She Walks in Shadows(4)

Something crinkled in her dress. It was the crumpled piece of paper with his calculations on it, the circles and scrawls meant to call back his grandfather and his precious cat. She almost threw it away, but instead, she smoothed it out carefully and stored it with the others in the drawer beside her bed.

As she straightened, a lance shot through her head. She clutched her temple and muffled the cry of pain. She sat, quickly. She looked down at her hands, sick and dizzy. Her hands swirled in and out of her sight. She screamed.

“Mother!” the boy called, sitting up.

“Never mind; just sleep,” she managed.

Her hands were not the hands of a lady. They were clawed and knotted and red. She shoved both monstrous paws under the pillow, then collapsed.

They lay, each in their own beds across from one another as the night lengthened. The way they screamed at each other from behind their locked doors was very terrible. A tomb herd rolled across the floor, first one way then the other, and bony hands reached up to claw at each restless dreamer.



It was early Spring in 1919. He had been visiting his grandfather’s grave in Swan Hill Cemetery, although he had grown too old, and too unsure of his dignity, to attempt to again climb the tree above the family plot. He had grown tall and gaunt, and his legs seemed always too long for the modest chambers in which he and his mother lived. The rooms had grown smaller and meaner. His poor health had prevented him from finishing school and the dream of being an astronomer had crumbled to dust. He fancied the dust was gray and brittle, the dust of lost dreams; the essential Saltes of humane Dust. He was only at ease when he was moving. He took great walks out over the New England countryside, visiting cemeteries and ancient places.

He had grown pale and somber, with deep-set eyes, a long face, and a square chin: a tombstone face, he joked with his relations. His mother was proud that he looked like the portraits of his New England ancestors.

“None of your father there,” she said, with satisfaction.

He was heading home from Swan Point along Blackstone Boulevard when the black car swept past in the opposite direction. He knew the car. Aunt Lillian’s doctor. He recognized the profile in the back seat. It was his mother. He could imagine her drawing on her shabby gloves and checking her hat, delighted at this reminder of their old affluence. But why was she travelling down Blackstone Boulevard? There was only one possible destination …. He shouted “Mother!” as the car turned the corner onto Butler Drive.

“No!” he shouted. He ran after her. The gates of Butler Hospital came into view. The car swept through.

“There has been a mistake!” he shouted.

His mother had been staying with Aunt Lillian for a few days. That was all. Her poor health had got the better of her. Aunt Lillian had taken over her care.

His mother had fits, spikes of terror in which she insisted the lights must be left on or They would get in. She’d had a fit during a blackout several nights ago. He was writing when the blackout occurred, so he was able to look at his fob watch, his gentlemanly affectation, and note the time precisely: 2:12 am. He often stayed up all night working on his poetry. It saved bad dreams — the night terrors had never given up. His mother woke screaming for the light and the police were called by a neighbor who was sure they were all being murdered.

“They come out of corners, of course,” she told him when she calmed down. “I am sure you could calculate the angles yourself from the straight lines between the stars. But they only come out when it is dark. I am perfectly safe as long as the lights remain on. Oh, you understand. Can’t you explain to these kind gentlemen?”

It was dawn by the time he had soothed her, dismissed the curious neighbors, and reassured the disgruntled police. His night of writing was ruined. He remembered, with a bleak wash of guilt, that he had been glad to hand her over to Aunt Lillian.

He arrived at the gates. They were wrought iron and very grand. Overhead was printed in iron: Butler Hospital for the Insane. The car stopped at the end of the long, white, gravel drive, before the stone steps that led to the wide, glass doors. His mother got out, courteously assisted by the doctor. There had certainly been a mistake. But it was all right. He was here. He could save her.

He tried to leave the gate behind, to go inside the grounds. His feet refused to move.

Butler Hospital was a beautiful red-brick building. Its mellow curves glowed amber and the windows flashed in the weak sunlight. The trees were budding new leaves. A plaque read, For those bereft by God’s providence of their reason.

“She is not mad!” he shouted.

He could not stir. He watched as his mother was helped inside by two white-clad nurses. He could not follow. He clung to the cold stone of the gateposts to prevent falling. He could not take one step inside.

He had a horror of the place since he was a child, since he had overheard the whispers in darkness. Behind the scientific ranks of windows that let the sunshine in, he saw his father lying paralyzed and aware, with worms crawling through his brain.

He rang Aunt Lillian as soon as he reached home. She told him his mother had another fit of terror, at 3:00 am, this time. Aunt Lillian had decided it would be best for Sarah to have a good rest. Thanks to their family name, she was able to secure a room in Butler Hospital for a fortnight.

“But what about the lights? They must be kept on,” he protested.

His aunt’s voice was crisp and decided, yet she evaded a direct answer. He knew she thought he was only humoring his mother.