The Madman's Tale Read online

  “I’m sorry …,” he started.

  “You were distracted?” the doctor asked.

  “I apologize,” Francis said.

  “It seemed,” the doctor said slowly, “that you were elsewhere for some time. Do these episodes happen frequently?”

  Tell him no!

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Really? I’m surprised. Regardless, Mister Petrel, you were to tell me something …”

  “You had a question?” Francis asked. He was angry with himself for losing the train of their conversation.

  “The date, Mister Petrel?”

  “I believe it is the fifteenth of March,” Francis said steadily.

  “Ah, the ides of March. A time of famous betrayals. Alas, no.” The doctor shook his head. “But close, Mister Petrel. And the year?”

  He did some more calculations in his head. He knew he was twenty-one and that he’d had his birthday a month earlier, and so he guessed, “Nineteen seventy-nine.”

  “Good,” Doctor Gulptilil replied. “Excellent. And what day is it?”

  “What day?”

  “What day of the week, Mister Petrel?”

  “It is …” Again he paused. “Saturday.”

  “No. Sorry. Today is Wednesday. Can you remember that for me?”

  “Yes. Wednesday. Of course.”

  The doctor rubbed his chin with his hand. “And now we return to this morning, with your family. It was a little more than an argument, wasn’t it, Mister Petrel?”

  No! It was the same as always!

  “I didn’t think it was that unusual …”

  The doctor looked up, a slight measure of surprise on his face. “Really? How curious, Mister Petrel. Because the report that I have obtained from the local police claims that you threatened your two sisters, and then announced that you were intending to kill yourself. That life wasn’t worth living and that you hated everyone. And then, when confronted by your father, you further threatened him, and your mother, as well, if not with an attack, then with something equally dangerous. You said you wanted the whole world to go away. I believe those were your exact words. Go away. And the report further contends, Mister Petrel, that you went into the kitchen in the house you share with your parents and your two younger sisters, and that you seized a large kitchen knife, which you brandished in their direction in such a fashion that they believed that you intended to attack them with the weapon before you finally threw it so that it stuck into the wall. And, then, additionally, when police officers arrived at the house, that you locked yourself in your room and refused to exit, but could be heard speaking loudly inside, in argument, when there was no one present in the room with you. They had to break the door down, didn’t they? And lastly, that you fought against the policemen and the ambulance attendants who arrived to help you, requiring one of them to need treatment himself. Is that a brief summary of today’s events, Mister Petrel?”

  “Yes,” he replied glumly. “I’m sorry about the officer. It was a lucky punch that caught him above the eye. There was a lot of blood.”

  “Unlucky, perhaps,” Doctor Gulptilil said, “both for you and him.”

  Francis nodded.

  “Now, perhaps you could enlighten me as to why these things happened this day, Mister Petrel.”

  Tell him nothing! Every word you speak will be thrown back at you!

  Francis again gazed out the window, searching the horizon. He hated the word why. It had dogged him his entire life. Francis, why can’t you make friends? Why can’t you get along with your sisters? Why can’t you throw a ball straight or stay calm in class. Why can’t you pay attention when your teacher speaks to you? Or the scoutmaster. Or the parish priest. Or the neighbors. Why do you always hide away from the others every day? Why are you different, Francis, when all we want is for you to be the same? Why can’t you hold a job? Why can’t you go to school? Why can’t you join the Army? Why can’t you behave? Why can’t you be loved?

  “My parents believe I need to make something of myself. That was what caused the argument.”

  “You are aware, Mister Petrel, that you score very highly on all tests? Remarkably high, curiously enough. So perhaps their hopes for you are not unfounded?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then why did you argue?”

  “A conversation like that never seems as reasonable as we’re making it sound now,” Francis replied. This brought a smile to Doctor Gulptilil’s face.

  “Ah, Mister Petrel, I suspect you are correct about that. But I fail to see how this discussion escalated so dramatically.”

  “My father was determined.”

  “You struck him, did you not?”

  Don’t admit to anything! He hit you first! Say that!

  “He hit me first,” Francis dutifully responded.

  Doctor Gulptilil made another notation on a sheet of paper. Francis shifted about. The doctor looked up at him.

  “What are you writing?” Francis asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. I want to know what you are writing.”

  Don’t let him snow you! Find out what he’s writing! It won’t be anything good!

  “These are just some notes about our conversation,” the doctor said.

  “I think you should show me what you’re writing down,” Francis said. “I think I have the right to know what it is you’re writing down.”

  Keep at it!

  The doctor said nothing, so Francis continued, “I’m here, I’ve answered your questions, and now I have one. Why are you writing things about me without showing me? That’s not fair.”

  Francis shifted in his wheelchair and pulled against the bonds that restrained him. He could feel the warmth of the room building, as if the heat had suddenly spiked. He strained hard for a moment, trying to free himself, but was unsuccessful. He took a deep breath and slumped back into his seat.

  “You are agitated?” the doctor asked, after a few silent moments had passed. This was a question that didn’t really need an answer, because the truth was so obvious.

  “It’s just not fair,” Francis said, trying to instill calm back into his own words.

  “Fairness is important to you?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Yes, perhaps Mister Petrel, you are correct about that.”

  Again the two men were quiet. Francis could hear the radiator hissing again and then thought that perhaps it was the breathing of the two attendants, who had not budged from behind him throughout the interview. Then he wondered whether one of his voices might be trying to get his attention, whispering something to him so low that it was hard for him to hear, and he bent forward slightly, as if trying to hear.

  “Are you often impatient when things don’t go your way, Mister Petrel?”

  “Isn’t everyone?”

  “Do you think you should hurt people when things don’t go the way you would like them?”

  “No.”

  “But you get angry?”

  “Everyone gets angry sometimes.”

  “Ah, Mister Petrel, on that point you are absolutely correct. It is, however, a critical question as to how we react to our anger when it arises, is it not? I think we should speak again.” The doctor had leaned forward, trying to inject some familiarity in his demeanor. “Yes, I think some additional conversations will be in order. Would that be acceptable to you, Mister Petrel?”

  He didn’t reply. It was a little like the doctor’s voice had faded, as if someone had turned the volume down on the doctor, or as if his words were being transmitted over a great distance.

  “May I call you Francis?” the doctor asked.

  Again, he did not respond. He did not trust his voice, for it was beginning to mix together with a swelling of emotions within his chest.

  Doctor Gulptilil watched him for an instant, then asked, “Say, Francis do you recall what it was that I asked you to remember, earlier in our talk?”

  This question seemed to bring
him back to the room. He looked up at the doctor, who wore a slyly inquisitive look on his face.

  “What?”

  “I asked you to remember something.”

  “I don’t recall.” Francis snapped his reply.

  The doctor nodded his head slightly. “But perhaps, you could remind me, then what day of the week it is …”

  “What day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it important?”

  “Let us imagine that it is.”

  “Are you sure you asked me this earlier?” Francis said, stalling for time. But this simple fact suddenly seemed elusive, as if concealed behind a cloud within him.

  “Yes,” Doctor Gulptilil said. “I’m quite sure. What day is it?”

  Francis thought hard, battling against the anxiety that abruptly crowded past all his other thoughts. Again he paused, hoping that one of the voices might come to his aid, but again, they had fallen silent.

  “I believe it is Saturday,” Francis said cautiously. He said each word slowly, tentatively.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” But this word fell out of his mouth with little conviction.

  “Do you not recall me telling you earlier it was Wednesday?”

  “No. That would be a mistake. It is Saturday.” Francis could feel his head spinning, as if the doctor’s questions were forcing him to run in ever-concentric circles.

  “I think not,” said the doctor, “But it is of no importance. You will be staying with us for some time, Francis, and we will have another opportunity to speak of these things. I’m certain that in the future you will remember things better.”

  “I don’t want to stay,” Francis replied quickly. He could feel a sudden sense of panic, mingling with despair, instantly welling up within him. “I want to go home. Really, I believe they are expecting me, and it is close to dinnertime, and my parents and my sisters, they all want everyone home for dinner. That’s the rule in the house, you see. You need to be there by six, hands and face washed clean. No dirty clothes if you’ve been playing outside. Ready to say grace. We have a blessing before we eat. We always do. It’s my job some days to say the blessing. We need to thank God for putting the food on the table. I believe today it’s my turn—yes, I’m sure of it—so I need to be there, and I can’t be late.”

  He could feel tears stinging at his eyes, and he could hear sobs choking some of his words. These things were happening to a mirror image of himself, and not quite him, but himself slightly apart and distant from the real him. He struggled hard to make all these parts of himself come together and focus as one, but it was difficult.

  “Perhaps,” Doctor Gulptilil said gently, “you might have a question or two for me?”

  “Why can’t I go home?” Francis coughed the question out between tears.

  “Because people are frightened for you, Francis, and because you frighten people.”

  “What sort of place is this?”

  “It’s a place where we will help you,” the doctor said.

  Liar! Liar! Liar!

  Doctor Gulptilil looked up at the two attendants and spoke next to them. “Mister Moses, will you and your brother please take Mister Petrel to the Amherst Building. I have written out a scrip for some medication and some additional instructions for the nurses there. He should get at least thirty-six, perhaps more, hours of observation before they consider shifting him into the open ward.” He handed the clipboard across to the smaller of the two men flanking Francis, who nodded his response.

  “Whatever you say, Doc,” the attendant said.

  “Sure thing, Doc,” his huge partner replied, stepping behind the wheelchair, grasping the handles and rapidly spinning Francis around. The motion made him suddenly dizzy, and he choked back on the sobs that were filling his chest. “Don’t you be so scared, Mister Petrel. Things gonna be okay soon enough. We’re gonna take good care of you,” the large man whispered.

  Francis did not believe him.

  He was wheeled back through the office, into the waiting room, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands quivering against the cuffs. He twisted in the chair, trying to get the attention of either the large or the small attendant, his voice cracking with a combination of fear and an unbridled sadness. “Please,” he said, piteously, “I want to go home. They’re expecting me. That’s where I want to be. Please take me home.”

  The smaller attendant had his face set, as if the pleas coming from Francis were hard for him to hear. He placed his hand on Francis’s shoulder and repeated, “You gonna be okay, now, hear me. It’s gonna be okay. Shush now …” He spoke as he might to a baby.

  Sobs wracked Francis’s body, emanating from deep within him. The prim secretary looked up from her seat behind the desk with an impatient and unforgiving look on her face. “Quiet down!” she ordered Francis. He swallowed back another sob, coughing.

  As he did so, he looked across the room and saw two uniformed state troopers, wearing gray tunics and blue riding pants above polished knee-high brown boots. They were both strapping, tall, taut pictures of discipline, with close-cropped hair and their curved and cocked officers’ hats held stiffly at their sides. Each wore a glistening leather Sam Browne belt, polished to a reflective shine, and a holstered revolver high on their waist. But it was the man that they flanked that quickly attracted Francis’s attention.

  He was shorter than the troopers, but solidly built. Francis would have guessed his age to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He stood in a languid, relaxed fashion, his hands cuffed in front of him, but the language of his body seemed to diminish the nature of the restraints, rendering them less restrictive and more as if they were merely an inconvenience. He wore a loose-fitting single-piece navy blue jumpsuit with the title MCI-BOSTON stitched in yellow above the left hand chest pocket and a pair of old, worn running shoes that were missing their laces. He had longish brown hair, that poked out from beneath the edges of a sweat-stained Boston Red Sox baseball cap, and a two-day shadow of a beard. But what struck Francis first and foremost were the man’s eyes, for they darted about, far more alert and observant than the leisurely pose he maintained, taking many things in as rapidly as possible. The eyes carried something deep, which Francis noticed immediately, even through his own anguish. He could not put a word to it instantly, but it was as if the man had seen something immensely, ineffably sad that lurked just beyond the horizon of his vision, so that whatever he saw, or heard or witnessed was colored by this hidden hurt. The eyes came to fix on Francis, and the man managed a small, sympathetic smile, that seemed to speak directly to Francis.

  “Are you okay, fella?” he asked. Each word was tinged with a slight Boston-Irish accent. “Are things that rough?”

  Francis shook his head. “I want to go home, but they say I have to stay here,” he answered. And then piteously, and spontaneously, he asked, “Can you help me, please?”

  The man bent down slightly, toward Francis. “I suspect there are more than a few folks here who would wish to go home and cannot. Myself presently included in that category.”

  Francis looked up at the man. He did not know precisely why, but the calm tones the man used helped to settle him. “Can you help me?” Francis blurted out, repeating himself.

  The man smiled, a mingling of insouciance and sadness. “I don’t know what I can do,” he said, “but I will do what I can.”

  “Promise?” Francis asked suddenly.

  “All right,” the man said. “I promise.”

  Francis leaned back in the chair, closing his own eyes for a second. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  The secretary interrupted the conversation with a sharply punctuated command directed to the smaller of the two black attendants. “Mister Moses. This gentleman …” she gestured toward the man in the jumpsuit, “is Mister …” then she hesitated slightly, before continuing seemingly purposefully not using his name, “… the gentleman that we spoke about earlier. The troopers will accompany him in to see the d
octor, but please return promptly to escort him to his new accommodations …” this word was spoken with a slight edge of sarcasm, “… as soon as you get Mister Petrel settled over at Amherst. They are expecting him.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the larger brother said, as if it was his turn to speak, although the woman’s comments had been directed toward the smaller of the two men. “Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll be doing.”

  The man in the jumpsuit looked down at Francis again. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Francis Petrel,” he replied.

  The man in the jumpsuit smiled. “Petrel is a nice name. It’s a small seabird, you know, common to Cape Cod. They are the birds you see flying just above the waves on summer afternoons, dipping in and out of the spray. Beautiful animals. White wings that beat fast one second, then glide and soar effortlessly the next. They must have keen eyes to be able to spot a sand eel or a pogy in the surf. A poet’s bird, to be sure. Can you fly like that, Mister Petrel?”

  Francis shook his head.

  “Ah,” the man in the jumpsuit said. “Well, perhaps you should learn. Especially if you’re going to be locked up in this delightful place for too long.”

  “Be quiet!” one of the troopers interjected with a gruffness that made the man smile. He glanced over at the trooper and said, “Or you will do what?”

  The trooper didn’t reply to this, although his face reddened slightly and the man turned back to Francis, ignoring the command. “Francis Petrel. Francis C-bird. I like that better. You take things easy, Francis C-Bird, and I will see you again before too long. That’s a promise.”