The Treatment and the Cure (17 page)

The lake shore is often quite busy at weekends. Patients wander about, coming and going from the canteen, and sometimes there are people swimming or boating. Visitors have picnics on the grass with the patients they’ve come to see. You often find Stark there with his mother on Sunday. She’s a quiet, elderly lady who brings sandwiches and cake and lemonade. She lays the stuff out on a cloth and they sit on either side of it. Stark is sometimes docile and sits chewing at the food and letting his mother wipe his mouth with a bib. Other times he’ll spit and gurgle and toss the food away and kick the lemonade over. His mother’s manner never changes. She talks to him quietly about the weather or something, as though it’s really very pleasant to be having this picnic.

“What are those birds, Clifton?” she says when some pelicans fly overhead and settle on the water. “Pelicans I suppose. I don’t know about birds much. You’re lucky to have so many birds here, aren’t you, Clifton? Had enough sandwiches? Do try some cake, dear. I’d hate it to go to waste. Gosh, isn’t the sun warm now? Would you like your sunhat, Clifton? Yes, I think so …”

When patients wander past and eye the food and lemonade Mrs Stark will treat them as friends of Clifton and invite them to share the picnic. She seems relieved when someone else is there. The conversation goes better. You and Con Pappas are going past and Clifton’s mother calls hello and asks if we’d like to help finish up the sandwiches. You’d rather not. It’s too sad. And you see enough of Clifton in the dining room. But Con Pappas wants to.

“It’s nice to meet Clifton’s friends,” Mrs Stark tells us.

“Ah, Clifton is good man,” says Con Pappas. He doesn’t know Clifton from a bar of soap, but Greeks are polite.

“Which ward do you belong to?” asks Mrs Stark.

“REFRACT,” says Con Pappas.

“Is it nice there?”

Con Pappas understands that it has to be nice. All the wards are nice. This is a nice institution.

“Is nice,” he tells her. Maybe he really thinks so. He’s awfully glad to be out of MAX and to have parole like this.

“You’re from that ward too?” she asks you.

“I’m from Ward 24,” you say.

“Oh, that’s Clifton’s ward. I didn’t realise you and Clifton were such close friends.”

“Yes, we’re good mates,” you say.

“Isn’t that lovely!”

Mrs Stark gives us more cake and lemonade and we sit talking in the sun. She seems almost happy. A girl comes along the water’s edge, walking a bit aimlessly and twisting some beads around her neck and stopping to stare at the lake. Mrs Stark calls to her about helping to finish off the food. The girl hesitates and twists the beads. Mrs Stark prompts the girl with the bit about the food only going to waste if it isn’t finished up.

“Alright,” the girl says. She sits cross-legged and accepts some cake and nibbles it. She keeps her eyes down, not from shyness but as though she’s thinking her own thoughts. She doesn’t seem shy.

“I suppose you all know each other,” says Mrs Stark.

“No,” says the girl, looking up briefly.

“Well,” says Mrs Stark, “these are two of Clifton’s friends.”

We stay there, awkwardly, until Con Pappas says he must get back. His parole ends at twelve and begins again at two. You and the girl rise also. We all thank Mrs Stark for our nice time. Con Pappas goes. Mrs Stark is looking intently at you.

“Can I ask you a favour?” she says.

“Sure,” you reply. She probably wants you to do an errand to the canteen.

“Look after Clifton. I mean, keep an eye on him if you can.” She’s a sad old woman.

You don’t like to say that you’ve nothing to spare from looking after yourself and that Clifton would be better off dead, so you just nod and smile as though you appreciate the gravity of it.

You walk away and to your surprise the girl walks with you.

“What’s wrong with Clifton?” she asks.

“He’s a cabbage.”

“She shouldn’t have asked you that favour.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just words.”

“Won’t you be able to look after him?”

“Oh, he’s in his element in Ward 24.
He
should be looking after
me
.”

“Ward 24 sounds awful.”

“It is.”

“So’s Admission.”

“I thought you were from Admission.”

“Why?”

“You look the type.”

“How does the type look?”

“More normal, less downtrodden.”

“God! If you only knew!”

“A bloke I know calls Admission types the ‘Silk Hankies’.”

“Why?”

“He reckons you’re all pampered.”

“He should try it some time!”

The girl sounds offended. You don’t want to offend her. It’s lovely walking along like this, being able to talk so easily. You’ve never felt this comfortable with a girl. And she’s nice-looking.

“I’m just telling you this other bloke’s opinion. I wouldn’t know, myself.”

“Have you been here long?” She’s lost the offended tone.

“Five and a half years.”

“Jesus! What for?”

“It’s a long story. What about you?”

“A fortnight, this time.”

“I saw you at the Monday night film a couple of months ago.”

“I’ve been home since then. Now I’m back.”

“You were wearing those same beads.”

“They’re stupid, aren’t they? Worry beads. I wear them to fiddle with.”

“They’re okay.”

We are at Ward 24 now. You feel hollow at having to leave her.

“I have to go in,” you say. “We get in trouble if we’re late for meals.”

“Alright,” she says.

“Thanks for walking up with me.”

“I was coming this way in any case,” she says.

You feel as if she’s slapped you. She didn’t have to say that.

“Bye then,” you say curtly, to show you don’t give a stuff.

“Listen, would you like to have another walk after lunch?”

“If you like.” A great relief is flooding you.

“I’ll meet you at the canteen. Okay?”

“See you there.”

You start up the scrubby path to the courtyard and she begins going along the road towards Admission.

“Hey!” she calls.

“What’s your name?”

“Len. What’s yours?”

“Julie.”

“I don’t want to sound awful, but would you mind telling me why you’re in this place?”

You are sitting with Julie at the lake shore. “It isn’t especially interesting.”

“You don’t have to. It’s just that we’re warned in Admission to be careful who we mix with.”

“I’m not an axe-murderer.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. Are you shocked?”

“Not at all. Some of my best friends are axe-murderers.”

Julie stares at you.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Well, I have known a couple.”

“How?”

“In MAX.”

“What’s that?”

You tell her about MAX.

“Why were you there? Please tell me. I’ll feel scared if I don’t know.”

“You might be more scared if you do,” you say, then regret it. She does look slightly scared. So you tell her what you did to get the Life sentence.

“Why did you do it?”

“To make a name for myself.”

“Bullshit!”

“Well, it
was
more complicated than that, but that’s how the media simplified it.”

“I vaguely remember now. It was big news.”

“They were wrapping fish and chips with it the next day.”

“I’m glad you’ve told me. It’s weird, but sort of
normal
weird. Not like being a maniac.”

“I’m glad you think so. And what about your axe-murders?”

“Nothing so dramatic. It was just drugs. My family was hassling me so I went and lived with this guy for a while. I was only fifteen then. The cops got him.”

“Carnal knowledge?”

“No, he was stripping cars more than he was stripping me. Anyway, my family arranged that I’d come here for treatment for the drugs. Mainly to save me from being declared ’in moral danger’ or whatever they call it.”

“Are you still a drug fiend?”

“Never was, really. It was pot mostly. I sniffed cocaine a few times but I didn’t get wrapped in it. My family is very straight. They think anything stronger than a Bex and you’re doomed.”

We are leaning back on our elbows, watching little waves break at the edge of the grass near our feet. Julie’s feet are small, but not dainty. They’re strong and tanned in open sandals. You’ve always found feet vaguely embarrassing, but not Julie’s. It’s strange how easy it is to be with her. You read once that when you meet a girl you really like there aren’t any lightning flashes or bells or great spasms of desire, just a relaxed warmth. That’s how it is now. Julie is exciting and ordinary at the same time. Exciting because she’s a girl and you can see her small firm breasts against her shirt, and ordinary because she’s just a person and not a goddess or anything.

“How long will you be here this time?” you ask.

“Don’t know. A few weeks I s’pose. I could sign myself out if I wanted but my family hassles me at home so I might as well be hassled here by professionals.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You’ve never met anyone who was here without having to be.

“What about you?”

“Life sentence,” you say with a shrug. “I told you.”

“What does that actually
mean
?”

“About seventeen years in this State.”

Julie looks pained. You explain that you don’t really know how long it’ll be. Your position is complicated. Your crime was unusual and nobody knows exactly how much punishment it deserves. And you’re doing your time here instead of in gaol, which complicates it more.

“Don’t you ever think of escaping?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want to be free?”

“I’m only interested in being free in
here
,” you say, tapping your head.

“And are you?”

“Not entirely, but I’ve no reason to think escaping would help.”

Julie is gazing into your eyes. You gaze back. She has nice eyes and you don’t mind them on you.

“You’re supercool aren’t you?” she says. “If they told me I might be here for seventeen years I’d die of fright.”

“I have done many times.”

“No you haven’t. You’re supercool. That was the first thing I sensed about you.”

This is fascinating. You have spent years wondering how you appear to others.

“Supercool, eh?” you say, hoping she’ll continue.

“Maybe that’s the wrong word.”

“What’s the right word?”

“I don’t know. It’s as if nothing could ever surprise you. As though you know some big secret about life.”

“I do.”

“What is it?”

“Fatalism, basically.”

“Which means?”

“That there’s a bullet somewhere with your name on it. Or an accident, or a disease, or old age. Old age is the biggest bullet of all.”

“Why d’you think that way?”

“I’m a spiritual member of the Lost Generation, living on borrowed time from Flanders.”

You’ve never said it straightforwardly like that to anyone before. Julie at least half-understands. Wonderful girl! You tell her about
The Survivor
and David Allison and the poetry. As soon as you mention the poetry Julie recites some lines to you.

“Who’s that by?”

“Emily Dickinson. I wrote a prize essay on her at school.”

Astonishing girl!

It’s getting late and turning chilly. We get up and walk along.

“Would you like to come round to Admission later? They have a rumpus room at the back. We could play records or something.”

“I wouldn’t be allowed,” you say. You are wondering if you’ll be grabbed at the stairs tonight. You can’t bear the thought of it. Being with Julie has begun to give you back something. Perhaps the sense of being a real person. That’s an awkward sense to have if you are very possibly going to be grabbed by the collar and kicked up some stairs.

“I’ll come and see you then.”

“You wouldn’t like my ward. Anyway, they wouldn’t let you in,” you say. Then you add quickly, so she’ll know you really want to keep seeing her: “Want to go to the film tomorrow night?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll meet you at the canteen at, say, six.”

“Okay.”

“By the way, how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Poor old codger,” she says, smiling.

There is an hour before the film starts so you and Julie have a walk along the lake shore. It seems natural to hold hands. When we go into the hall we see some young Admission patients and Julie leads you over and introduces you to one or two, then we sit at the end of their row, against the wall. We hold hands the whole time. Julie is clasping your hand between both of hers and letting it rest on her lap, then she rests her hand on your lap and it feels lovely when it makes a slight pressure where your prick is. The nicest thing is that it doesn’t seem deliberate but just as if we are relaxed enough to touch like this without even thinking. You are thinking though—you’re thinking how this is the first time you’ve held hands with a girl in the pictures. At twenty-five you are getting a taste of life!

Afterwards we stand in shadows outside your ward.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asks.

“I have to work at OT. What about you?”

“We have Group Therapy and stuff.”

“Is it garbage?”

“Pretty much.”

“I leave OT at four.”

“Where’s OT exactly? I’ll meet you outside.”

So it’s arranged. You want to kiss her here in the shadows, but you aren’t sure how to make the right movement so it’ll seem natural. Julie makes the movement. Her mouth is very soft and when you feel her tongue against yours you go weak and hold her tighter, then step away slightly so she won’t feel your prick getting hard. Half your mind is terribly clear and you are like a bystander watching yourself with this girl, as though you need a witness to tell you it’s truly happening; the other half is like a gibbering idiot who wants to kiss her and fuck her and cry on her shoulder all at the same time.

Julie meets you the next evening and the two of you wander to a nice spot at the lake shore. You have your hand on the front of her blouse.

“I’m an idiot!” she says.