“You are Flossie Bascomb, aren’t you?” I said. “I’m Evalina Toussaint, and I was a friend of your sister Ella Jean, a long time ago. She brought me up to your house one time to spend the night, and I met you then, and your family, and your granny, too. We sat out on the porch and sang the moon up.” I smiled, for this was one of my favorite memories, and in all that had happened to me since, I had never lost it.
Her pale, glittery gaze moved back toward me very slowly, as if across the years. But I could tell that she remembered me.
“Where is Ella Jean now?” I asked. ”And the rest of them? Do they still live up on that beautiful mountain?”
She stared at me. “Don’t you know?”
I shook my head no. “I have lived away from here for a long time,” I said.
“Shit.” The word seemed doubly obscene, coming from such a pretty mouth. “Ella Jean’s gone and got famous. I thought everbody knowed it. Famous and rich and mean! Won that National Banjo championship and got on Jimmy Dean’s show and done made three records already. They call her the Cherokee Sweetheart these days. She was up in Cincinnati on a radio barn dance, the last I heard. She’s done got too good for the likes of us’uns.”
“Oh I’m sure that’s not so,” I said almost automatically, though what I said was true. For I remembered Ella Jean as forthright, honest as the day is long, and totally dedicated to her inexplicable family.
“And you—” I inquired more delicately. “You were on your way to Knoxville . . .”
“Well I got there,” she said, “But it didn’t work out. Ain’t nothing ever worked out since, neither. That’s the God’s truth. You think I want to be over here working in this here kitchen? You think I don’t want to be riding around in a custom-built silver tour bus with all the boyfriends and hundred-dollar bills I can handle? She wasn’t the one—I was the one. She didn’t have no talent to speak of. I had the talent. And the looks. I was the one! I was the talent! And now look at me, here I am, slopping up soup for crazy people, just like Mama.”
“How is your mother?”
“Dead.” She turned to look straight at me, squinting her eyes to silver slits in the sunshine. “Mama’s dead, and Mamaw’s dead, and Wilmer’s in Broughton, and Daddy’s gone, along with the rest of ’em, and the house gone, too. Burnt,” she said in answer to my look. “Burnt to the ground, all gone, but let me tell you, honey, I am still here! Why, you just ask any of them, they know me. They know me around here. And I’ve got me a boyfriend, too. Yes ma’am. You might not think it to look at me, but I’m telling you, Miss Whatever-Your-Name-Is, I’m doing all right. I’m doing just fine.” Her speech became more rapid, more incoherent and hostile, as she spoke. I found myself drawing back, as if for safety. Inadvertently I rubbed my palm, which had begun to itch, for no reason I could think of. I remembered how Flossie’s granny had held this hand so long ago, and the strangest feeling came over me. I shook my head to clear it, very relieved when Flossie suddenly jumped up, putting an end to our conversation.
“I’m glad to meet up with you again, Flossie,” I said carefully. “And I really enjoyed the music.”
“I’m the talent,” she said, absently scratching her thigh as she stared off vacantly into the distance beyond me. I was chilled to the bone as I watched her turn and go back into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her. It struck me that Flossie might well be crazier than many of these hospitalized here at Highland, and I wondered what she meant when she said that she had a “boyfriend.” Surely she didn’t mean Pan.
I WAS VERY excited when told I could move into Graystone, the new women’s halfway house. I would be a sort of hybrid, part patient, part staff. Though officially hired to help Phoebe Dean with music classes and all musical events, even teaching piano, I would still be required to continue my personal counseling with Dr. Schwartz and my group therapy sessions with the new young Dr. Sledge.
“For how long?” I asked Dr. Schwartz.
“For as long as it takes,” she answered, smiling.
Graystone was an appropriately entitled old bungalow on a tiny side street off Montford Avenue, almost but not actually on the hospital grounds. This made an enormous psychological difference. Graystone was an experiment—a residence intended for people in the final stages of “transitioning” into regular life outside the institution. A similar “halfway house” for men had already been operating for about six months, several blocks away on the other side of Highland’s extensive grounds—too far away for socializing with us, or so it was hoped. A big, cheery social worker named Suzy Caldwell was present every morning to make coffee and get us going for the day. Suzy referred to herself as a “troubleshooter.” She’d check our plans, reminding us of hospital events and appointments, sometimes giving us rides into town for errands, though we were encouraged to use the city buses whenever possible. They stopped right at the end of our street.
Everybody’s schedule was different at Graystone, some combination of “day hospital” and work. I probably spent more time at the hospital than anybody else, since my job took place there, too. Well do I remember hiking up and down the icy hill in that winter’s freezing rain or falling snow. Sometimes they took pity upon us and gave us a ride to and fro. Whenever we were all expected to attend the same program or event, the big green van arrived, always a welcome sight. Sometimes Suzy Caldwell came back again in the evening to check on us, often making popcorn or hot chocolate in the kitchen.
Left to Highland Hospital in an old lady’s will, Graystone was like a time warp, homey as could be, with its flowered carpets, puffy old sofas, and antiques galore. China figurines, old framed photographs, and lacy antimacassars covered every available surface. It was like living in your grandmother’s house—if you had had such a grandmother. I was willing to bet that most of the women and girls who would pass through these doors—such as myself—did not, so in a way, Graystone was like a kind of wish fulfillment, or fantasy, or stage set. Still, this was a play I was glad to have a part in, for once. I had lived beyond those hospital walls for years, and was more than ready to do so again.
I was issued a corner room upstairs, other bedrooms having been already taken by Myra, who was “learning to live without Mama,” and black-headed Ruth, now taking phenobarbitol, and so much calmer and friendlier that she really seemed like a different person. Myra had been placed in a volunteer job at the public library. But Ruth had landed an impressive part-time job on her own, working at an exclusive designer clothing shop downtown near the bookstore. Ruth dressed to the nines every day, then caught the bus. I remember a red bead necklace she often wore, and her big lustrous pearls. I could not imagine such a job as hers, dressing up like that or dealing with the public so directly, convincing rich women to buy dresses.
“But sweetie, I’ve always been in retail,” Ruth said when I expressed my admiration. “My parents were in retail, even my grandparents were in retail! They had a little shop on Seventh Avenue. Besides, what about you? You were playing the piano in front of about a hundred people at that program last night.”
“Oh, that’s different,” I tried to explain. “That was background music. I’m just an accompanist, that’s all.”
Ruth’s laughter floated out behind her as she clicked off down the hall in her high heels.
MY LAST PIANO student of the day had failed to show up, so I was sitting in the alcove window seat reading, out of view, when the front door of Graystone burst open and a number of people came in with a rush of cold air, loud voices, and the general stamping of feet. Except for Dr. Bennett, I did not know the men’s voices, though I recognized Dr. Schwartz, of course, and Mrs. Morris’s calm tone. I was surprised that Mrs. Morris had left her accustomed realm of Brushwood and greenhouse and ventured all the way to Graystone. And why was Dr. Bennett here, anyway?
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Bennett said in his clipped, commanding style. “Mrs. Morris will escort our new patient upstairs and help her get settled into her room while we take this oppo
rtunity for a brief chat.”
“I’m staying right here.” Soft but steely, the girl’s flat Southern voice hung in the room.
I put my book facedown on the window seat.
“Now wait just a cotton-picking minute, young lady, who do you think you are, telling us what to do, when we’ve done brought you all the way over here?” a man’s deep voice exploded. “Hell fire, I’d just as soon take you straight back to jail. That’s where you belong anyhow, in my opinion. This here is a bunch of damn foolishness.”
“Now, now, Officer Gillette,” a more neutral male voice interposed. “We are here to do the court’s bidding, of course. And as a personal favor to Judge Ervin. Annie Jenkins Feeney,” the same man continued pointedly, louder. “You go on upstairs with the nice lady now. This is your big chance, as we discussed in the car. It may be your last chance.”
I perked up my ears, as you might well imagine, for I had once heard these words myself.
“I ain’t moving. I ain’t about to move. I want to hear what you’re going to say about me.” The girl’s flat little voice remained unperturbed. “Those papers are full of lies. I’m going to stay right here.”
“Miss Feeney.” Dr. Bennett adopted his most military manner. “The law requires us to conduct an intake interview with the referring authorities, under these circumstances.”
“I can talk for myself,” the girl said.
“That’s the goddamn truth!” the deep voice was raised. “And won’t shut up, neither!”
I decided he must be a policeman. Probably the other one was some kind of police social worker.
“Of course you can speak for yourself, Annie,” Dr. Schwartz said, “and you shall have every opportunity to do so. At Highland Hospital, we are here to listen and to help. We hope that we can help you. But before we can do that, we have to admit you, don’t you see?”
“Come along, dear. I think you’ll like your room.” Mrs. Morris’s reassuring voice was followed by her heavy tread on the stairs. The girl said nothing more, and soon I heard their steps and voices above me. I was dying to go up there, too, but at this point I could not show myself, of course, or all would be lost. I shrank back into the pillows to listen.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Bennett began, “this is an unusual situation. You have brought us a new patient, remanded by the court.”
“Sent by Judge Ervin hisself,” the deep voice agreed. “She up and wrote him a damn letter, damnedest thing I ever heard of. So then he taken her out of jail and sends her over here.” The man made a sound of disgust. “Seems like he knowed this Dr. Carroll in college or something.”
“I’d like to read that letter,” Dr. Schwartz remarked.
“It’s in her file, I’m sure,” the other man said, “which I might as well give you right now.”
“Dr. Carroll has stepped down as head of this hospital,” Dr. Bennett said in a smooth, formal voice, “though he remains closely involved, as a member of our governing board. However, as he is in Florida for the winter, Highland Hospital will be pleased to honor the judge’s request for a thorough evaluation and treatment or whatever.” There was a creaking sound as he stood up.
“Excuse me, Dr. Bennett.” Dr. Schwartz’s voice surprised me in its firmness. “I am sure you’ve got other, much more important fish to fry. But as the Director of Psychiatry for adolescent girls at Highland Hospital, I shall be in charge of Miss Feeney, and I am personally requesting that you listen to her history as presented in these transfer papers from Samarcand Manor, the reformatory where she was incarcerated before being sent to jail in Statesville, thence to us. I want you to understand exactly what we will be dealing with.”
“Yes, Gail.” I heard the sigh and then the creaking noise as he sat back down. I imagined him glancing at his watch; with Dr. Bennett, the schedule was everything.
“Thank you,” Dr. Schwartz said crisply, rustling the papers. “My goodness, this is quite a file for such a young person. Since your time with us is so limited, Dr. Bennett, I shall try to concentrate upon only the most pertinent facts, at this point. Let’s see . . .” At length, she began:
“Name, Annie Jenkins Feeney, age seventeen. No fixed address; ward of the state. Birthplace unknown. Over-sexed female adolescent of the high moron type; a moral imbecile. Mother, Catherine Jenkins Feeney, died in the Virginia State Mental Hospital in Staunton, Virginia. Girl raised by father Kirvin Feeney, drunkard, tinker, and carpenter, primarily at Pocosin, N.C., until his death. Girl then taken into the good Christian home of her aunt and uncle, Mary Ellen and Royster Biggs of Warsaw, North Carolina. After two years of defiance, rude behavior, and disruption including arrests for drunken and disorderly conduct, girl ran off with a Negro, finally apprehended in a Blue Ridge tourist cabin. Whereupon Mr. and Mrs. Biggs were forced to seek the services of the state. Girl declared “unmanageable . . . incorrigible . . . dual personality.” Dr. Schwartz was clearly skimming along now. “Morally defective . . . suspected of prostitution . . . my goodness!” she exclaimed before going on. “Girl admitted to Samarcand Manor where necessary therapeutic sterilization was performed for the public good. Gentlemen, this is outrageous!”
“Now wait a cotton-picking minute, Doctor,” came the deep voice. “You gotta understand, these morons breed like mink. And she had ran off with a Negro, remember that. The duty of the state is to protect the race.”
“Oh, is that so?”
I could just imagine Dr. Schwartz’s face, the way she drew her mouth into tight straight line.
“Yes ma’am,” came the milder voice. “Working in a high-class situation like the present, you may never have encountered such a type, meaning no disrespect, of course. But in our line of work, we deal with plenty of them, believe me, and I want to make you aware that this particular girl, this Jinx Feeney, is a special case. I have never seen such a one as her, I’m here to tell you. It’s been one reckless act of defiance after another. Why, she even set her mattress on fire over at Samarcand! That’s how she got herself out of the reformatory and into prison. That’s the history here. I urge you to be careful, doctor, that’s all. Never trust her. This girl has unusual language and musical abilities, physical coordination, and great cleverness, but she has no sense of right and wrong, and no soul either. Mark my words. No matter how much she fooled the judge, Jinx Feeney is a dangerous girl.”
They hate her, I realized, chilled. They really hate her.
“Wait a minute. What did you just call her? “Dr. Schwartz asked. “Not Annie, but . . . ?”
“ ‘Jinx,’ ” he said. “That’s what she goes by, and believe me, it’s appropriate.”
“Thank you, gentlemen, for these insights.” It was Dr. Bennett’s rising good-bye tone. “It sounds to me as if you will, indeed, have your capable hands full, Dr. Schwartz, and even your famous compassion may be tested. Girl trouble is not my bailiwick, of course, so I shall leave you to it. Gentlemen, we thank you for your services, and wish you a good day.”
It was over. A rush of cold air poured into the parlor in the men’s wake.
Dr. Morris came back downstairs. “She’s sleeping now,” she told Dr. Schwartz. “Out like a light.”
“I’m sure she’s exhausted,” Dr. Schwartz said. “I’m exhausted myself, just from reading her file! But we’d best get on back, hadn’t we, Maureen? I’ve already missed two appointments this afternoon.”
“I wonder if it’s wise to leave her here like this, Gail.”
“We are not operating a prison,” Dr. Schwartz said lightly. “And Mr. Dobson was right, you know. This is her last chance. She ought to be on her best behavior. Besides, the other girls will be back within the hour. In fact, I’ll try to intercept Evalina.”
“I still think the girl should have been placed in the adolescent wing.”
“She’s too experienced, and too smart,” Dr. Schwartz said. “As well as thoroughly sexualized, from the sound of it. Besides, Jinx Feeney will not be with us long, unless I miss my guess entirely. Despi
te that nickname, her luck may be about to change.”
“Be careful, Gail,” Mrs. Morris said, the last bit of conversation I overheard. “Don’t forget what that awful man said. Sometime you really may be too trusting for your own good.”
“Well, you’re one to talk!” Dr. Schwartz exclaimed.
The door closed behind them.
A FEW MINUTES later, I found our old beat-up pot with a lid and popped some popcorn in it, then dumped it into the basket and took it upstairs. I knocked on our new resident’s door.
“Come in.” That odd little voice.
I pushed the door open to find her sitting straight up in bed, cross-legged and obviously wide awake. Had she really been sleeping?
Or had she fooled Mrs. Morris . . . and if so, why?
“Ooh, I thought I smelled popcorn!” she said. “I was just sitting here hoping it wasn’t a dream and hoping I was going to get some of it. I’m about to starve.”
“Didn’t you have any lunch?”
She gave a disgusted snort. “Hell no! Them cops wouldn’t stop for nothing. They like to starved me to death, I’m telling you. They done it on purpose.”
Warily, I thrust the basket across the bed; after all I’d heard, I was a little bit scared of her. She grabbed the basket and started eating the popcorn ravenously. She didn’t look at all like I’d thought she would. I had expected a large, belligerent person, but this girl was a waif: pale, wiry, freckled, with a mass of curly red hair and light green eyes, small and hard, shaped like almonds.
She looked up from the popcorn once to ask, “Have y’all got anything to drink?”
“Sure.” I ran back down to the kitchen where I poured her a tall glass of milk, then carried it carefully up the steps. The girl drank half of it in one long swallow. She licked her top lip and looked me square in the eye.