I did as he advised and Uncle Jean did appear to relax. He lifted his fork, but continued to stare at me instead of continuing to eat. I smiled at him.
"I lived with my Grandmère Catherine all my life," I told him. "My mother died shortly after I was born. I never knew who my real father was until recently and I promised my Grandmère Catherine I would go to him after she died.
"You can't imagine how surprised everyone was," I said. He started to smile.
"Terrific," Lyle whispered. "He likes you."
"Does he?"
"I can tell. Keep talking," he commanded in a whisper.
"I tried to adjust, to learn how to be a proper young Creole lady, but Gisselle was very jealous of me. She thought I stole her boyfriend and she plotted against me."
"Did you?" Lyle asked.
"Did I what?"
"Steal her boyfriend?"
"No. At least I didn't set out to do anything like that," I said.
"But he liked you more than he liked her?" Lyle pursued.
"It was her own fault. I don't know how anyone could like her. She lies; she likes to see people suffer, and she'll deceive anyone, even herself."
"She sounds like she's the one who belongs in here," he said.
I turned back to Uncle Jean.
"Gisselle wasn't happy unless I was in some sort of trouble," I continued.
Uncle Jean grimaced.
"Daphne always took her side and Daddy . . . Daddy's overwhelmed with problems."
Uncle Jean's grimace deepened. Suddenly, he began to turn angry. He lifted his upper lip and clenched his teeth.
"Uh-oh," Lyle said. "Maybe you'd better stop. It's upsetting him."
"No. He should hear all of it." I turned back to him. "I went to a voodoo queen and asked her to help me. She fixed Gisselle and shortly afterward, Gisselle and another one of her boyfriends got into a dreadful car accident, Uncle Jean. The boy was killed and Gisselle is crippled for life. I feel just terrible about it, and Daddy . . . Daddy's a shadow of himself."
Jean's anger seemed to subside.
"I wish you would say something to me, Uncle Jean. I wish you would tell me something I could tell Daddy when I do get out of here."
I waited, but he just stared at me.
"Don't feel bad. I told you, he doesn't talk to anyone. He—"
"I know, but I want my father to realize I've seen Uncle Jean," I insisted. "I want him to—"
"Ji-ji-ji—"
"What's he trying to say?"
"I don't know," Lyle said.
"Ji-b-b-jib-jib—"
"Jib? What's that mean? Jib?"
Lyle thought a moment.
"Jib? Jib!" His eyes brightened. "It's a sailing term. Is that what you mean, Jean?"
"Jib," Uncle Jean said, nodding. "Jib." He grimaced as if in great pain. Then he sat back, brought his hands to his head, and screamed, "JIB!"
"Oh, no."
"Hey, Jean," the attendant closest to us cried, running over.
"JIB! JIB!"
Another attendant arrived and then another. They helped Uncle Jean to his feet. Around us, the other patients began to become unnerved. Some shouted, some laughed, a young girl, maybe five or six years older than I, began to cry.
Uncle Jean struggled against the attendants for a while and looked at me. Spittle moved down the corners of his mouth as his head shook with the effort to repeat, "Jib, jib." They led him away.
Nurses appeared and more attendants followed to help calm down the patients.
"I feel terrible," I said. "I should have stopped when you told me to."
"Don't blame yourself," Lyle said, "something like that usually happens."
Lyle continued to eat a little more of his stew, but I couldn't put anything in my mouth. I felt so sick inside, so empty and defeated. I had to get out of here; I just had to.
"What happens now?" I asked him. "What will they do to him?"
"Just take him to his room. He usually calms down after that."
"What happens with us after lunch?"
"They'll take us out for a while, but the area is fenced in, so don't think you can just run off."
"Will you show me how to escape then? Will you, Lyle? Please," I begged.
"I don't know. Yes," he said. Then a moment later he said, "I don't know. Don't keep asking me."
"All right, Lyle. I won't," I said quickly. He calmed down and started on his dessert.
Just as he had said, when the lunch hour ended, the attendants directed the patients to their outside time. On my way out with Lyle, the head nurse, Mrs. McDonald, approached me.
"Dr. Cheryl has you scheduled for another hour of evaluation late this afternoon," she said. "I will come for you when it's time. How are you getting along? Make any friends?" she asked, eying Lyle who walked a step or two behind me. I didn't respond. "Hello, Lyle. How are you today?"
"I don't know," he said quickly.
Mrs. McDonald smiled at me and walked on to speak to some other patients.
The yard didn't look much different from the grounds in front of the institution. Like the front, the back had walk-ways and benches, fountains and flower beds with sprawling magnolia and oak trees providing pools of shade. There was an actual pool for fish and frogs, too. The grounds were obviously well maintained. The rock gardens, blossoms, and polished benches glittered in the warm, afternoon sunlight
"It's very nice out here," I reluctantly admitted to Lyle.
"They've got to keep it nice. Everyone here comes from a wealthy family. They want to be sure the money continues to flow into the institution. You should see this place when they schedule one of their fêtes for the families of patients. Every inch is spick-and-span, not a weed, not a speck of dust, and not a face without a smile," he said, smirking.
"You sound very critical of them, Lyle, yet you want to stay. Why don't you think about trying life on the outside again? You're much brighter than most boys I've met," I said. He blanched but looked away.
"I'm not ready yet," he replied. "But I can tell just from the short time I've been with you that you definitely don't belong here."
"I've got another session scheduled with Dr. Cheryl. He's going to find a way to keep me. I just know it," I moaned. "Daphne gives this place too much money for him not to do what she wants." I embraced myself and looked down as we walked along. Around us and even behind us, the attendants watched.
"You go ask to go to the bathroom," Lyle suddenly said. "It's right off the rear entrance. They won't bother you. To the left of the rest room is a short stairway which goes down to the basement. The second door on the right is the laundry room. They've already done their laundry work for today. They do it in the morning. So there won't be anyone there."
"Are you sure?"
"I told you, I've been here ten years. I know which clocks run slow and which run fast, what door hinges squeak, and where there are windows without bars on them," he added.
"Thank you Lyle."
He shrugged.
"I haven't done anything yet," he said, as if he wanted to convince himself more than me that he hadn't made a decision.
"You've given me hope, Lyle. That's doing a great deal." I smiled at him. He stared at me a moment, his rust-colored eyes blinking and then he turned away.
"Go on," he said. "Do what I told you."
I went to the female attendant and explained that I had to go to the bathroom.
"I'll show you where it is," she said when we returned to the door.
"1 know where it is. Thank you," I replied quickly. She shrugged and left me. I did exactly what Lyle said and scurried down the short flight of steps. The laundry room was a large, long room with cement floors and cement walls lined with washing machines, dryers, and bins. Toward the rear were the windows Lyle had described, but they were high up.
"Quick," I heard him say as he entered behind me. We hurried to the back. "You just snap the hinge in the middle and slide the window to your left," he whispered. "It's not locked."
"How do you know that, Lyle?" I asked suspiciously. He looked down and then up at me quickly.
"I've been here a few times. I even went so far as to stick my foot out, but I . . . I'm not ready," he concluded.