Chapter Five

We were beginning to get a feeling for the hospital now; we knew where things were and what the routine was. Each day when we arrived we found our residents in their appointed activity, followed them through the morning and read charts before lunch in order to complete our medication cards. After lunch there was usually a group or an activity and then we had our conference, and a free hour or two until time to leave. I began to understand my feeling that I was waiting for a train; very little happened here that we could observe. Changes, if there were changes, happened over a long time, much longer than our semester of observation. We had got used to the acute care hospital, where things happened fairly rapidly, when people came in or were hurt and recovered from surgery or illness and went home. That’s why I felt that this place, this hospital, was on a siding, waiting. Things happened in a circular fashion, around and around, not in a straight line that could be marked: Admission, assessment, intervention, discharge. It took some getting used to, and the same yardstick we judged other medical matters could not be used here. How do you measure insight? resolution? We were beginning to learn the signs and the symptoms of disease; how could we students measure delusion and depression?

We learned early that the surroundings of the patient, in his room or cubicle, were important. It gave structure and familiarity to the resident; having his own belongings around gave him security. So when Elam wanted to show me his trunk, I followed him.

His cubicle was small and quiet. There was a bed and nightstand, and a four drawer dresser. In one corner was an easy chair, and in the other a large old fashioned trunk with many drawers and layers. It stood on its side, and it was nearly as tall as I was. It was very old; it had stickers on it and travel notices, paint had been splattered on it. It had buckles and straps and keys and padlocks. It looked like it had been dragged through all of vaudeville.

Elam opened one drawer and began rummaging around, muttering to himself. While he searched for something I saw bits and pieces of clothing fly out, items like his ascot tie, a pair of fine gloves, a fake rose with a bow around the stem. There were playbills and notices, newspapers and posters; one large drawer held books and what looked like manuscripts, all folded and yellow. Elam looked over at me with a gleam in his eye. He had found what he was looking for, and shut one half of the trunk.

“Have to be careful, sunshine person. If I keep this trunk open too long,” he looked around him, and put a finger on his lips, whispering, “there are actors who come out of here. Whole plays full of characters, all come marching out, just like the Fantasticks. Devil of a time getting them back in.” He closed drawers and shut lids and buckled the trunk back up, giving it a pat. “Everything I need to live is in here, everything. There, all tidy again. Here, this is what I needed to find.”

He smoothed out a handful of pages on the top of the trunk, straightening them up and putting them right.

“Here it is, the rest of it. The ending isn’t finished, I’ve been working on that for a long time, but the beginning and the middle are done.” He handed me the top page, which read “The Flying Saucers are Coming, Beep, Beep, Beep: An Experience in an Act and a Half.”

“This is your play, Elam?” I said, as he bowed low.

“Every man must play a part upon this stage; I’ll play the fool this time ‘round.” He twinkled up at me, and twirled around in a circle. “I began this play nearly twenty years ago, it may be time to rehearse. I wonder, how many times do we need to rehearse?”

I had the title page of his play in my hand; he held about ten pages and had stuffed another three or four in his pockets. He opened a drawer in the nightstand and shuffled around, pulling out a piece of paper folded like a fan.

“Here are the players, come to strut.” He opened the page and stood straight, hand stretched far out in front of him, reading the list: “The Playwright, the poet, the iconoclast, the soothsayer.... ‘sooth, sooth’...and the Wayfarer...” at this Elam bowed again, as if to introduce himself.

“When did you start writing this play, Elam?” I sat down in the easy chair, looking at pages of tiny cramped handwriting that changed into large looping cursive and back to tiny tight printing. It looked like three or four different people had written on these pages.

Elam looked at the ceiling and counted on his fingers. “Nineteen and fifty, things were nifty; nineteen and fifty nine, no sun did shine.” He cocked his head and swept his hand over the white streak in his dark hair. “Met with a horse, we disagreed, and the horse won.” He capered around the little room bucking like a wild horse and collapsed on the floor. Lying there quiet he peered up at me and crossed his eyes.

“Part of me was left there, among the pinon trees and the scrub oak, on the mountain and under the wide blue sky. River ran, past even Elam.” He sat up and began to cry. “There was no hope, sunshine person. No hope but a blow to the head and the hematomato inside. Everything gone, changed utterly; a terrible beauty was born and died there on that mountain.” He put his head in his hands and was still for a moment. He opened his fingers and peeked at me through his hands. “I am born back into the past with another sunshine person, come to visit.” He stood up, and took my hand and pulled me out of the chair. “We’re off, to see the wizard!” And we skipped down the worn wooden hall, singing about a yellow brick road, with Elam clinging tightly to the pages of his play.

Of course we ran into Nellie and Sweets, walking the other way. Nellie watched us and put her hands on her hips, shaking her head. Nellie didn’t think skipping was therapeutic. And neither did Wallace, when he found out.

“Skipping with a resident? What on earth possessed you to do that?” He found me at the nurse’s station about a half hour later, and I saw Nellie disappear out the door. Telling tales was her specialty.

“He seemed to enjoy it, sir. He was telling me about his play....”

“What play? Something from group therapy?”

I hadn’t read much of Elam’s play, but I didn’t think it came from group.

“I’m not sure, sir, but if you’d like to read it, I’m sure Elam....Mr. Jefferson would share it with you.”

Wallace nodded and turned to go. I could see that he didn’t want to get involved with Elam, who stood in the Dayroom reading his play to Mr. Lastinger.

“Now you say this... ‘where are you going’ and I’ll say ‘some other there.’” Mr. Lastinger muttered and ground his teeth and rocked back and forth, saying nothing. Elam continued, “And then you say ‘are there others there?’ and I’ll say....”

“I need to get ready for our conference; don’t forget like you always do, Miss de Sando. Be there.” Wallace walked right into Elam’s play, and became a player even though he didn’t know it. He edged away around Elam, who bowed to him and said in a loud voice,

“From there, here is there.”

I applauded with several other students as Elam bowed to everyone. Mr. Lastinger bowed to Mr. Wallace, and then came up to him and stood close. The old man’s hands weren’t too clean, there was dirt under the fingernails, but he put his old hand out and felt the soft cloth of Mr. Wallace’s cashmere jacket. Wallace stood still like a statue, watching old Mr. Lastinger feel his jacket and there was about ten seconds of silence. Then Wallace exploded.

He grabbed the old man’s hand and pushed him away, hard, and Mr. Lastinger fell against Elam with shocked wide eyes. Wallace stepped away and hissed, “Get your filthy hands of me!” He said it quietly, only Elam and Mr. Lastinger and Lucas and I heard him. He was mean as a snake but he was careful. He wiped his jacket with a handkerchief and turned and walked real fast away from us. He had a pinched look on his face, like he had stepped into something nasty. Mr. Lastinger leaned on Elam, and cried.

Lucas took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He takes his hate out on people who can’t fight back. He knows who can’t fight back.” Lucas whispered, staring after Mr. Wallace. I took Mr. Lastinger’s hand and we walked to a chair, and Elam pulled out his flute. He played “Three Blind Mice” very slowly, and Mr. Lastinger stopped crying, and sighed. Elam winked at me, and Lucas and I walked out the door to the conference room.

The conference room was quiet and dusty as usual, cold. The damp air never warmed in the pale sunlight that filtered through the streaky windows. We sat in our circle, listening to each other describe our residents. I didn’t look at Wallace, couldn’t. I had to keep translating because I knew these people by names that Elam and Leo called them, not the names on the charts. Auntie Bea was Mrs. Railiford, Mr. Lott was Blind George. But then they started talking about Mr. Foskey and Mr. Paulk and I stopped. Who were they?

Nellie read off the medications and Antabuse sounded familiar. She described them as “skinny white guys with no ambition and repeat offenders.” Were we talking about Reidsville again, or a mental hospital? And who were Mr. Foskey and Mr. Paulk?

“She knows them, hangs out in the Canteen. Ask her.” Nellie was pointing at me after something Wallace said. I hadn’t heard him, as usual, concentrating on trying to remember those residents. Wallace turned to me and stared.

“Were you thinking again, Miss de Sando?” No one laughed. Lucas frowned and I heard Eunice’s chair squeak.

“Yessir, I guess. What about them?”

“Do you know them, these repeat offenders who return regularly to this hospital because they can’t stay off the booze?”

Suddenly I got it; Cracker and Duveen.

“They really seem to want to stay sober but there doesn’t seem to be much for them to do when they get home. They get bored....”

“So of course they drink, seems logical.” The heavy sarcasm was Wallace’s way of criticizing our judgments, which made Eunice’s chair squeak again. I didn’t say any more. I just shrugged and looked at Nellie. I wondered if she had tried anything therapeutic with Mr. Foske and Mr. Paulk.

After conference I left the stuffy room and walked out to the cold verandah, watching for Leo. He came striding around the corner, walking fast. Jesse was following him, running on his short legs, trying to keep up. Leo slowed down, and frowned.

“You ought to be with George, Jesse. He needs you, you know that.” Leo looked uncomfortable as Jesse put his plump little hand in his. He let go of Jesse, and turned to go. Jesse and I watched him walk rapidly down the long dingy drafty hallway. I looked at Jesse and he smiled, watching Leo. Then he pulled my hand and we started off, toward the direction of the Dayroom. I wasn’t sure where we were going, but then I realized he was taking me to Blind George.

The old man sat in his room, looking out the window. He seemed to see out the window, even though he was blind. When we walked in, he turned and smiled, and I knew that he recognized Jesse's step.

"Hello, Jesse. Did you bring me a new friend?" He also didn't recognize my step, and figured it all out very quickly. His voice was deep and rumbled down inside. He was old, very old, and he looked like he had been strong when he was young, a long time ago. His color wasn't good, in the harsh light from the window. But his smile was wide, and he held both of Jesse's hands in one of his, and looked up at me.

"I don't see you; give me your face."

I knelt down by him, and he stroked my face, very lightly, with his big long brown fingers. Eyes, chin, jaw, he saw my face. He nodded, as he felt my hair. He nodded, and smiled, and I stood up.

"Stay behind us, Missy, and we'll go visiting."

Jesse put his little hand into George's big one, and helped the old man stand. Blind George stood up slowly from his chair and walked, stooped and bent over, to the wheelchair, very slowly, as if each movement hurt. He was tall and big and broad, a majestic mountain of a man. He sat slowly in the wheelchair, and closed his eyes for a moment, gathering strength. His breathing was labored, and he looked tired. He wheeled himself toward the door a bit, but Jesse took the handles and pushed him dutifully. I walked behind them.

Jesse looked very serious as he took George around the hospital, very serious and frowning at this important task. George talked to him, in that low rumbling voice, and told him everything was fine as they moved slowly from place to place. We moved down one long leg of the ‘U’ the hospital was built in, down to the kitchens and the cafeteria and then around to the bottom of the ‘U’. Staff stopped to say hello to Blind George, and shook his hand, and he tipped his hat to everyone. Jesse stood proudly when people stopped, and held the arm of the chair with a possessive little look. He and George were a team, and everyone knew it.

We ended up in the dayroom, and Jesse took George to the piano. The old man waited until the boy fixed the brake on the wheelchair, and then pulled himself slowly out of the chair, slowly standing up with his great hands on the side of the piano. He stood, and the effort of standing brought beads of sweat on his forehead. He stood and breathed hard and slow, and gathered himself and then moved ever so slowly sideways until he reached the piano stool, and sank onto it with a sigh. He moved his large slippered feet over to the pedals, and placed his long fingered hands on the keys. The little fellow stood beside the stool, and took out a crumpled sheet of music and solemnly put it, upside down, on the piano. There was a chuckle from the techs, watching the blind old man who couldn’t see the music on the piano. Blind George felt the keys, played a bit with the keys, and a smile came over his wide old handsome face.

He began slowly, gently, easing the piano into his songs, like a sculptor with clay. He nodded his head, gathering his strength and began to beat a rhythm on the top of the piano. When he felt the rhythm through the bones of the old piano, he began to play. Slowly, slowly, the instrument began to sing.

Maybe a real musician could tell me what happened; what I heard was amazing. That old battered beatup piano made wonderful sounds; it was out of tune in some places, even I could hear that, but the sounds were wonderful. There was a rhythm we could feel through our shoes on the floor, through the ribs in our chests and the bones in our heads; there was singing in all keys and pitches from everyone in the room. The old man played some hymns, he played “The Old Rugged Cross” and “Shall We Gather At The River” and then he played some children’s songs that the young man whispered in his ear. His long fingers moved easily over the piano, never faltering. He played for about fifteen minutes, and then he stopped. He put his large hands on the piano as if in blessing, and put his head down in fatigue or prayer, I didn’t know which. He drew himself up holding on to the piano and, straining with his large hands pulled himself up and away from the stool. With immense effort he stood, stooped, swaying a bit, pain in his face, holding the piano and Jesse's hand to reach the wheelchair. Slowly, ever so slowly, he moved with a great effort and sank down into the wheelchair with a sigh. His face was drawn and gray with weariness, and the piano was silent, the Dayroom silent. He turned to Jesse, and said,

"Time for these old bones to be in bed, little man."

He sat for a minute, breathing hard, eyes closed, hands clenched. And then he took a deep breath and nodded slowly to Jesse, who took the handles of the wheelchair and pushed the old man carefully out of the room in the ringing silence.

“Who was that all about?” Lucas whispered to the tech standing next to him.

“That’s Blind George. That’s the best damn piano player in Georgia, that’s who that is.” The tech’s eyes gleamed with pride, and he shook his head. “Not gonna hear his like anywhere. No where at all, but here.”

We were still humming when we got in the van and drove in the dark wet day back to Mystic. We still hummed Blind George’s songs.