Two months later, when Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated live on television at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles as all the world watched, he did the same thing, savagely punching the orderlies trying to take him down. Glass flew everywhere, blood stained the floor, and the straightjacket was useless.
“I’m in mourning!” he kept yelling, “I’m in mourning, you stupid bastards! I told you. I told you. I knew this was going to happen,” he wailed in anguish.
Sobs wracked his body and stole his breath, as his body heaved in inconsolable pain that triggered dormant emotions let loose from Terry the boy, the son, the soldier, the husband, the father, the hurting man. The crying spells lasted for months eased by time spent outside in the courtyard where sun and fresh air slowly restored him. It is where he befriended the two crows.
The younger patients played basketball on the cracked concrete courtyard. The naked rim sagged from years of strong bodies hanging proudly for a few seconds as they plunged the ball through the opening. For most of these men, some who were still boys, it was the only sense of victory or control they could know in their regulated and demoralizing environment. Older men, many confined in the hospital for scores of years, walked the edges of the court or strolled to the end of the fence, blowing smoke through the chain links, gazing at the other world beyond. That world was green and gentle dotted with rolling hills and a sweet-smelling pine forest. The long road leading to the institution was defined by ancient oak trees, gloriously draped with tangles of Spanish moss hanging like a woman’s freshly washed curly hair. The entrance way was grand and serene, belying the misery behind the tall chain link fence, razor wire, and armed guard tower that offered the best view of the whole countryside.
Terry had claimed his spot on a stone bench next to patch of ground that had once been a garden. A long abandoned project, now overgrown snarls of weeds and vines offered shelter to tiny sparrows and good soil for insects and spiders. It was alive in the dead place around him. Winged creatures and burrowing bugs were not foiled by chain link and the guard’s gun. What amused him in the beginning had become something of a concentrated study. Two crows, an obvious bonded pair, sat high on the fence close to the guard tower, bobbing and cawing at the activity they saw. Terry knew they watched him as closely as he observed them. And he liked it. He looked forward to it. He couldn’t figure out if they ate his cigarette butts or used them to add to their nest, but he decided they preferred Lucky Strikes, as he did. Before long, he started leaving bits of bread and biscuits in the spot he designated in the garden where he disposed of his cigarette butts. And each time he checked everything was gone. After a few weeks of this satisfying routine, he experienced happy, a sensation he believed he had lost.
“Well, look at that now,” he whispered to himself, looking up instinctively at his crow buddies who sat perched on the fence. “Did you do that?”
Caw! Caw! Caw! The larger bird rang out in short staccato bursts, bobbing energetically. His smaller mate followed with a longer series of softer cries in lower tones. Kaah, kaah, kaah, kaah, she sang out beating her wings in time to her calls.
Terry picked up the round shiny object, and chuckled loudly. He shook his head in disbelief as he cupped his hand around the brass button that showed a brown pelican in a nest with three young hatchlings. The words Union, Justice, Confidence surrounded the rim. It was the Seal of the Great State of Louisiana. A guard’s button, fallen off his uniform, retrieved by the crows and gifted to Terry.
He looked up again and bobbed his head back at the crows, raising his cupped hand toward them. “Thank you! I got it! I got it! Thank you!” he pressed his hand to his lips and kissed his treasure, the first kiss that had come from him in years.
Taking his seat on the stone bench, he inhaled deeply the first of his three cigarettes. He blew smoke rings their way and watched contentedly as the white circles rose high in the clear blue sky and his crows cawed madly in appreciation of this affectionate show. He waved his treats of hard cornbread and stale biscuits at them, eager to demonstrate his reciprocal intentions, when a mocking voice interrupted his bench time.
“Who you talkin’ to you old fool,” the hard muscled young man said. “How ‘bout you give one of them cigarettes to me.” He started to take a seat beside him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, son. Captain Terry wouldn’t like it,” he responded with a menacing tone, shooting the cocky young man a defiant grimace.
The young man stood up straight and backed up a step. “Oh. It’s you,” he said in recognition of the name but not the face. “Sorry.”
“Sorry, what, son?”
“Sorry, Captain Terry.”
“That’s better. Get the hell out of here.”
“Yes, sir,” the wary man replied, turning abruptly away.
Captain Terry smirked at his backside and lit another cigarette. “Don’t worry, nobody is messing with me,” he mumbled, squeezing his button treasure again. “I got union with you and justice just now. And confidence. Lots of it. Pretty good. Pretty damn good.”
Captain Terry claimed the stone bench as his exclusive territory, a throne that offered a degree of peace and tranquility in his otherwise agitated world. His crow friends delivered a salve to his wounds with each gift they left: a small quartz rock, a stub of yellow pencil, a shiny paperclip, a large screw, a plastic hairclip. The offerings helped to heal his heart when nothing could quiet his broken mind.
When he met with his crow companions, he felt less a prisoner and more a kindred spirit. He viewed their perch beside the guard tower as purposeful and he believed that he received the messages they transmitted. He took flight and soared with the powerful ciphers his feathered confidants divulged, and he did the same with his interpretations of Bible readings and dominoes tiles and algebraic equations. It became increasingly clear to him that everything could be solved, if you put your mind to it. Even pain could be eased if you spread your wings and took flight for a little while. He had the gifts to prove it.
Terry didn’t mind that he had no visitors. Outsiders were a source of upset that he viewed as spies, plants, and thieves. He was convinced the hospital was full of enemies and that proving his sanity was unattainable in an environment designed to punish and imprison him. He had stopped trying after his wife Maggie visited early on in his confinement. It was clear to him that she was on their side, no matter what he had to say. He had replayed their meeting countless times and re-experienced their encounter by closing his eyes and conjuring her face that he saw had aged prematurely and most deservedly. He went back to that day often with his disturbing dream-like visions that he couldn’t put to rest.
Her face came into sharp focus as the scene played out in his head, frame by frame. Here he was doing it again, with his eyes shut tightly. It always started in the same way with the banging shut of the impenetrable metal door.
He went back. He heard the heavy metal doors unlock and slam shut with a loud thud. There she stood, like it was yesterday.
He watched her fuzzy image take focus. Fornicator. Sinning she-wolf. Caught up to her. Her face grew bigger as he followed her approaching slowly, apprehensively. She looks guilty. She walks guilty. After all I did for her. Those lies. Putting me in here. Taking everything I have.
The voice. He heard her nervous “Hello, Terry,” and saw her weak smile. He kept up his searing stare. He could see the anxiety on her face and in her twitching hands.
In spite of his racing thoughts, he opened his arms to embrace her, and buried his face in her long locks, seduced by the scent of her clean smelling vinegar rinse that made her hair shine like copper pennies and took him back to another time. But he would not let her bewitch him again. No ring on her finger unleashed the rage.
Escorted back to his room, he beat his pillow against the wall until the last feathers fell like snowflakes. He tore his sheets in strips crying and laughing at the ripping sound, and smashed his wooden chair against the iron bars on the window.
Maggie ha
d not come back since that one visit. And he told himself he was glad. His memories had become etched into his head with the acid of betrayal. Remembering was punishment enough.
Maggie shared his torment through her own reliving of her visit to him in the hospital with memories that would not leave her alone. She had replayed their conversation and awkward confrontation in relentless questioning of her role in his illness. In her darkest moments, when she lay sleepless and restless with guilt and remorse for the loss of her family and herself, she would go back to the day of the visit, to pick it apart once more, questioning if it was her fault, if she should have done it differently, if she could have saved him.
Here she was yet again, for another millionth time, standing behind the heavy metal door. She turned over and tried to force sleep, but the indelible memories came back in a flood.
How she had dreaded this day. She had hoped to see him in a more private setting, but understood, given the circumstances.
The attendant escorted her through the massive door, nodded approval, and stationed himself by the entrance. “Go on, ma’am. It’s alright.”
The room smelled of pine sol and stale cigarette smoke. She wrinkled her nose and coughed at the unpleasant odor, scanned the room and found him seated at a small table in the common area by a window, situated in a corner, away from the curious looks of others.
Terry rose as she came closer. “Hey, Maggie,” he said, opening his arms offering an embrace.
Surprised by his gesture, she moved closer and felt the weight of his body as he grabbed her tightly and nuzzled her neck, breathing hard. Her body tensed instinctively as she recoiled at his touch. Hoping he hadn’t noticed, she pulled back firmly and saw his face fall.
He released her quickly and traced her features with searing intensity. His eyes darted from her eyes to her hair down to her lips. “Get rid of that lipstick. You smeared it. Looks like blood,” he said flatly.
Maggie quickly reached into her pocketbook and wiped her lips with her handkerchief. His comment chilled her. She had known blood on her face by his hand before and had a prominent permanent bump on her upper lip inflicted from one of his alcohol-fueled eruptions early on in their marriage.
“That’s better. Good. You look okay, now.” He noticed her hand was shaking. “What’s wrong with you? Sit down here at the table with me. Your hair is longer. I like it that way.”
Maggie took a deep breath, and felt at a loss to speak. She could feel him inspecting her as he had so often done. Garnering her courage, she straightened her back, which freed her tongue. “How are you doing, Terry? Are you getting better? Do you feel any better now?” She rattled off the trivial questions rapidly and immediately regretted it.
She had come to find out if the man she had married, the dashing young soldier once so filled with promise and aspirations, was still there. Happy years were eroded by his haunting memories of war and her lack of any family support. Their military life was marked by constant new beginnings devoid of anchors. Youthful dreams had faded with the realities of their complicated lives. Her losses had left her empty as her questions, which she knew as soon as she opened her mouth were a hurtful mistake. Terry had no answers to give her.
He looked at her suspiciously. Right away hostility radiated from his narrowed eyes. “Better? Better?” he answered, raising his voice and catching the attention of the attendant positioned by the door. “You and that old man putting me in here! What the hell do you know about better!” he shouted.
The attendant moved toward them.
Terry slammed his fist on the table.
“Please, please,” Maggie begged, the old fear returning. “I’m not here to fight with you, Terry. I want you to get well. They can help you if you let them. Please. Please try,” she pleaded desperately.
He leaned in close to her, hissing, “I know what you’ve been doing. You think I don’t know about your running around? All those men while I was out working. THAT put me in here. You and that old man taking my money. Army soldier money! MY money. He drove my own mother crazy and now he’s working on me. You two should be in here, not me. Not me. Not me. Don’t you come in here telling me what to do. Either one of you.”
He pressed his forehead against hers, sending her lurching backwards. The attendant quickly intervened, taking him by the arm. “Let’s go now, sir. That’s enough, Terry.” He squeezed his arm hard and lifted him up from the chair.
“Nobody tells Captain Terry Alexander Lyons what to do. You hear me? You hear me, you stupid bastard!” He kicked at his chair, slamming it into the wall.
“Come on now, quietly. You’re upsetting your wife, sir. Let’s go,” the attendant said calmly but firmly, twisting his arm behind his back.
“She’s NOT my wife,” Terry shouted defiantly. “Look at that. She’s not even wearing her wedding ring,” he yelled, pointing at Maggie’s hand.
Maggie turned over and over in her bed, waiting for dawn, massaging her ring finger, wondering if she should have worn it that day, just to show how much she still cared. She had taken it off two years ago.
Nelle’s fear of her father had lessened with time. His long absence restored a sense of steadiness that she and her sisters slowly acquired, despite their mother’s leaving, thanks to the shelter and love their grandfather had provided. They had memories, of course, of the bad times, but memories had been reworked and reshaped like an artist painting over a stormy scene to show light breaking through on the horizon. The Lyons girls concentrated on the prospects of future and blossomed thanks to the circle of teachers, friends, and well-wishers who made up for the shaky foundation that had defined their lives of a troubled and anchorless military family.
For Nelle, Pete was person who finally made her whole. Friendship grew into love. First love for both young people who survived the awkwardness and anguish of high school together, forged by a love of horses, need for the quiet of nature, and disdain for those who judged them because of their differences and disadvantages.
“You be careful, Nelle. It’s a long ride. I wish you’d let me come. I don’t have to go in with you, but I could drive you there,” Pete said insistently. “Come on. You shouldn’t go to a place like that alone. You don’t know what he’s like anymore either.”
Nelle shook her head stubbornly, but smiled at him gratefully, taking pleasure in his handsome copper face, beaded with sweat, that loomed in the car window at her. The lock of thick black hair that fell on his forehead was the signature of his boyishly wild good looks. He could never tame it.
“Here, take this.” Pete shoved a wrinkled paper bag through the window. “Baloney sandwich and a Twinkie.” He passed a bottle of Dr. Pepper to her. “Don’t let it go warm. Bottle opener in the bag.”
Nelle gladly took the cold bottle already wet with condensation. “You think of everything. Thank you.” She kissed him lightly on the lips. “Don’t worry about me, Pete. He’s not like before. I can tell from his letters. He’s not going to hurt anyone. That part of him is gone. The medicine takes care of that. He’s just…I don’t know…I don’t know what to name it…” she said sadly, her voice trailing off. “But he needs to know and I’m the only one he talks to anymore. It was his father, no matter how he feels about him. He needs to know.”
Pete nodded his agreement. He knew there was no changing her decision. She was stubborn. When Nelle made up her mind neither heated arguing nor gentle persuading would bring her around. He both loved and disliked that quality in her.
“I still think you should take my Beetle. You’ll save a lot on gas. This thing your driving has seen better days,” he cautioned, giving the roof of her car a pound with his fist. “You’ll have to gas up twice. At least twice. You know that? You do know that.”
“Pete. Bye,” she said emphatically as she turned on the ignition and gunned the gas pedal with the gearshift still in park. The ’57 Ford Fairlane roared to life. “Your Beetle can’t do that,” Nelle chuckled, grabbing hold of the steering wheel
and speeding away much too fast.
She looked at Pete through the rearview mirror. He stood straight, hands on his hips, shaking his head, exasperated. Maybe he’s right. Am I crazy going alone? He can’t do anything locked up in there. They said I could come and tell him. Nelle clutched the carton of Lucky Strikes resting on the seat next to her. This will make him feel better. Her loud sigh gave way to a low moan. He needs to know.
Everyone in Louisiana knew of the place. It was the subject of bad jokes, parental threats, scandalous horror stories, grim and shocking newspaper reports, and failed social welfare crusades. Built in 1848 and first known as the Louisiana Asylum for the Insane, it had housed the “feeble minded”, orphaned children, destitute men and women, the chronically mentally ill, and criminally insane. Changing times, better treatments, and political pressures eventually ushered in more progressive management and administration. By the time it was renamed the Feliciana State Hospital in the early 1940s, conditions had improved, but it was still a chilling environment plagued by the ghosts of its troubled past. Many patients never left. A large cemetery, in a remote field on the three hundred acre property, contained the dust and bones of people never recovered or reclaimed.
In terrible irony, Terry was confined in the very institution that his mother spent six months in, when he was ten, when she had her final breakdown after trying futilely to save her horse from the burning barn. His father admitted her in his grief over her helpless and hopeless condition and brought her home again later only after the anguish of seeing her in the appalling conditions outweighed his suffering over caring for her at home. He finally gave up his riverboat piloting that took him away for long periods and did the best he could. Mothering her son had gone out with the extinguishing of the barn flames.
Nelle did not know many of the details and though not a secret, it was treated as a sealed past. Her grandmother had died long before they moved to Louisiana, but she saw the achingly tragic traces of her in her grandfather’s house. Deep carvings of rhyming words on the doorframe to her bedroom: cat, hat, bat, rat, dat, zat; rendered indelible with grit and time. Rows of numbers on the bathroom wall next to the claw foot tub, one through ten repeatedly etched in vertical rows like a child practicing arithmetic. Remnants of a racing mind striving for control. She had wondered why her grandfather let the relics stay but eventually accepted that it was his way of honoring her. They never spoke about it. Terry never recovered from it.
The Road to Home Page 2