by C Thomas Cox
He was right about the we part, though. I was, after all, locked up with twenty-four-hour supervision. I needed his help. "Unfortunately, you're the only one who's spent enough time with me to truly understand my predicament. Angela and Dr. Spangler are both swamped. Though they've heard parts of my story and my history, neither has time to know everything. You're the only one who does. You're the only one who's pinned your ears back enough to really hear me." I paused for a second to let the praise sink in, and then delivered the hit that I hoped would clear the bases. "Say, have you ever thought about going to medical school? I think you'd make a fantastic psychiatrist."
That did it. When he smiled, I could see nearly all of his teeth -- half of which cried out for the assistance of an orthodontist. "I knew it," he said, snapping his fingers. "I just knew it. That's what I keep trying to tell Angela. Help me get into medical school. That's what I've said during each of our past four performance reviews. If you provide me a recommendation, I'm sure I'll get in.”
"What'd she say?"
He pounded a fist into his palm. "Same thing every time. You first need to show me that you can handle your assignments here. But I did...I mean I do. I do everything she asks, plus more. But I don't always complete my tasks according to her timeframe. I find myself spending too much time with patients...listening their problems, supporting them, helping them cope. Angela doesn't want me to do that. She wants me to be more efficient."
"But isn't talking to patients part of your job?"
He shook his head. "Not according Angela. She wants me to deliver blankets and books, not counsel the ignored." He gnawed on his lower lip. "Look at me now. Bothering you with my problems. I'm going to get in trouble again." He sighed and started to rise.
"Tom," I said, leaning toward him and placing my hands on his shoulders. "It's fine. I want to hear about your problems. Everybody needs someone to talk to...someone to confide in." He ran his fingers through his ebony hair, and I dropped my hands to my sides. "Angela doesn't know what's best for you, or what's best for me. And, although she's doing what she thinks is best, she sometimes misses the mark."
The edges of his thin lips curled up. "You're right, Jim. Completely." He stood up before I could stop him and strode toward the door. "I'll be back," he said with a wink. And with that he was gone before I could relay the reason I wanted to chat with him initially. I wanted to tell him that I needed to get out...to get home. I needed to protect Claire. I couldn’t allow Half-Ear to kill her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In a shocking development, dinner sucked. Microwaved fish sticks, canned French-style green beans, and tater tots. No ketchup, either. I cleaned my plate, though. I didn’t think it likely that a request to speak to the chef would be well received.
Frustrated that Thomas never returned, I picked up the top book on his pile. To Kill a Mockingbird. That must've been his Southern Gothic selection. It was one of my favorites, too.
A coming of age story that shines a light on racial injustice during the Great Depression, Mockingbird focuses on the story of Tom Robinson, an African American farmworker who is unfairly convicted of rape in the absence of evidence. Though I couldn't directly compare my story with his -- racism, of course, played no part in my confinement -- I must say that, while seated in my chair and flipping through the pages, I found at least some minor commonalities with Mr. Robinson's injustice.
I was charged with a crime -- killing my dog -- that I didn't commit. There were no eyewitnesses to my supposed crime. And I was locked up for doing something that I was certain I didn't. No matter what I said, no one -- other than maybe Thomas -- believed me.
While I dwelt on what we had in common, I realized that perhaps Thomas was my Atticus Finch. Maybe he would be the one who would fight for me, who would do everything he could to set me free -- regardless of the personal cost.
However, though Atticus did everything he could for Tom Robinson, it wasn't enough. It could never be enough. The biases of the jury members prevented Tom from ever experiencing a real chance at freedom.
What if, as in Tom Robinson's case, the biases of everyone other than Thomas -- Claire, Charlie, Gene, Angela, the police -- were too much to overcome? I prayed that Thomas didn't tell anyone else what I told him. They'd keep me locked inside Oak Ridge for months, if not years! I considered, however, that perhaps revealing my story was why he hadn't returned. Angela or some Oak Ridge administrator probably told him to stop buying what I was selling -- to leave the counseling to those qualified to talk to the clinically insane.
The other option, of course, was that he decided on his own that he shouldn't believe me. After all, no one else did. I couldn't blame him -- although I had sold my story the best I knew how.
I set the book down and looked at my meager surroundings. As I did so, I realized for the first time the gravity of my situation. Before that moment, I knew, of course, that I was sent to Oak Ridge due to my supposed need for inpatient psychiatric treatment. I wasn't totally delusional. However, I anticipated a rapid departure rather than a lengthy stay. When the nurses and psychiatrists would hear my story, I thought, they’d realize I didn’t belong in Oak Ridge. Sure, they might recommend a few months of weekly outpatient therapy. They’d then release me, allowing me the opportunity to protect my wife.
The accidental elbow I threw a night earlier, as well as my poorly timed meltdown during group therapy, ruined any chance of a quick discharge. I was stuck for a month or more…and Claire was in trouble.
The light shining through the porthole-sized window in my door began to dim as nightfall settled over the Susquehanna Valley. In addition to the sun dropping over the horizon, the fluorescent lights in the hallway -- and in my room -- were also lowered. The walls, my clothes, and the furniture appeared to take on a gray hue, as did my life.
As I lay in my bed, too weak to turn the pages of any of Thomas’s novels, I realized that I reeked of sweat and other body odors I'd rather not describe. I hadn’t bathed in over two days, and it was becoming obvious I needed a shower. I had lost track of the time, but I guessed it was at least ten or eleven at night -- beyond the time a mental health worker should've dropped by to take me to the showers. Where were they?
I stood and looked through the window in my door, but I didn’t see anyone stirring in the dark corridor. I started pacing back and forth, back and forth, hopeful that security would spot me through the video camera and send someone to check on me. But, after walking from one side of the room to the other for what felt like twenty minutes, I gave up, collapsed onto my bed, and closed my eyes.
***
“Jim,” someone whispered in my ear. I woke with a start and clenched my fists, prepared to confront whoever had awoken me in the darkness.
"What the hell are you doing?" I yelled as Thomas shined a flashlight at my constricted pupils.
He held a finger over his lips, and didn't move the flashlight. I squinted, grabbed the flashlight from his hands, shined it at his eyes. I do not like to be woken from a sound sleep.
He blocked the beam of light with his palm, leaned toward me, and said, "Let's go."
"Where are we going?"
"Can't tell you now." He tugged on my arm. "Just get up and come with me. And hurry."
I was concerned that he was leading me into a trap. Leading me toward administrators he told about my story. However, his soft eyes and calm reflected genuine concern. Besides, it must've been the middle of the night. Wouldn't they wait until morning to confront me? Regardless, I was half asleep and too groggy to argue.
I stood and followed him. Just before we left my room, he said, "Don't say anything until I give you the okay." I nodded, and he led me into the still-dark corridor.
As we wound through the labyrinthian halls, the only sound we heard was the barely perceptible shuffling of our rubber-soled shoes on the tile floor. "Wait here," he whispered suddenly, pointing to an open janitorial closet. I obliged, sliding over its threshold and closing the do
or.
While I kept company with a variety of mops, brooms, and malodorous cleaning chemicals, I heard Thomas talking. "Would you mind checking on James Richmond?" I froze when I heard my name. “My shift's over, and I think he wants a drink or something."
"Sure thing, glad to help," a woman said. Her sympathetic voice made me think she chose the right profession. Why Thomas sent her to my room, though, was beyond me. But who was I to argue? After all, he appeared to be trying to assist.
Just after she finished replying, she took off. I strained my ears as her shoes tap-danced toward my hideout, which she had to pass on the way to my room. She was happy to help me quench my thirst.
Anxious to hear when she moved past the closet, I leaned my ear into the door. And, just as she sounded as though she was right on the other side of the door, my foot slipped on a chemical that must've spilled earlier in the day. I unceremoniously grabbed a mop handle to try to steady myself. I should've known better. The mop's head was resting inside a bucket filled with grimy water, and as I unintentionally pulled the handle toward me, the bucket tipped onto its side, and water spilled everywhere. My legs and shoes were instantly soaked, and the water seeped under the closet door as well.
Within seconds, the door flew open. "What's going on in here?" The unfamiliar mental health worker asked in a not-so-sympathetic voice. I became a statue. "Who are you, anyway?"
Behind her, Thomas gestured me to come toward him. I held my palms up. What'd he want me to do -- plow her over?
She turned toward Thomas to see what he was doing. As she did so, I grabbed the mostly empty bucket and dumped it onto her head. I then took off toward Thomas. He waved his card key over a nearby reader, and yanked open the adjacent door. I followed him and slammed the door behind me just before she could follow us.
We raced down a steel staircase, and I heard the door unlatch behind just as we passed the first landing. I glanced up, and I immediately wished I hadn't paused to do so. "Stop!" she screamed, her soaked black hair framing her apple-red face. Her clenched white teeth contrasted boldly against her mahogany skin.
I turned the corner and raced down the next flight. She picked up speed and, in mere seconds, drew within a few feet of me. I could feel beads of the filthy water bounce off of her hair and onto the nape of my neck. I was sure I was done. Meanwhile, Thomas raced ahead of me, car keys in hand.
"Ahh!" she shrieked without warning. I turned my head but didn't stop moving, careful to maintain my footing. She wasn't nearly as careful, and she lost hers. I'm sure the water that had flowed onto the bottom of her shoes didn't help. She was suddenly airborne. Her feet flew forward into the air, while her torso lagged behind. She landed awkwardly on the wide landing, and I'm sure she was in serious pain. I doubted, however, that she suffered more than some bruising. I was confident enough that I didn't stop to make sure.
I caught up to Thomas, and within seconds we reached the bottom of the staircase and escaped through the employee exit. Thrust into the crisp late Spring night, I took a second to breath in the fresh air. The day I spent in Oak Ridge had felt like a month.
We raced around the stone exterior -- up an embankment and onto the gravel employee parking lot. He punched his key fob a couple times, and we climbed into his ten-year-old Kia. He backed out of the spot, thrust his foot against the gas pedal, and the tires displaced more than a handful of pebbles with their rapid rotations.
He launched us into darkness, as a canopy of oaks blocked the sunlight that the moon reflected toward us. No streetlights illuminated our path.
I tried to regain my breath as we raced away from my temporary prison. A prison that, no doubt, would dispatch police to look for both of us before long.
Thomas remained quiet. He clenched the steering wheel with white-knuckled fists, and leaned forward, as though he was prepared to run over anyone who got in his way. Where he was taking us, however, I hadn't a clue. "So," I said. His tightened jaw and narrowed eyes made me hesitate just a bit. "Where are we going?"
"To a place where you'll be sheltered from Oak Ridge...a place where you'll be treated exactly as you deserve."
Although I had previously decided to trust Thomas -- particularly after he likely ruined his potential career by helping me escape -- I felt more than a little hesitation when I saw the childlike grin that accompanied the following words he then spoke. "We'll finally get to spend time alone, Grandpa."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I was pissed when Thomas referred to me as grandpa. He was obviously ragging on my age, and I wasn't happy about it. "I'm not that old."
Thomas clicked a child-safety button on his door that prevented me from unlocking mine. "Almost home," he said. He then reached under his seat, pulled out a handgun, and aimed it at my head. "Just relax...you'll enjoy our time together. It's what you've always wanted, remember?"
I instinctively slid toward my door. Instead of the mental health worker that I had seen previously, I swore I was staring into the eyes of a Viet Cong warrior. His clothes were replaced by a black short sleeve shirt and brown wool pants. A black and white checked neckerchief hung loosely from his thin neck, and a floppy farmer’s hat rested atop his head.
I pulled my feet toward me and wrapped my arms around my shins, pulling them in as tightly as I could. I tucked my head into my knees. "I didn't mean to do it," I said without thinking. "I wasn't trying to hurt anyone."
"What are you talking about?" he said as he lowered the gun. "Who'd you hurt? You still talking about your dog?"
His military fatigues vanished, and I was once again looking at the mental health worker. I shook my head. "Oh, nothing," I said, certain that explaining my brief episode to him would do no good.
He shrugged. "Guess that's what I get for pulling you out of that asylum. The folks in there'll drive anyone crazy...even my own relations."
"But, we're not..."
"You're right," he interrupted. "We're not crazy."
My God, I thought. Maybe he didn't mean grandpa in the figurative sense at all. I wasn't sure if he was delusional or if I was merely misunderstanding. "You know that I'm not your actual grandfather, right?" I said, praying he didn't again train the barrel of his gun on my head.
"Good one, gramps!" He chuckled, and it reminded me of the psychotic laughter often portrayed by horror film villains. "I know it's been awhile since we've seen each other, so I'm sure there've been times when it felt like you weren't my grandpa."
I was flabbergasted. Although I'm embarrassed to admit that I once was unfaithful to Claire -- alcohol played more than a bit role in my isolated infidelity -- I was certain I used protection. There's no way that Thomas shared my blood. But what the hell was I supposed to do? He was the one with the gun.
I took a deep breath. "So, how far away is your place?" I'd get back to the grandpa issue later.
"Just a few more minutes." He grinned. "You'll love it. It's so peaceful.”
He turned sharply left, then right, then left again down a steep slope. Dirt replaced the asphalt over which we'd traveled since we left the Oak Ridge complex. The leaves of dense tree limbs scraped against both sides of the Kia, and the occasional acorn pinged its roof. I thought I heard the hoot of a Great Horned Owl as it scanned the ground for its next victim.
He opened his window. "Listen to the sounds of nature," he said. Although I couldn't hear over the tires crunching of limbs and leaves, he stuck his head out his window and let the breeze sweep his unkempt hair backward. While I stared at the odd expression of joy on his bespectacled face, he slammed the brakes so hard that I swore we ran into a tree. His sudden stop threw the top half of my body forward, and my forehead crashed into his vinyl dashboard. "Sorry about that,” he said. Somehow, Thomas came out of the stop none the worse for wear. Unlike me, he was able to prepare for it.
He closed his window, turned off the ignition, and grabbed the gun. I massaged me forehead. "Get out," he said. Who was I to argue? As soon as he unlocked the doors, I opened mine an
d stood outside while awaiting further instruction.
In the few seconds of silence that ensued, I scanned my surroundings. Trees on all sides and overhead resulted in an almost palpable inky blackness that prevented me from seeing more than ten feet ahead. If I attempted to run, I had no clue which way to go. Besides, Thomas still possessed the flashlight with which he woke me. He could easily track me down. His legs were, of course, forty-years younger than mine.
"You first," he said after he grabbed a canvas duffel bag from the trunk. My eyes grew wide as he then grabbed my suitcase and handed it to me. When did he get it? Did he come into my room while I slept? I didn't have much time to process the possibilities, however, as he gestured with the gun for me to go in front of him. I complied.
With his flashlight in hand, he illuminated a narrow hard-packed trail. We followed it silently up and down sloping ground for what felt like a mile. "Keep going?" I asked. I glanced back, and he nodded. I appreciated him pointing the gun at the ground rather than at my back or my head. Just a few minutes later, we found ourselves in a thirty-foot wide clearing, at the center of which was situated a one-story shack.
Shack is the best word I can use to describe the wood-sided building, as cabin connotes a cozy home inside which one can sip cocoa in front of a roaring fire. Conversely, this place looked as if it should be the kindling for a roaring fire.
Appearing as though its builder constructed it entirely of scrap pieces of lumber, its outside consisted of a mishmash of pieces of plywood, two-by-tens, and nineteen seventies wood paneling -- the likes of which used to line the walls of many American basements. One exterior door was centered on its side, and a singular window was next to the door. I learned later that they were the only window and door on the entire house.