question as I rose on weak knees, put on a pair of slippers that I found next to the bed, and started out of the room.
“Now I ask you, Toby. How can a man refuse a challenge like that and retain his dignity? See you later.”
M.C. grasped my arm and led me down a corridor of doors, past a large alcove with old couches and magazines, and by a glass-enclosed desk across from two elevators. At the desk sat two nurses, a short, young pretty one and an old thin one with a thin mouth that hardly moved as she spoke to the young girl. A tall, barrel-chested, hairy-armed man with short hair stood behind them with his arms folded. He was dressed in the same white uniform that M.C. wore, and the two men exchanged understanding glances. We stopped before the elevators, and I watched the lights go on 1-2-3-4. M.C. pressed the black button with the faded white 4 on it and concentrated on the wall as we rose.
I had decided that I would have to go along and look for a chance to get away. The fourth-floor lobby contained an enclosed desk (PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE NURSES), an alcove of empty chairs, a desk and a corridor of rooms. A young doctor stood in the hall, speaking to an even younger nurse. They looked at me as we passed. At the end of the hall we stopped at a door that looked like the others. M.C. opened it, motioned me in, and closed the door, leaving me alone to face two men seated at a table in a small, bare room with a cheap Degas reproduction tilted on the wall.
One man, the one with a small pointed white beard and a bald head popping through a fringe of gray hair, smiled and pointed with the stem of his pipe to an empty chair. I sat in it. The other man, a young Arabian-looking se
rious type with thick black hair, split his attention between me and the older man, with whom he shared an ashtray for their quite similar pipes.
The older doctor (Thomas Mitchell with an earache) leaned back and flipped through a chart in front of him, his underlip curled over his upper and his eyebrows up as if straining to let in maximum light.
“My name is Dr. Vaderg-” and his voice cracked and went squeaky. Coughing, Dr. Vaderg-reached for a glass of water while his dark companion looked helplessly about, not knowing what to do. I pretended not to notice, but the incident obviously had shattered a carefully prepared scene. The old doctor drank, recovered, smiled slightly, and cleared his throat. I joined him in a thin, careful smile.
“My name is Dr. Vadergreff. My colleague is Dr. Randipur.” Dr. Randipur nodded.
“Your name, it is Toby Peters?” said Dr. Randipur, looking down at a pad of paper.
“Yes.” Such an answer, I thought, must be safe.
“Mr. Toby Peters. May I ask of you why is it you think you may now be here?” said Randipur, after a glance from Vadergreff, who nodded in approval at the question.
“A mistake.”
“Dr. Winning”-smiled old baldy-“seldom makes mistakes. As a matter of fact, I can’t recall him ever making a diagnostic error. He may have some minor disagreements with some of us on treatment procedures, but after all, this is a research institute and unusual cases require unusual treatment. No, I’m afraid we’ll have to look elsewhere for an explanation.” Dr. Randipur jotted down this pithy statement.
With a blank, expressionless gaze I hoped would pass for sincere attention, I fixed upon Dr. Vadergreff’s ample nose. Somehow I had given the impression that Dr. Winning had been accused of error. Since this concept was impossible for the old man, I tried to make it seem as if I had made the mistake as a result of my ignorance about Dr. Winning’s infallibility.
“Now, Mr. Peters,” Vadergreff continued through the clenched teeth, which held his pipe, “how do you account for your behavior this morning? It seems you threatened Dr. Winning and became violent. If this report is right, you had to be subdued.”
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