Miriam Winters, of course, was sent to the state mental hospital, but deciding what to do with Harry Winters was more of a problem. The county psychiatrists had difficulty testing him due to his refusal (or was it inability?) to talk, and finally came to the frustrated conclusion that although his mind had undoubtedly been affected by his imprisonment, he was harmless enough, and could be released to proper care. But what was “proper care”? There was a great outcry against sending him to the county home, for it was felt that in the few years that were left to him he deserved to be “free.” The public conscience was stirred on this point and it was finally arranged that the old man go back to his own house. A volunteer committee of townspeople was set up in which one member every day would check on the old man, bring him groceries, take away laundry, etc. Part of the volunteers’ duties included “socializing” — but that aspect was dropped as soon as it became evident that Harry Winters had no desire to chat with anybody.
Just what did Harry Winters’ freedom mean to him after all those years? I found out, unfortunately, one hot August night about six weeks after his reinstatement in his old home. I had been into town and decided to take a shortcut past the old Winters place on the way back. As I approached the house, I noted that it was unlighted except for a faint glow from the cellar windows. I recalled rumors I had heard in town. Nothing in the house ever seemed disturbed, they said — even the bed not slept in. Could it be that after all these years Harry Winters only felt comfortable sleeping in his cage and returned there each night?
Stealthily I crept up to a cellar window and peered in. In the dim light I could make out the outlines of the cage. Next to it was the rocking chair that Miriam Winters had used, but it was a moment before I realized that the hulking shape nearby was Harry Winters himself. He was sitting on the floor with his chin resting on one of the rocker’s arms. There was a familiarity about the scene which I could not at first place, but then it came to me. In my grandfather’s house there was a large painting in one of the bedrooms called The Shepherd’s Chief Mourner. It showed a large dog mournfully resting his chin on the draped coffin of a deceased shepherd, his master. The sudden analogy between that painting and the tableau below sent a shaft of pain to my heart. I could not stand to see more, but as I prepared to rise, the mourning hulk suddenly moved. The shaggy head raised up, the throat arched, the mouth opened, and from it rose a cry of such utter anguish, such complete despair, that my hands flew instinctively to my ears to shut it out. But I could not shut it out. Again and again it came — a cry of longing — the longing of a tame bear for its gentle keeper.
I ran then. Even as I had once fled over a sun-choked meadow, now I flew over a moon-silvered one. This time, too, I was chased by horror, but this time the horror was of my own making and I knew I would never be able to outrun it.
They found Harry Winters the next morning in his cage — dead. His heart had given out, they said.
It was after my grandfather and I went downstate that I began to have the nightmares, though. Perhaps I cried out during them, because one morning at breakfast Grandfather remarked quietly, “I hope you don’t feel guilty about reporting Miriam Winters, son. It had to be done.”
I nodded my head. “Yes, I know...”
My lack of conviction must have shown, for my grandfather became emphatic. “It’s time we laid this ghost away,” he said. “You and I are going to the state mental hospital to see Miriam Winters.”
Although I went reluctantly, the visit turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. Miriam was delighted to have company and chatted cheerfully. She had heard that the Bear was dead, which was sad, but then, she added philosophically, he was pretty old. She knew that if he became sick again she would have to put him to sleep permanently anyway.
My grandfather looked at me pointedly at this revelation. Surely I needed no more proof that we had done the right thing in reporting the Winters affair. From his standpoint the visit was a success, but in a way it backfired, for Miriam was a kindly, warmhearted woman. She said I made her think of her son Bobby, and she hoped I’d come to see her again. To my own amazement I found myself promising I would.
And I did, many times. Was it my way of assuaging the faint guilt I still felt over disrupting the Winters couple’s strangely compatible life together? I don’t know, but I do know that in chatting with her I gradually learned the full story of the events leading to Harry Winters’ imprisonment.
I went to my grandfather. “She shouldn’t be in a mental institution,” I complained. “She’s not really insane, except of course about the ‘Bear,’ and he probably caused that insanity, beating her and all...”
My grandfather stared at me and sighed. “That ghost is still not laid, hmmm?” He thought a moment. “The county home in Wilton Falls is a well-run place. I’ll see what I can do.”
Miriam was transferred to the county home three weeks later, and I felt more at peace than I had for a long time. I still went to see her, but less frequently, as it was a longer run up to Wilton Falls. Then I went away to college — later began working — got married — moved farther away. Visits became replaced by letters, letters by a Christmas card, and now...
I looked down at the letter in my hand. Now there would not even be any need for that. Miriam Winters had paid her debt to society, and presumably society was satisfied. I now knew that, for my part, could I but relive that long-ago summer day, this time I would stare into the almost-blind eyes of Harry Winters and go quietly on my way.
The Maggody Files: Spiced Rhubarb
by Joan Hess
“I haven’t seen Lucinda Skaggs since a week ago Tuesday,” Lottie Estes mentioned to a friend in the teachers’ lounge. The fourth period bell precluded further analysis. Although it was of no botanical significance, the next morning it was discussed at the garden club meeting. It took several hours to reach the Emporium Hardware Store, but then the pace picked up and by mid-afternoon it was one of the topics at Suds of Fun Launderette next to the supermarket, in the supermarket proper, and even at the Dairee Dee-Lishus (although the teenagers moved on to more intriguing topics, such as blankets alongside Boone Creek and which minors had been caught in possession of what illegal substances).
Thus the tidbit — not a rumor, mind you — crept up the road, moving as slowly and clumsily as a three-legged dog on a frozen pond, until it reached Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill. This is hardly worthy of mention (nor was the fact that Lottie had not seen Lucinda Skaggs since a week ago Tuesday, but for some reason it was being mentioned a lot), since Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill was the ultimate depository of all gossip, trivial or boggling or outright scandalous, within the city limits of Maggody, Arkansas (pop. 755). Despite occasional attempted coups, it was acknowledged by almost everybody that the proprietress, Ruby Bee Hanks, was the guardian of the grapevine.
“So?” Estelle Oppers responded when she was presented with the tidbit. She took a pretzel from the basket on the bar, studied it for excessive salt, and popped it into her mouth.
“So I don’t know,” said Ruby Bee. “I was just repeating it, for pity’s sake.”
“Has Lucinda Skaggs disappeared, or has Lottie lost her bifocals?”