Disturbing the Peace (Vintage Classics) (7 page)

“What makes you think nobody’s listening?”

“Because I’ve been locked up in a God damned – because this place is enough to drive anybody out of their – I don’t know.” He opened his eyes, but nothing could be done about his hand. “Look. Listen: I don’t think I belong here any more and I think I ought to be discharged. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

He was reminded again of a classroom – this time of one whose students are embarrassed because their teacher has made a fool of himself – so his face twitched into an apologetic little
grimace and he said what teachers often say at such moments: “Are there any – questions?”

“Okay, Wilder,” said the orderly, and he was escorted back and locked into the ward, where he wanted to smash his fist against the wall or scream or kick a window again with his filthy foot. Instead he walked and smoked, promising to save people.

“How’d it go?” Spivack inquired.

“Shit, I don’t know.”

“Slimy bunch of bastards, aren’t they? Make your flesh crawl. And when you think of the
power
those fish-eyed fuckers have over a man’s life – I mean talk about your FBI; talk about your CIA; talk about your Nazi secret police …”

But an hour later Charlie beckoned him aside for a hushed, private talk near the
KEEP OUT
door. “You did very well in there, Mr. Wilder.”

“I what? I did? How do you know?”

“Well, now, never mind; I just happen to know you gave a good account of yourself. Matter of fact I understand they’ll be taking you down to Rehabilitation after lunch. It’s very nice there, very clean; they seldom keep a man more than twentyfour hours. Give you a little counselling, finish up your paperwork, get your clothes and you’re free to go. But look: it’s a busy day and I may not see you again, so I’ll just say goodbye and wish you well” – he held out a big hand to shake – “and another thing. I think it’s very nice the way you’ve been so friendly with Dr. Spivack; talking with him, taking your meals with him. Dr. Spivack didn’t really have any friends here till you came. He’s a fine man, as you know; only trouble is he’s a little – disturbed. Well. Good luck, sir.”

“Thanks. Thanks, Charlie.”

And he watched him move away to bear down on the beautiful boy in the turban. “Gail! Now, Gail, how many times
have I told you to take that pajama top off your head? And put your penis back in your pants where it belongs. Nobody wants to look at that thing.”

They called six or eight men to stand by the front door after lunch, and Wilder was among them.

“Well, look at you,” Spivack said, advancing on him. “Wudga do in there anyway? Bribe ’em? Blackmail ’em? Crawl around and kiss their asses? Hey, wait a second. Got something for you.” And he probed in his pajama pocket, to which Charlie’s pen was clipped.

“What’s this? Another letter?”

“No, shitface. My address and phone number. If I ever do get outa here I might buy you a drink sometime.”

“Well, that’s very – Sure; thanks.”

“So here’s the pen: wanna give me yours?”

And Wilder did so. “I’ll look forward to it, Spivack,” he said.

“Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath. I may forget your fucking existence in an hour and a half. Anyway, keep a tight asshole, Wilder.”

“I’ll try. You too.”

The door opened, not to let the men out but to admit an elderly female nurse trailed by a dozen very young girls in fresh blue-and-white striped smocks and white stockings.

“My God,” Spivack said. “Student nurses. Beautiful little student nurses on a training tour.” He stepped back into the corridor and stood with his arms flung wide, like a master of ceremonies. “Girls, I’m delighted to see you. It’s nonsense for them to send you up here because once you graduate you’ll never get near this place, but even so you might learn something – Oh, it’s all right, Nurse,” he said to their leader, who seemed to have been stricken dumb. “I’m a staff physician; I can handle this. Girls, what we have here is a relic of the nineteenth century. This isn’t a ‘psychiatric ward,’ you see; it’s a madhouse …”

Some of the girls looked bewildered and a few looked scared, but most had begun to giggle behind their hands to show they found Spivack “cute.”

“Officer,” the nurse was saying to the cop, “who’s the charge nurse on this ward?”

“His name’s Charlie, ma’am. I can’t leave the door, but I’ll send somebody to get him – just a second. Hey, uh—”

“… We have psychopathic criminals here, girls, and we have men in advanced stages of madness caused by venereal disease and alcohol and drugs, and we have at least one Second Coming of Christ; then we have men who don’t belong here at all. Take my own case: I’m what you might call a political prisoner. Hospital politics, that is; medical politics. I don’t suppose they teach you girls about medical politics, but I really think they should because believe me it’s a very real, very treacherous—”

“Doctor!” Charlie came loping up the corridor in a swarm of laughing men. “Doctor, I want you to leave those girls alone …”

The door opened again to let Wilder’s group out, and then it was locked behind them.

Rehabilitation was very nice and clean indeed: real beds, chrome-and-leatherette armchairs, good showers with soap and a kind of shampoo guaranteed to remove lice. The talk was quiet and most of it courteous: nobody wanted to make trouble.

“Counseling,” the next day, meant being taken into a roomful of cluttered typewriter desks – it might have been a state unemployment office – and sitting down beside a pale man who looked like an underpaid clerk but was said to be a psychiatric social worker.

“… and you’ll be seeking psychotherapy after your release, right?”

“Well, I don’t know; I haven’t really thought about it.”

The interviewer stopped typing, closed his eyes and ran pale fingers over his face. “You know something? I don’t understand some of you people. You’re a mature, well-employed man with family responsibilities. You spend a week as an involuntary patient in the tightest lockup in the city and you ‘haven’t really thought about it’ ”

“Okay. I will, then.”

“You damn sure better, mister. Now. Can you afford private care, or do you want to apply for outpatient treatment here?”

“Private care.”

“What about your drinking? You gonna quit?”

“Frankly, I think that’s my own – Well, look: if you’re filling out a form there, just write ‘Yes.’ That’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, you
are
a little wise guy, aren’tcha? I don’t know; I don’t know. Some of you people.” He finished typing, ripped the forms from the machine and tore out the carbon paper; then he stapled them, banged them angrily in several places with a rubber stamp, and the business seemed concluded.

“Can I get my clothes now?”

“You’re kidding. You’ve gotta be kidding. You think the City of New York’s just gonna let you walk outa here, after the way you came in? You can be discharged,” he said, “only in the custody of Mr. Paul R. Borg; only after he has personally met and talked with me; and
only
if he agrees to sign these papers.” He reached for his phone. “Now you go back inside and wait. I’m tired of your face.”

It didn’t take very long. Paul Borg came walking into Rehabilitation with an anxious smile, carrying a mimeographed slip. He had signed the discharge papers, he said; this was the one for the clothes. “It says Room 3-F. You know where that is?”

They found it only after walking down wrong corridors, taking wrong elevators and asking directions of people who
didn’t speak English; and when Wilder was dressed (an incredible pleasure: his own clothes and shoes, his own wristwatch and walletful of money), he said “Listen, Paul. Something I’ve got to do. Got to find the canteen, or the gift shop or whatever they call it.”

“Why?”

“Never mind. Come on. Must be on the ground floor.” It was, and Wilder bought a carton of Pall Malls. With his own pen he wrote “For Charlie with many thanks,” and signed his name. “Now,” he said. “Where’s the Psycho elevator?”

“John, what
is
this?”

“Never mind. It’s important.”

“‘Men’s Violence Ward?’” said the puzzled elevator man. “Ain’t no ward by that name.”

“Well, that may not be the official name,” Wilder said, “but it’s the men’s ward on the seventh floor.”

“Can’t take you up there anyway. Ain’t no visiting hour today.”

“I’m not a visitor, I’m a – Well, look. Just take this up to the ward, give it to the cop at the door and tell him it’s for Charlie. Will you do that?”

“Oh. Sure, okay.” And the door slid shut.

“Son of a bitch’ll keep ’em for himself,” Wilder said, “or else he’ll give ’em to the cop and the
cop
’ll keep ’em. I should’ve insisted on going up. I should’ve
demanded
to go up.”

“John, it doesn’t matter. Can’t you see it doesn’t matter?”

“It does matter. Some things
matter
, that’s all.”

But at last they found their way through corridors and waiting rooms and doors into the abrupt, fresh air of First Avenue, and Wilder said “Wow.” Then he said “My God.”

It was midafternoon on a fine September day, and nothing had ever smelled so sweet. Tall buildings rose in a deep blue sky
and pigeons wheeled and sailed among them; clean cars and taxicabs sped uptown bearing sane, unfettered people to the sane, unfettered business of the world.

“I’m parked right around the corner,” Borg said as they walked. “Have you home in no time at all. John? What’s the trouble now?”

He had stopped to read a torn scrap of paper from his pocket:
Henry J. Spivack
,
M.D
., with an address and phone number lettered underneath. “Nothing,” he said, and let it flutter from his hand to the dirty street. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

What the Wilders called “the country” was a clapboard bungalow on half an acre of ground, fifty miles up the west bank of the Hudson. It would have been exposed to a great many other bungalows except for the dense shrubbery and trees shielding it on three sides and a high rustic fence along the fourth – that gave it the seclusion they prized, and there was a small lake for swimming close by.

But the best and most bracing part of the country was getting there: the trip across the George Washington Bridge and the long pastoral ride up the divided highway. As with certain other family pleasures, expectation topped fulfillment.

“… I think this is my favorite time of year,” Janice was saying, “when it’s just beginning to get fresh and cool again. Oh, I suppose it’ll be even nicer in a few more weeks when the leaves really turn – all those lovely yellows and oranges and reds and browns – but even so, this is marvelous.”

“Mm,” he said. She had done a great deal of talking since he came home from Bellevue yesterday – most of it serving no purpose except to fill silence – and he knew that was because he’d said so little himself: he had mostly drunk bourbon and looked out of windows, or sat blinking in bewilderment along the shelves upon shelves of tightly packed books. “Well,” he said
now, doing his best, “it’ll sure feel great just to lie on a blanket in the grass.”

Tommy, in the back seat, had been silent since leaving home. He was methodically pounding an unused regulation baseball into the oiled pocket of his fielder’s glove, and he wore a New York Yankees cap. The Yankees were far ahead in the American League pennant race, and Tommy liked winners.

“How do you want to work it, Champ?” Wilder asked him. “Take a swim first and then play catch, or play catch and then go swimming?” And he instantly regretted calling him “Champ.” He used that nickname, or “Buster,” or “Slugger,” only in times of family tension when it seemed urgent to be hearty (on mornings, for example, when he knew the boy had lain awake and heard his parents fight the night before), and he knew that Tommy knew it too.

“I don’t know,” Tommy said. “I don’t care.” And the flawless surface of the road sped along under their tires.

The way they worked it was to play catch first, while Janice, wearing a big floppy hat, knelt and squatted in the sun to weed her vegetable garden.

It wasn’t a good game of catch – no warm, sweat-raising pull and release of muscles with each exchange, no clean flight of the ball to a satisfying
pock
in the glove, no easy laughter and congratulations (“Hey! …”; “Nice! …”). Well over half of Tommy’s throws were wild and sent his father racing breathlessly over the grass or down on all fours under the bushes, where twigs whipped his face and mud soaked the knees of his clean chino pants. Once a pine needle stabbed him in the eye.

Then his own throws began to go wrong, making Tommy do the running, and if nothing else, that gave him a chance to get his wind back. “Let’s try – let’s try a couple of grounders,” he called, hoping to make it easier on them both, but there was
nothing easy about grounders on this lumpy ground: the ball jumped and flew in crazy directions; they ran and went sprawling and Tommy’s Yankee cap fell off.

“Haven’t you two had enough?” Janice inquired, smiling up from the garden. “Don’t you want to go for a swim?”

“How – how about it, Tom? Feel like calling it – calling it quits?”

“I don’t know; I don’t care.”

Things didn’t go well at the lake either, but that was to be expected. Janice was an excellent swimmer and Tommy was good too, for his age, but Wilder had been afraid of water – and afraid to admit it – all his life. Through boyhood and youth he had done his best to avoid swimming; when it was inevitable, he’d endured it as a kind of aquatic clown, thrashing and dog-paddling, helplessly gulping and inhaling water, scared of putting his head under but taking hilariously graceless flops from springboards to win laughs he never heard as he struggled blind and terrified back to the air. This was one of the first things Janice had learned about him, before they were married, and had caused one of their first quarrels (“But that’s silly, John; anybody can learn to swim.” “Okay, okay; I’m silly, then. Let’s shut up about it”). When Tommy was a baby and even until he was five or six, it hadn’t mattered much: he could wade in deep with the boy wriggling and squealing on his shoulders, and he’d greatly enjoyed the trusting grip of small thighs around his neck and fingers in his hair – it had been especially good in heavy ocean surf where nobody really swam anyway and the whole point was to jump and shout in the breakers – but over the past few years, here at the lake, Janice had taught Tommy to swim. She had done it tactfully: if he’d ever asked why Daddy didn’t teach him, she’d probably said that Daddy was too busy or too tired, or that Daddy didn’t really enjoy swimming
as much as other things, like – well, like playing catch.