“You two boys keep on top of it,” Dr. Frank says. “I want a plan for Tom’s treatment on my desk by Monday. I want proper notes kept, including weekly reports.”
“From us, sir?” I say and try not to look at Bob. Things are going from bad to worse. The soldiers who occupied their own corner of the cafeteria when I’d first arrived are gone. Fewer of the new inmates pass through Dr. Frank’s hands at all. The attendants are kept busy preparing men for insulin and electric shock treatments. There is talk of experimental surgery. Now this: Bob and I, who are classified as sick, are being put in charge of Tom, but Attendant Cooper whose job this should be is responsible for assaults on patients; and Dr. Frank who is supposed to run a tight ship, according to humane principals, has been—to all intents and purposes—overthrown. The entire institution is at risk.
What to make of it?
After Dr. Frank leaves, Bob leans over and says to me, “There’s just one thing, Sandy.”
“What’s that, Bob?”
“The letter.” He winks.
“What letter is that, Bob?”
Bob glances over his shoulder to see if anyone is near enough to overhear. “The one about Cooper. The one you wrote to Dr. Frank. He read it out in the staff room.”
“With Cooper there?”
Bob nods.
“When was this?”
“Yesterday.”
I consider this. Ron Signet must have held on to it for a period of time before deciding what to do. That he’d ultimately turned it over to Dr. Frank and not to Cooper privately or to the Board alone was a good sign.
“There’s to be an investigation?”
Bob shakes his head. “Dr. Frank said it didn’t matter whether the accusation was true or not at this point, the real issue was Cooper’s relationship with the patients. Your letter was a warning sign.”
“What did Cooper say?”
“He asked if, in Dr. Frank’s opinion, you were paranoid.”
“What did Dr. Frank say?”
“He said no, but that given the complexity of your case he’d keep an open mind.”
“Shit, Bob, Cooper will kill me!”
“Not so,” Bob says. He puts his hand over my hand and squeezes it. “Dr. Frank’s asking us to help out Tom is his way of showing he believes in us. Cooper won’t dare to try anything.”
“Us?”
Bob’s eyes blink his hurt.
“I’m sorry, Bob,” I say. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to be involved in this. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure about your loyalties.”
He blinks again. “I have feelings, Sandy, just like you.” He turns his head away.
“Bob, I am sorry. It’s just that, well, things can’t be easy for you.”
“You have no idea, Sandy,” he says.
“I’ve been wondering, Bob”—I touch his shoulder so he’ll look at me—“how you know all this?”
Bob raises an eyebrow then tips his head in Cooper’s direction. Cooper lounges against the front of the stage watching us. “From the horse’s mouth, of course.” He scrapes back his chair and stands up. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
What could I need? I wonder as I watch Cooper follow Bob out of the hall. Magazines, candy, extra pocket money? Would something in this scene explain why Bob has stopped playing practical jokes? I realize that I no longer conceive of him as a boy.
I think for the first time in a while about Karl. What would he have done in these circumstances? “Bird cages,” I say.
“Good evening?” Tom says.
“Just thinking aloud, Tom, don’t mind me.”
Karl’s action had been a metaphor for freedom. At the outbreak of war, when many freedoms were being curtailed and men were about to be sent to their deaths on the battlefield, he had released all the birds in Stanley Park. The point was that living things were meant to be at liberty, not held in contravention of their natures. Not rounded up by the Nazis, not confined in camps, not conscripted into armies. The irony, for me, was that I wanted to join the military in order to show my freedom. I desired to contribute to the overall independence of humankind. Life followed a natural order, not only species to species but individual to individual. Respect it, and all went well; overturn it, and you risked chaos. What could I do to show that kind of respect?
Bob returns late to the room. Tom is already asleep. “Sandy!” he says.
I sit up. “What is it?”
“Shush!”
He comes close to whisper. “I took a letter from Cooper’s pocket. It lists three more complaints against him. Ron Signet signed it.”
“What does it say?”
“A post-lobotomy patient in the East Wing struck Cooper and Cooper beat him with a chair until they had to take the man to the hospital, where he nearly bled to death. Then one of the soldiers—that should do for him, Sandy!—started to argue with Cooper and Cooper struck him with his fist and broke his jaw.” Bob falls quiet. He moves away and I hear him preparing for bed.
“Don’t you like Cooper, Bob?”
“Fuck you!” Bob says.
I think about this. “Bob? What’s the third case?” I say.
I hear Bob sigh. He fluffs his pillows. He sighs again. “Signet claims to have caught me and Cooper at it in the garden, one Sunday.”
“At it?”
“It’s against the law, Sandy.” Bob laughs. It’s the first laugh I’ve heard from him in some time. “My mother thinks I’m sick, she thinks they’ll cure me here.” His head, a black oblong in the darkness, turns in my direction. There’s no laughter left in his voice when he says, “I’m getting worried, Sandy. I’m afraid of what Cooper will do to me if Signet’s complaints go ahead. He could go to jail, just like I did, if they think the claim is valid. I need your help. I have to get out of here.”
Opening bird cages? Perhaps this is it? “If you go,” I say, “you can’t ever come back. No one must know how you did it.”
“They won’t.”
“You came back before. Winchell told me.”
“That was different.”
“Why is it different now?”
“I’ve a friend on the outside. He’ll help me.”
There are many questions I want to ask, such as who is this friend and how is Bob so sure of him, but I decide to proceed on trust. If I can’t, what’s the use anyway?
—
Before we can take our completed treatment plan to Dr. Frank, Tom appears before the Board, which recommends him for surgery. When we say goodbye to him, Tom makes me a present of his completed rug. Bob gives him a hug. Cooper, who stands watching, says, “The best laid plans of mice and men, eh, girls?” It’s the first time for days he’s spoken to either of us. Ron Signet who has also come to say goodbye whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Why is he sorry? Is it because he could have done something?
Bob and I stand together and watch as Cooper leads Tom along the corridor, down the stairs and through the door at the far end into the East Wing.
—
Bob and I have set up a routine. In the evenings, when we’ve finished work—me in the rabbitry, Bob in the garden—we play chess or take ten or twelve turns around the airing court. Since Winchell is no longer available to play baseball, Bob has given up sports. If anyone asks, we say we’ve seen all the movies. If anyone listens, they hear Bob chat to me about his interest in design and the course he’d like to take after his release—I’m pleased to learn that there is a purpose to the cuttings he takes from magazines. We find commonalities in our families. He refuses, now, to see his mother when she comes to visit because of what he’s learned about her role in his incarceration, and I refuse to see both my so-called parents because—well, you can see it the same way. Cooper—who is on probation—watches us closely, but he can’t be there all the time. Bob is really a kind soul, all gentleness now that he’s dropped the annoying practical tricks. They were, he says, a way to attract attention. His greatest fear had been that he’d d
isappear in here, that no one would know he’d ever been. It’s a problem I recognize. Now that we’re friends, there’s no need for him to show off.
My initial aim was to send Bob out the same way I’d been planning for myself with Karl, but the more I think about it, the more I’m sure it’s not a good idea. Karl and I had devised our scheme for ourselves: It plays to our strengths, but it can be safely done only once. Karl and I could have gone together, but Bob is no Karl, and I can’t leave yet. I owe it to the memory of Alan Macaulay to finish his story and prove him innocent. I’ve made a commitment to Dr. Frank. I still hope for a pardon once I’m finished Dr. Frank’s treatment.
I present the revamped plan to Bob during our walks around the airing court. I build on what Bob has told me about himself: his boyhood in Alberta riding horses, jumping from barn roofs, swinging on ropes, vaulting fences; his athleticism in high school (before all his foolishness): Bob was a hurdler and pole-vaulter! As well, Bob, as a gardener, knows the layout of the property almost as well as I do, although he cannot go so far afield as can I with my wheelbarrows of refuse from the rabbitry. He must stick to the formal gardens.
Naturally there are no trees left standing close to the outer wall, but the ground rises not far from the wall and that gives a slight advantage. Kosho and I often go as far as the stand of trees where Alan Macaulay’s grave lies—ostensibly to disperse rubbish—but on the occasions when Ron Signet allows us to go by ourselves (he’s a lazy bugger, is Ron), to say our prayers. These trees are within a hundred feet of that rise of ground. Since our conversation about the sea serpent, Kosho and I find we can pray in common.
I present the plan to Kosho. He says nothing, but he holds the white towel he carries to his face a moment, then nods. The next day he presents me with the first length of bamboo he’s filched from the stand of bamboo near the pond.
Bob and I stage an argument in the airing court. From then on we scarcely speak to each other in public, and Bob returns to playing sports. He runs around the court instead of walking with me; he sets up hurdles with Dr. Frank’s permission, and jumps them. Dr. Frank says to him, “A healthy mind in a healthy body, eh, Bob?” Privately, I teach Bob what I’ve learned from my Indian club exercises. Bob is strong, but not yet as strong as I am.
Kosho and I take the bamboo lengths, one by one, and hide them near Alan Macaulay’s grave. When we are on our own, we begin the process of lashing them together. When the pole is complete, I let Bob know. Bob says, not for the first time, “You’re taking a big risk, Sandy.”
I know, and Kosho knows, but there is no other way. It’s all up to Bob.
At the end of August, Dr. Frank holds his annual garden party. The night before, Bob asks Ron Signet if he can work late to ensure that the flower beds are at their best. Ron agrees, watches him for a while, then returns to his Esperanto and coffee in the cafeteria. The long, pale, moonless summer evening continues.
Kosho is seen at the fountain feeding the fish, then making his rounds near the rabbitry and pond. It is not Kosho, of course: Kosho hides within the hutch. Bob has donned his clothes. A Bob hunched and made to appear smaller, wearing Kosho’s hat on his head and Kosho’s white towel around his neck.
We come and go, all of us, as if in a dance.
The night darkens. I return to the rabbitry to make certain all is well. Because it’s me, because of everything, Ron comes with me. Kosho—the real Kosho—is there, too. Many of the does are pregnant and we’re keeping a close eye on them. We do not open their hutches unless we must; we keep quiet in their vicinity. This night we see that a number of the does have begun to make their nests and we add plenty of soft hay for the purpose. Several of the does have already kindled. We continue to leave them undisturbed so that the anxious mothers will not turn on their young and eat them. Young rabbits are born blind and do not leave the nest until their eyes are open after they’re about sixteen days old. Until then we are watchers, Kosho and I.
We watch, this night. When Ron goes back to the main building for another coffee break, Kosho and I take wheelbarrows of dirty straw to the compost. Kosho returns to the hutch, but I continue on, at a run, to Alan Macaulay’s gravesite. From there, peering out between the trees, I can see the long snake of the bamboo pole fallen in the grass near the wall. Bob is gone. I only wish I could have been there to see him—that leap of faith in his old training, the hard kick to propel himself over the wall—Bob’s rise, climax and denouement, with his friend—all being well—waiting in a car on the far side.
I crawl to the pole and tow it back, then cut the lashings with one of Winchell’s sharpened bolts—he’d told me where he’d hidden his tools when he was moved to the laundry. Within minutes it’s done, and I’m giving a final sweep and clean to the rabbitry when Ron returns. “Where’s Kosho?” he says.
“Gone to bed.”
Even I am amazed at how lax the supervision is: Where’s Dr. Frank? Putting last-minute touches on reception details? It feels like the calm before the storm. If the Board had any idea…which it will, tomorrow, when Bob’s absence is discovered.
Ron peeps in at some of the nests. He knows better than to stick in his fingers or make a noise. He comes over to me and whispers, “Cute little things, aren’t they. Isn’t life amazing?” I agree. Ron locks up behind us and we walk to the kitchen door.
“Hey, Sandy,” Cooper says, when Ron and I sit down to drink hot chocolate. “This came for you today.” He hands me a letter. It’s from Georgina, who since the episode on cinema night has stayed away. I don’t want to open it in front of them. Cooper has a smirk on his face. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me since he was put on probation. Ron won’t catch my eye.
“Open it, Sandy,” Cooper says. “We all want to hear what your girlfriend has to say.” He winks at Ron Signet.
There’s nothing for it. If I don’t open the letter, he will take it away.
The note is brief.
My beloved Sandy,
I’m in hell with worry. A letter came today from Brentwood. He was on reconnaissance—he couldn’t say where—but it’s somewhere in France—when they were attacked by fighters. They dived, right down on deck with the rear gunners answering. The fighters sheered away. While Brent’s plane was still down there—“going like hell between houses and trees”—three Messerschmidt 109s attacked them. They got one—it fell into the forest in flames—and some French fighters got another. One got away. But one of Brent’s gunners was shot and later died. Sandy, he wrote, “It was our first real engagement and the only sensation I can remember was thinking, ‘Can this be real? Some other bloke is actually shooting at me—there must be a war on!’ It was just about the strangest feeling I’ve ever had.” I have a very bad feeling about this, Sandy.
If there is a god, pray to him for me.
George
Cooper cranes his neck over my shoulder at the letter. He knows what’s in it. “Now, ain’t that too bad?” he says.
TWELVE
August 30 and following, 1941
Gone! His bed empty! The gardening tools put away neatly! Not a sign of him! My father would say “in the twinkling of an eye” to describe how Bob has vanished. He’d speak about the Rapture, when all the saved in Christ will be whisked to heaven, leaving the damned behind. The damned—that’s us; the saved—that’s Bob! Free on the other side of the wall! Only Kosho and I know how it was done. The heavier bamboo sections of the pole have been burned in the incinerator with the other rubbish.
I don’t know who sounded the alarm. To avoid suspicion I had mentioned to Ron that Bob wasn’t back yet when I went to bed, but Ron only said, “That boy does like to work hard!” and returned to his magazine.
Lazy, our Ron.
Cooper checked the beds at 2 a.m. Shortly afterwards, we were all awake: Footsteps ran down the hall, alarms rang throughout the building, sirens screamed in the streets outside. Cooper rousted us—I took a quick look out the window and saw teams of men with dogs roving the gro
unds—and led us all into the cafeteria where we were locked in for the rest of the night.
Breakfast is late. No one comes to tell us what’s going on. For lack of anything better to do, I begin to organize food for the reception: unfreeze the canapés, mix the fruit punch—some of the others join in. Soon we’ve made sandwiches and arranged neat trays of cutlery and set out cups and saucers. We prepare coffee urns and hot water for tea.
It’s lunchtime before anybody checks on us: They’re speechless. We’re still in our pyjamas but the cafeteria is spotless, the tables are placed in rows, and we’ve done our best to decorate with the supplies that we have. Some of the men have constructed paper roses from serviettes, twisted wire for stems, and linked them into garlands.
At 3 P.M. the guests begin to arrive. We are sent to our rooms to wash and shave. Those who specialize in crafts will man demonstration tables. The rest of us will be at our work, as usual. But there is nothing usual about today. Police patrol the grounds and the attendants are armed. What do they think the runaway Bob will do—come back and shoot them? I catch sight of Dr. Frank, dressed in a suit that fits him, leading a party of visitors towards a circle of lawn chairs. For some reason I glance up at the top windows in the East Wing: From one of these hangs a red flag.
What a cacophony of images! How will Dr. Frank explain them? Do the guests know that a dangerous lunatic (sic!) is at large? Gentle Bob meek and mild! They eye me as I pass by on my way to the rabbitry: I wish I had dragging chains to show them. I am, we all are, a disappointment. I think about drooling for effect but decide that it is bad long-term policy. Truthfully, most of them look more interested in what’s going on around them—police and police dogs, inmates carrying tea trays—than frightened, even the Board members, who are identifiable by the name tags they wear, and who one would expect to be most disturbed.
What It Takes to Be Human Page 13